Free the Children

MR. OHLY: 7th grade

2012-01-25T13:27:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-08T10:58:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-28T18:40:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-28T18:31:00.000-08:00

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.

THE ARROW AND JUSTICE

2011-12-25T21:31:00.000-08:00

Robert pulled back the bow string, aimed, held for a moment, then let the arrow loose. The metal tipped arrow cut through the dark night air, over the asphalt one-lane road, punching through the plate glass window, glass shattering everywhere,
abruptly ending its 200 foot journey into the wall of the administration building.....Vibrating. Robert smiled.

No one was in the building. It was after closing time. Robert knew that. He just wanted to make a statement. He wanted to get the attention of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He wanted to be heard.

Robert was a twenty-year-old Pomo Indian (Native American), from Northern California. He was not a considered a "trouble maker," by others. He just wanted to get the attention of the all white staff, of which I was one. Robert simply cared about how people were treated....not just himself, but everyone.

When the arrow was discovered the next morning by the staff as they approached their desks, all attention focused on "who could have done this? Are we targets?" Robert's anonymous arrow was terrifying to some, a strong message to others.

Staff meetings were held daily, questioning what inspired the arrow event. Even the native students were asked for feedback. Several weeks of meetings resulted in a new "policy."

Listen to everyone. Honor. Respect others. Hold sacred all relationships. Speak directly to everyone, even if shaking in your boots. Avoid side taking, or gathering evidence that you are right. Be wrong sometimes. Respect every voice, no matter the age, even those you do not understand. Assume you are human too.

Robert was never discovered...and didn't need to be.

YOU ARE NEVER QUITE GOOD ENOUGH

2011-12-25T21:03:00.000-08:00

Linda was a sixteen-year old high school student. She was looking into my video camera lens, sharing her experience and thoughts about school...the entire school process.

Abruptly, she stopped and went silent. "All school teaches you," she said firmly, "is that you are never quite good enough," Her tone of voice was without blame or complaint. To Linda, this was a known fact. The other senior students in the background simply nodded in agreement even though this may have been the first time they had thought about it.

Looking directly into the lens without embarrassment or self consciousness, she continued. She had that ability. In her presence, she always looked directly into your eyes. Linda would have it no other way.

"All school teaches you is that you are never quite good enough." The truth of her words startled me to shut off the camera and absorb her words. Linda shared how the education system is set up to create a ranking system of authority, demanding that the students give up their own authority completely.

Grades and the seeking of approval encouraged the belief that whatever you achieve or complete is never quite good enough, can be improved, and ultimately judged by someone other than yourself." Linda sat down. Shaking with her own awareness and insights, she added one more thing: "Schools are not about education. They are about control." The room became totally silent.

OCCUPY OURSELVES

2011-12-25T20:58:00.001-08:00

I support the Occupy Wall street movement completely. I also support personal justice and fairness with Occupying the people closest to us in our daily lives, especially our families, both intimately related, and all human family, even those
that disturb us. Especially those that disturb us. I want to integrate the one-percent of me that judges and separates the world into bad and good, "I'm right and you are wrong."

Sometimes, committing to change the entire world, government, or financial system, can seem easier than changing our perception of those closest to us, or the stories we carry about them, Finding present-time compassion for our family, non-family, and all those who disturb us, is where the change begins. Shifting our familiar ways to live our relationships, can be the most difficult, seemingly impossible thing to do.... yet ultimately freeing for everyone. Being the change I want to see in others
really works.

We can even occupy our minds, and thoughts, our fears and "justified" blames. We an take charge of how we think about people. Occupying Wall street or ourselves, must happen. This may sound like a lecture...and it is...but I write this to and for myself, as a personal reminder. I am simply sharing it with other occupiers.

EVERYTHING / EVERYONE MATTERS

2011-12-25T20:45:00.000-08:00

What if everything, just every so-called little thing mattered? What if the children in our lives mattered so much that our every tone of voice and response came from respect, awe, wonder and exquisite sensitivity?

Maybe the essence of all of us, no matter our age, self identity, gender or belief of who we think we are, rests on a foundation of wanting to matter to others. Really matter. Not just pretend, or being nice, but we knew inside ourselves that it mattered that we were in this world, and with the people around us. How would it feel to know we are "seen" by those close to us.....and we knew deep inside ourselves that we mattered, even if others did not see it?

How would we come through for others, show up, be available, care, and feel safe, if we knew we mattered. Not necessarily for our skills, money, or no money, or who we know or how we look, but because we exist. What if I knew you really "see" me inside behind my personality, and sometimes disturbing behaviors.

What would that have been like as a child to know deeply that we mattered? To know that "I am more than a child that needs to be constantly "educated," and learn stuff all the time. Maybe there is a universal innocent one inside all of us, asking only to be touched kindly, held emotionally and physically, and appreciated for being alive, and willing kiss your cheek. Just kiss your cheek.

NANCY: The Auric / Energy Field

2011-11-07T12:31:00.000-08:00

A mother brought her 12-year-old daughter Nancy to see me. Identified as a family therapist, the mother wanted me to "help her daughter with her problems," as the mother described it. Nancy was having a variety of relationship difficulties in school and the teachers thought Nancy needed help.

Into the first minute of the mother's description of what might be wrong with her daughter, I noticed Nancy occasionally looking up from the floor, glancing for brief moments at my head or just above it. She quickly looked down again. The mom continued her story, but my attention was with Nancy and her eyes glancing in my direction.

Gently, I interrupted the mother and asked Nancy if she was seeing something. My tone of voice was more from wonder than probing. "No," she replied, in a soft
almost inaudible voice. My instincts led me to ask again. "If you are seeing something, I'd like to hear it." She was silent, staring at the floor.

"Well," she began hesitantly, "I did see something." "What did you see? Whatever it was, I'd like to know." Nancy shifted in her chair. She looked up, almost making eye contact. "I saw a color at the top of your head...all around the top of your head."

"What was the color," I asked," completely fascinated. "It was kinda violet," she replied, as she sat up, making eye contact. "Did you see any other colors?" "Yeah." "What were they?" I asked. "I saw some blue around your neck and shoulders,
and green and some red around your heart area......" She stopped abruptly, yet sitting up completely, her face wide open and her eyes locked into mine.

Her mother's mouth was literally wide open, as she stared at her daughter as if seeing her for the first time. "Do you know what those colors are?" I asked.
"No," Nancy replied.

"You are seeing the auric field, or the energy field that exists around all living things. It is real. Some people call them Chakras. Whatever the name, you see the colors that are the energy field."

Nancy sat back relieved. "When I was six years old," she said, "I told my teacher
that I saw colors around her and she immediately sent me to the principal and asked that I be seen by some counselor or something. So I never mentioned it again to anyone. I thought something was wrong with me."

"That is your gift," I told her. Some people can feel other people, or sense hem. Some have your gift. But if you see something that others don't, some will want to know more. Others may be afraid or believe you need help. Nancy's mother reached out and embraced her, tears in her eyes.

The next day, the mom withdrew Nancy from school and found another school where one of the teachers also saw energy fields, studied them and shared stories in her classroom. Nancy was enrolled there. Weeks later, I ran into Nancy and her mom on the street. Nancy was all smiles and life. She stood tall. Only a few inches shorter than me at the age of 12, Nancy initiated a strong embrace. We stood together hugging. Colors all around us.

OUTSIDE THE TRANCE

2011-11-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

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, living, and even .....fish.

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.

WHEN DOES REAL WORLD START?

2011-11-07T12:12:00.000-08:00

When I was in the sixth grade, growing up in Los Angeles, I once asked the teacher a question. I didn't think it was a special question or anything anyone wouldn't think of.

I had been sitting in classrooms since kindergarten, sometimes six hours a day, for six years, which adds up to about 6,500 hours. Each year, at some point, I would hear from some adult person that I was being prepared for the real world. I never really knew what that meant, nor did I seem to care. It was just a phrase uttered every so often by some taller person.

One day in the sixth grade, and in front of the entire class, I innocently asked the teacher, Ms. Thurber, "If we are always being prepared for the real world, what is this now? Are the past six years not real? Does the real world start after I am 18?" A few of the other kids muttered under their breath, "Yeah, yeah."

Ms. Thurber face appeared to turn a light red. I remember her giving me a long response, as she led me down the hall to the principal's office.....where she suggested I needed to see a counselor. The principal, Mr. Rose, wondered why I would ask such a question. I wondered why I wouldn't.

--

WARREN: OUTSIDE HIS BODY

2011-11-07T11:52:00.000-08:00

Warren is a quadrapelegic, laying 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 flips 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 paralyzed 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. Lying on his back over the many years, he had read all the bibles, the Koran, Buddhist teachings, Taoism, and most literature ever printed. Even Carlos Castaneda.

When together, we simply laughed a lot. One day, I asked, "What’s it like for you to be laying 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: Fire From Within.

ARROW AND JUSTICE

2011-11-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

Robert pulled back the bow string, aimed, held for a moment, then let the arrow loose. The metal tipped arrow cut through the dark night air, over the asphalt one-lane road, punching through the plate glass window, glass shattering everywhere,
abruptly ending its 200 foot journey into the wall of the administration building.....Vibrating. Robert smiled.

No one was in the building. It was after closing time. Robert knew that. He just wanted to make a statement. He wanted to get the attention of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He wanted to be heard.

Robert was a twenty-year-old Pomo Indian (Native American), from Northern California. He was not a considered a "trouble maker," by others. He just wanted to get the attention of the all white staff, of which I was one. Robert simply cared about how people were treated....not just himself, but everyone.

When the arrow was discovered the next morning by the staff as they approached their desks, all attention focused on "who could have done this? Are we targets?" Robert's anonymous arrow was terrifying to some, a strong message to others.

Staff meetings were held daily, questioning what inspired the arrow event.
Even the native students were asked for feedback. Several weeks of meetings resulted in a new "policy."

Listen to everyone. Honor. Respect others. Hold sacred all relationships.
Speak directly to everyone, even if shaking in your boots. Avoid side taking, or gathering evidence that you are right. Be wrong sometimes. Respect every voice, no matter the age, even those you do not understand. Assume you are human too.

Robert was never discovered...and didn't need to be.

WHO ARE THE CHILDREN, REALLY?

2011-08-23T13:07:00.000-07:00

Who are the children, really? Many of our ideas about children are rooted in the same kind of fear and beliefs that form the artificial division between people of different races, gender and religions...the belief that those different from us, are less than, or in some way, so different, that we tend to marginalize, dismiss and patronize them, if not out loud, then in our thoughts. These attitudes are not naturally occurring in children or us. They are taught.

What would it take to step out of our adult/parent roles and beliefs, to see clearly who children are behind their size, age and appearing to be, disturbing behaviors? We were children once. We noticed how the adults in our lives knew little about who we were, what we knew or how we felt. . It wasn’t that they couldn’t, they just didn’t know how. They too, were following rules and beliefs they had learned.

If we were fortunate, we had at least one adult in our childhood that recognized who we were completely: able to connect with us beneath our size and age. We can be that for all the children we know and live with now

It is ONLY fair and just that children be seen as whole, exquisitely sensitive, wise, highly perceptive human beings that are no less, nor more than the bigger, older people in this world. As we free the children from our fears, we free ourselves. .

BEYOND HONOR STUDENTS

2010-07-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

My child is an honor student...and so is yours.
And that is the truth of things. All children are honor
students. Why not?

All children, including us, belong here. They didn't come here to make trouble,
or cause disturbance, to be mean, to be labeled slow, to constantly be compared to others, or even be required to compete against friends.

This is another perspective on life and children, and since it is my perspective, I like it a lot. Children are not deficient in anything, except maybe some specific vitamin....deficiency is someone elses' belief of what should be.

Could it be that children, including us at one time, maybe even now, simply want to connect with others, 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 recognition of others?

It seems, and probably really true, that what the world requires now 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. Maybe the change is ours. Wouldn’t that be something?

WITHOUT AGE

2010-06-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

What if I didn't know how old I was? What if the concept of age didn't exist, and I didn't know there had been one?(a concept). How would my life, or yours, be different if age numbers were not part of being alive? As a child, I didn't think about age. Even when big adult people asked me how old I was, I would wait for one of my parents to answer. I didn't know. Actually, I didn't care.

What do you know about me if you can assign a number to my body and spirit. I'm not complaining, although I could if I wanted to. This is more a wondrous question of the unknown. If no age stuff existed, we, or I, wouldn't believe I needed to look younger, 'cause there would be no younger or older. I'd just be me in that moment. I wouldn't buy stuff to make me look ....uhhhh, younger? My hair would be whatever color it was, no matter if the color changed. Color change wouldn't mean anything. Just interesting. My face would do what it does as time passed, if I believed in time. No money spent on deleting or hiding lines, wrinkles, and other things that form in or on my skin. I'd just keep on breathing, playing, being, and finding interesting people to know.

I'd save money, time, and worry if I had no fear of age, or lack of it. I'd be the little innocent child again every day, more concerned about caring for, and about others, "seeing them," instead of focusing on a reflected image in the mirror. No need for creams, skin exercises, anti-aging formulas -- or jokes about aging, memory, walking, sleeping .... or even beliefs that I am deteriorating because of a number made up by someone somewhere.

Which brings up the next question: What would I do if I couldn't worry? I might still worry, but just for the heck of it, what would I do if I simply could not worry? Just could not.

THE HOMELESS MAN

2010-05-06T10:23:00.000-07:00

I assumed he was homeless as he sat on the curb playing his guitar, singing and smiling. His guitar case was filled with change and one dollar bills. His chosen location was just outside the Staff of Life natural food store in Santa Cruz, California.

He was there every day, making eye contact with anyone able to do the same comfortably or uncomfortably. I often stopped to talk with him. Part of my reason to stop was to remind myself I was a good person, and could embrace everyone, no matter what their perceived circumstances. I even wondered quietly, what I would feel like being in his position – sitting on a sidewalk, playing for money. Another part, a background thought that I ignored, was how easily I was drawn to his smile and ability to greet everyone, and do this as he sat on the sidewalk curb, playing and receiving money – sometimes food. Whether I offered him money or not was less important to me than my wanting to make connection with him.

One day, as I slowly walked past him, we made eye contact. “You know,” I said, “Someday maybe I will be where you are, and you will be where I am.” He smiled, pausing long enough for me to hear what I had just said. “Why would I want to be where you are?” he replied, smiling.

Stunned, I walked back to face him. I bowed in his direction. “Thank you,” I said, “Thank you.” I never saw him again.

EVERYONE MATTERS --EVERYONE

2010-04-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

My uncle Solly died at the age of 88. He lived in Beverly Hills in a really big house off Sunset Boulevard. I discovered him after not seeing him for 30 years. I had to go see him with my son, Boye. I had to. I knew they would "recognize" each other -- not faces, but spirit, essence, soul. They would just know each other without a word. They hugged silently.

When I was a little boy, Solly was the only adult in my life that knew who I was inside. When he talked to me, his voice didn't change. He looked me in the eyes. He hugged me freely. He laughed easily, and together we could be authentically silly and ageless.

He introduced me to classical music when I was six, by making up stories to match the intensity of the music. Today, when I hear music, I see stories -- any kind of music. He taught me photography. He held my hand. He layed on the floor with me. He showed up when I was hurt. He liked me. I liked him.

I also had two parents that were nice and available, and fed me good. But Solly added the ingredient of recognizing that I was more than a small body of any specific age. He didn't need to teach me anything. He wanted to. And he taught me things that mattered. That we all matter.

RED LIGHT IN THE DESERT

2010-03-21T21:02:00.000-07:00

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 I 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.

ORIGIN OF THE UNIVERSE: EILEEN

2010-03-19T15:18:00.000-07:00

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.

ALAN BUTTON: THERAPIST/SHAMAN

2010-03-18T11:33:00.000-07:00

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, inlcuding 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.

FROM PAIN TO COMPASSION

2010-03-11T12:54:00.000-08:00

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.

THE BOY AND A QUARTER

2010-02-16T13:31:00.000-08:00

I was sitting in my favorite Peet's coffee shop in Portland, Oregon. I like it here because the employees like people, and make contact with kindness and humor. Yesterday, a little boy about five-years-old, was sitting at the table next to me when his father, standing and hovering over the boy, admonished and blamed the boy in an angry tone of voice. Why didn't matter. The impact on the boy, and me, did.

The boy, sitting only a few feet away, with his back to me, put his head down on the table, seemingly scared and hurt, while his father stepped away to order a coffee..

I leaned over to the boy, a couple of feet away, and quietly asked if he would like to guess which closed hand I held a quarter. I put both hands out, wanting to reach into his sweet soul. He turned slightly in his chair, his one shoulder facing me, and silently nodded towards one of my hands. I opened the hand and there was the quarter. "Do it again," I said. This time, he turned his chair completely towards me. His face was lighter and had a faint smile. I put my hands out with the quarter in one of them. He guessed right again. He started to giggle. My heart softened. I simply loved him. We were allies.

His father returned with his coffee. "Can I give your son this quarter that he guessed right with?" I asked. "Uh, yeah, sure," he replied, somewhat puzzled and relieved. His son was all smile and energy. The father, holding his coffee, reached for his son's hand, and they walked out the door talking softly.

DO YOU GET IT YET BRUCE?

2010-01-31T16:10:00.000-08:00

I awoke from a dream where all the significant perceived enemies and loving friends in my life, since I was 16 years old, stood shoulder to shoulder, side by side, in a long line. All were leaning forward slightly so I could see their facial expressions. I was on my knees at the end of the line, able to see all their faces at the same time. I recognized them all as friends that had "betrayed" me, people who had "hurt" and been mean to me. Some in the line were close friends that brought a smile. There was a mix of women and men, that over the years, had either been mean, perceived enemies or kind and loving.

The one thing in common, as they stood there looking at me, was an expression of, "Do you get it yet Bruce?" I knew in the dream, and when I awoke, what that meant.

I sat up in bed with a smile, knowing that all the events and people in my life that I've reacted to, or believed I had been emotionally abused, or taken advantage of, or even "betrayed," happened for me, not to me. It wasn't even a belief stretch to realize that my reaction to anything or anyone is always mine, and within my total control. I knew that disturbing events, and people, are a projection of sorts, giving me another chance to be free of having to make anyone wrong, or bad. I still do but now I become aware pretty quick, like in seconds, and can simply let them be. Or at least respond from a non-reactive, hurt or angry place. Thus, I am free.

STOP TALKING AND FEEL

2010-01-14T21:37:00.000-08:00

I was in a large gymnasium-size room with 400 women, men, children and babies, all from different countries and cultures. Different colors. Different languages. Some had paid their own way to this Howard University site in Washington, D.C. Others were flown here by the generosity of others who had donated money so all economic groups could be represented. People fresh from war-torn countries, still angry and terrified, came together with others that lived in violence, terror-free areas of the world.

We were all here for this ten-day World Work event to provide a safe space and time for people angry, divided, and who may have perceived each other as enemies, to find a common ground to hear each other, and potentially come together beyond rage and
so-called justified hatred.

For ten days, people, sometimes chaotically, screamed, cried and yelled at each other. For many an involved observer, the experience was chilling and emotionally disturbing. By the tenth day, last hour, with anger still filling the air, a young tall African American man from California - a man prior to this day, simply an observer, took an instinctive action. Hearing the loud voices of anger and the ongoing "talking" debates for so many days, he did something unexpected, and spontaneous, not only to others, but to himself as well. This man, Michael Jones, had always been exquisitely sensitive to how people in the world are treated. Fairness and justice seemed to drive him. On this day, his heart took charge, overriding any self-doubt, hesitation or need to impress anyone.

Michael swiftly and intentionally walked into the center of the 400 people, some seated, other standing in emotionally heated positions. Once in the center, he stood tall and screamed with great emotion and feeling, "Stop talking and feel! Stop talking and feel!!" His voice filled the gymnasium. At that moment, his voice, wherever it came from, was bigger than God, bigger than my perception of the universe.

The room dissolved into silence. A minute passed. A sobbing sound came from the back of the room. Soon, more and more people began to sob, cry and wail. Women, men and children began to slowly move towards the center of the room, tears flowing, the sound of raw, real feelings filling the room. Now hundreds of people were huddled together, most of them unknown to each other, arms around each other, crying together. No more talk. No more anger.

Michael joined them. Later, as he sat in the hallway by himself, people came to huddle around Michael to know him, to thank him. All he could do is say thank you and shed tears.

EVERYTHING IS ABOUT RELATIONSHIP

2010-01-08T11:45:00.000-08:00

When I was in my early twenties, and a first year high school teacher, I discovered the principal of our school was placing all the Hispanic and African American students in a special class for so-called "mentally disabled." He did this, I found out, so the school district would receive more money from the state.

I was new, not only as a teacher, but in the world of politics and racism in school systems. Innocent yet clear, I called for a State investigation of the principal and his treatment of minority students. After the investigation, the principal remained, and my contract was terminated. Of the twenty-two other teachers on the staff, all of who agreed to speak up at the investigation, none did.

This event was my official introduction to getting involved with the world of justice and fairness. I had to. With a family of two young children and a wife, I soon found a job working with Native Americans, a group of people I knew nothing about except from cowboy and Indian movies. My job was to provide "counseling" to Native people representing almost every tribe in the United States, some being off the reservation for the first time. After dissolving my initial fears of being around a people that looked so different from me, I found what "family" can really mean when the word "sacred" is lived out daily, when humor is about oneself, rather than aimed at another, and when everything in life is about relationship.

Everything in life is about relationship. I found myself talking less with what I called "empty talk." I learned to speak only when I had something to say. I laughed more. I dissolved my belief in ambition in exchange for being of service to others -- whatever that might look like.

FREEDOM FROM ANGER

2010-01-04T21:31:00.000-08:00

Our eight-year old son was taking a shower. For some reason, I do not remember, I walked into the bathroom with a tone of voice that carried frustration and was directed at my favorite person in the world, our kind and sensitive little boy. My frustrated tone didn't have lots of volume, and to me, wasn't very scary. It was the kind of admonishing voice that so freely floats around relationships without much awareness.

As I stood there for a moment, expecting a verbal reaction, I heard the shower water stop. It had been turned off. Suddenly, the shower curtain was thrown open, and there stood my son, tears in his eyes, beginning to cry. He looked directly into my eyes and said, "I thought I cured you of all your anger."

I sat on the edge of the tub as he fell into my arms crying - crying tears of disappointment. I simply held him close and whispered, "I am learning." He looked up and smiled.

WHO ARE i INSIDE?

2009-12-31T14:25:00.000-08:00

My brother and I used to make fun of my mother, not in her presence, but when we got together alone. Often our seemingly innocent humor and sarcasm about people, included her name, and the way some of her habits, in our judgment, were worth laughing at with mocking tones. “After all,” we thought, “We weren't saying things in front of her." Our humor seemed so innocent. We just thought we were being clever and funny.

I awoke from a dream one morning and realized I didn't like what I had been doing since I was a teenager - making fun of someone, anyone, including my mother, believing it caused no harm. I wanted to change that pattern. I had not read about this insight in any book. I just knew I had to change my way of seeing people.

I had become so familiar with what I saw as a clever form of humor, judging and mocking other people, that suddenly I saw the hurtful and mean side of putting people down with sarcasm. "How dare I," I thought, "dismiss my mother or anyone, believing I’m justified, having the right to laugh at what I deem deficiencies of others."

I decided to offer a silent apology to my mother, and to free myself from holding others in critical ways. I drove 400 miles from Northern California to Los Angeles to take my mother to lunch at her favorite restaurant. I gave myself thirty minutes to see the woman and little girl behind the “mother” I’d grown up with, now 70 years of age.

I allowed myself to see her as an eight-year old little girl of her parents. Innocent, playful, spontaneous. We sat across from each other as she drank her coffee and ate her dry toast. Each time I noticed my judgmental thoughts, or was about to roll my eyes, I’d release it, and instead, see her as a little child in a dress, named Sylvia. In these moments, I had no expectations of Sylvia or judgments. I knew I had to ask questions from a place of wonder, as though I were meeting a little person for the first time. My voice could not reflect probing, or
hidden agendas. I had to come from wonder.

For twenty-nine minutes, I repeatedly and patiently asked her about her parents and her childhood. “Oh, that was so long ago,” she replied each time, “doesn’t matter.” Sylvia's responses were limited to "that was so long ago, doesn't matter." Then, exactly on the 30th minute, the time I had allotted myself, I asked, once again, “How was it between you and your mother and father?” “They loved us,” she replied, “they never touched us, but they loved us.”

Hearing those words, my heart softened. Tears came. I knew who she was now, other than my mother. Three months later, my wife and I drove to Los Angeles with the intent to spend one hour with Sylvia, without expectation or wanting of anything. We were going to find a way to simply "touch" her. As they sat across from each other talking, I stood behind Sylvia and placed my hands gently on her shoulders to touch her lovingly, not wanting anything. Immediately, I felt the tension in her shoulders. She shook my hands away. Respectfully, I stepped back.

A few moments later, I returned to even more gently place my hands on her shoulders again. Her body allowed my touch. I stood in place for several minutes just being there. Her shoulders softened and her body relaxed. That was all we wanted to do.

At the door, as we were leaving, my mother and I hugged. This time, I realized her hugs had always been more distant, her arms outstretched, keeping a distance. I gently, gradually and respectfully, drew her 5’ 1” body closer. Closer than ever before. As her face touched mine, she began to sob, tremble and sob. Her head dropped onto my shoulder. “I haven’t cried like that since I was eight years old,” she said, holding me tight.

Her name was Sylvia. She died in 1999 at the age of 88. She was our mother, and a little girl. Bless her.

MINERVA: BEYOND COLOR

2009-12-31T11:13:00.000-08:00

.... When I was about nine-years old living in Los Angeles, my mother had a "black" maid come to our small two-bedroom house once a week for eight hours to clean, vacuum and wash windows. I looked forward to the one day Minerva would be there. Before my 7:30am walk to school, I'd sit with Minerva for about thirty minutes at our old yellow formica kitchen table as she sipped a cup of black coffee, no cream, no sugar. We really liked each other - even loved each other. I could feel our connection, yet I did not think of it, nor give words to it. We just seemed to know something together - a respect.

She was the first black person I knew really well and personally. Yet, I hardly noticed her skin color, which was a darker shade of black, now that I think of it. She knew who I was inside. She spoke to me as though no age difference existed. Her voice did not change. She looked me in the eyes and smiled a lot. As the time came for me to leave, I stood, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and walk to school with my metal lunch box dangling at my side.

Minerva died when I was about twenty-eight years old. I received an invitation from her family in Los Angeles, inviting me to her funeral. I had not seen her in 12 years. I could have gone but did not. My heart told me I must. My self doubts suggested that it didn't matter if I went to the funeral. Years later, I realized I was more important to her and her family than I knew. Just as she made an impact on my life, I probably did the same for her. We "recognized" each other beyond race and color.

WORLD AS SCHOOL

2009-12-31T11:03:00.000-08:00

If I knew I had 10 minutes to live, and I had no concern for being judged, criticized or being marginalized and made wrong by others, what would I want to say, publicly, out loud, freely? I mean after I have hugged and kissed and said goodbye to all those close to me, what would I want to say about life?

I’ll pretend I have only ten minutes now. So, I say this: “Find a creative, loving, kind, open, respectful way to teach children the things they want to know more about. Delete the hierarchy of rank and authority between children and adults. Just let that overseer authority go. Transform school buildings to meeting rooms for creative and uncreative people in the community, to gather and offer to children exactly what they want to learn.

Get rid of tests and grades and all those tools that require fear, competition, and comparison – separating me from you, and by their very nature, imply children need to be coerced to learn, explore and wonder about things. Make available to all children, experiences, people and teachings that hold the world open, that inspire and transcend all perceived limits. If it is skateboarding, help them build one from scratch. Help them make a cartoon book. A video movie. A tree house. A real house. Let them be around adults that meet them equally, are kind, have a sense of humor, and can hug freely. Take a long bike trip. Allow reading to come naturally as it will. Reading and math aren't difficult. Handling the fear, tension and beliefs about reading and math are.

I’d add, “Go to another country, another neighborhood, another person whose color and language is different, and say hi. Just say hi.

SYLVIA: MY SEVEN-YEAR OLD MOTHER

2009-12-30T18:35:00.000-08:00

"If I could "see" my mother named Sylvia, as a seven-old little girl named Sylvia," I thought to myself," I would feel more compassion and respect for her as a human being - separating out the old expectations of what she did or did not do in her role as mother. I needed to simply see her as a human being named Sylvia. Even though we lived 400 miles from each other and I saw her once a year, I often noticed my seemingly innocent thoughts about Sylvia as mocking or disrespectful. Yet, when I thought of her in disrespectful ways, I was diminishing her as a human being, even if she never heard my internal thoughts. I didn't feel right perpetuating my judgmental beliefs. I decided I wanted to free myself from making her wrong, or holding sarcastic voices.

I decided to drive 400 miles to Los Angeles from Santa Cruz, California, with the specific intent to "see" and connect with the seven-year-old Sylvia, separate from her role as my mother. I arranged a time to meet. I drove her to a favorite breakfast coffee shop, where she ordered what she always ordered: toast without butter, and coffee without cream. This was my first test. Instead of silently rolling my eyes in judgment of her for ordering the same
thing year after year, and seeing her as a rather boring person, I opened up wider myself, allowing for her to be who she is, and order what's important to her.

I gave myself 30 minutes, and only 30 minutes to make contact with the little girl Sylvia. Any mind judgments that came up, or old ways of seeing her, I immediately replaced with my original intent: to find the little girl inside and free my own compassion. For 29 minutes I asked many of the same basic questions as she sipped her black coffee and slowly ate her dry toast.

"How was it for you growing up with your parents? What was their relationship like? As a little girl, how did you and your dad (mom) get along?" No matter what I asked, even though my tone was coming from wonder, not challenge, her answer was consistently, "Oh Bruce, that was so long ago. It doesn't matter." Over and over again, her response was, "It doesn't matter. That was so long ago. I don't remember, or everything was fine."

Twenty-nine minutes passed, and I was determined to make the little Sylvia - the innocent little Sylvia, join us at the table. On the 30th minute, I asked, one more time, "What was your relationship like between you and your mom and dad?"

With a tone of impatience, "Oh they loved us. They never touched us, but they loved us."
Tears came to my eyes. My heart softened beyond where I was aware it could. I had no more questions. I saw Sylvia, the woman sitting across from me, with not only compassion, but
with love and appreciation. I realized she had little affectionate, loving touch in her life except to have two children. All my previous judgments dissolved. I kissed her on the cheek and drove her back to her apartment.

Months later, Meigra, my closest friend and long-time partner, drove back to Los Angeles with the specific intent to be with Sylvia for one hour. In that hour, we would find ways to bring simple touch to her. Meigra and Sylvia sat across from each other, having a conversation. I stood behind Sylvia as she sat in her favorite chair. I was not trying to make anything happen, only offer a touch without expectation or agenda. I gently placed my hands on her shoulders just to make contact. Her shoulders felt tense as she shrugged my hands away.

I stepped back, returning a minute later to once again place my hands lightly on her shoulders, as I said something that made her laugh. This time, her body allowed my hands to remain. Without movement, my hands rested gently on her shoulders. Slowly, I massaged her shoulders just a little, as she and Meigra laughed and spoke of things.

When our agreed upon hour was up, Meigra and I walked to the door to say goodbye. I reached out to hug Sylvia, and for the first time in my life, I noticed that when she hugged, her arms were outstretched, creating a distance. I gradually, and respectfully encouraged her 5' 1" body to come closer, riding the edge of respectful encouragement or pulling, as we moved closer, requiring a potential warm embrace. Slowly, our bodies began to approach one another. Within moments, we were having our first body contact hug - full on. Mother and son. We held each other as she began to sob, shake and sob .... in relief. "I haven't cried like that since I was five years old," my 75-year-old mother named Sylvia said between sobs. "I haven't cried like that...."

A year later, Meigra and I returned for a brief visit. But his time, Meigra and Sylvia skipped down the sidewalk together, singing.

IT'S IN ALL OF US

2009-12-29T12:44:00.000-08:00

I stepped into the airport shuttle bus with a $3.00 espresso drink in my hand.
"You can't bring food or drink on the bus," the driver admonished.
I told him I would keep the lid on the cup, be very careful, and not drink any until our terminal destination.

"No," he said, "You'll have to leave it in the trash can outside, or not ride.

"Your bus is empty," I insisted, "and it is only a few minute ride. And this cost $3.00"

"No," he said angrily, somewhat agitated.

Angrily, I tossed the cup into the trash can, and returned to my seat, directly across from the driver. Thoughts poured in to to justify how right I was, and how inflexible and wrong he was. Within moments, I realized I was the one that reacted, believing the driver to be wrong, me to be right. The bus arrived at my stop. The door opened.

I stood, walked over to the driver, and faced him directly. We made eye contact.
"I apologize," I began. "I apologize for getting angry and giving that anger to you. I had no right to do that. You did your job and I did not respect that. I am sorry."

Tears came to his eyes.

"I am sorry too. I want to give your $3.00 back."
"Thank you for the offer, but you did the right thing. I did not need the latte. I need this reminder, one more time, to see through the eyes of others. Your eyes. I am sorry."

With his hands together in a prayerful hand clasp, tears in his eyes, he said, "thank you." I returned the gesture, bowing to him. I stepped off the bus.

FREE THE CHILDREN: 12/11/2009

2009-12-14T18:08:00.000-08:00

A two-year old child named Katie came over
to where I was sitting and put her arm around mine.
She looked up and smiled a real smile - the kind of
smile that comes from within, like an offering, something
sacred. My mind stopped thinking. My body stopped moving.

She leaned against me, wanting to be there, wanting
to be near me. I admitted to myself that I was honored
with her presence. I felt, but did not reveal tears - tears
that expressed how grateful I was to two-year old Katie for
liking me, and wanting to be near. How simple.

My to-do list disappeared. My need to go anywhere dissolved.
There was nothing as important and satisfying as simply
being still with Katie. In my imagination, which I consider
to be another reality, Katie and many children remind me to
stop - to stop talking, be still, and feel.