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.