That Much

There is a story that I love. I first came across this story when I read the prologue to Scott Peck’s book A Different Drum. I subsequently loved it even more when it was read at the beginning of every community-building workshop I ever attended. The story conveys something of the radical power of respect, and I share it with you because I am still learning its lessons.

“ There is a story, perhaps a myth. Typical of mythic stories, it has many versions. Also, typical, the version of the story you are about to experience is obscure. The story, called The Rabbi’s Gift, concerns a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once a great order, as a result of waves of anti-monastic persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and the rise of secularism in the nineteenth, all of its branch houses were lost and it had become decimated to the extent that there were only five monks left in the decaying mother house: the abbot and four others, all over 70 years in age Clearly it was a dying order.

In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used for a hermitage. Through their many years of prayer and contemplation the old monks had become a bit psychic, so they could always sense when the rabbi was in his hermitage. “The rabbi is in the woods, the rabbi is in the woods again,” they would whisper to each other. As he agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot at one such time to visit the hermitage and ask if by some possible chance he could offer any advice that might save the monastery.

The rabbi welcomed he abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. “I know how it is,’ He exclaimed. “The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in my town. Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.” So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together. Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things. The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced each other. “It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet each other after all these years,” the abbot said, “but I still have failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would me save my dying order?”

“No I am sorry,” the rabbi responded. “I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that The Messiah is one of you.”

When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, “Well, what did the rabbi say?”

“He couldn’t help,” the abbot answered. “We just wept and read the Torah together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving —it was something cryptic — was that the Messiah is one of us. I don’t know what he meant.”

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered the possible this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi’s words. The Messiah is on of us? Could he possibly mean one of the monks here at the monastery? If that’s the case, which one? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation. On the other hand, he might have meant Bother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light. Certainly he could not have meant Brother Eldred! Eldred gets crotchety at times. But, when you look back on it, even though he is a pain in people’s sides, Eldred is virtually always right. Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Eldred. But not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah. Of course the rabbi didn’t mean me. He couldn’t possibly have meant me. I’m just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O God not me, I couldn’t be that much for You could I?

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off off chance that each of the monks himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest in which it was situated was so beautiful, it so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends.

The story ends with the monastery being renewed and becoming a center of light. I’ve loved this story because it has had so much to say to me about the renewal of community, but as I was slowly typing the story into my computer, I found myself substituting in the word world, in my mind, for monastery. I have a feeling that if we could have the story’s kind of extraordinary respect universally, then a wider spread renewal could happen.

I primarily have loved this story because it has helped me to consider myself in a different light. Besides looking at myself as something unimaginable, and worthy of respect, I have been dwelling with the off hand chance that I could be “that much” to anyone. As I have come to respect that possibility, I have come to experience how much this world of others, means to me.  “That much” has turned into so much.

My regard for the possibility that I might not know myself well enough to be sure how much I could mean to another has turned out to increase my regard for everybody. I am learning that just opening to the possibility of being “that much” to anyone, opens me to noticing how everything is “that much” to me.

I share this with you, because I’m still leaning how to be and see “that much,” and because it means that much to me.

Vulnerability

I realized, as I was approaching this subject, vulnerability, that although the definition hasn’t changed over the years, the meaning has.. This is what I really want to explore. As I’ve changed so has the experience of being vulnerable. Along with the change of meaning, I think the impact of vulnerability is also changing. If this is so, then vulnerability, of a sort, heralds a change of capability that I think might be important to note.

Being vulnerable actually means putting yourself potentially in harms way. It’s a deliberate act. An act, that involves giving up all forms of protection and standing out undefended. One is vulnerable because one has elected to defy the probability of harm in favor of some other less probable outcome, and in the process one has made themselves totally subject, wellbeing wise, to the moment. Being vulnerable is a kind of exposure to risk.

This squares with my early experiences of vulnerability. I don’t like being vulnerable very much. Even to this day. In the early days I really didn’t like it. My experience of vulnerability was accompanied with a sense of fear. If I became vulnerable it was usually an accident, or a situation where I felt out of control, and in over my head. The experience of being exposed was very vivid and beyond my control. I always felt threatened, destined for a kind of jeopardy. The unpleasantness of the experience was always a feeling of naked smallness before something greater.

The smallness I felt, the involuntary nature of what befell me, made the experience one that was seared into my awareness, and one I didn’t want to have again. I couldn’t perceive any benefit, any reason to want to voluntarily have the experience of being vulnerable. Life was hard enough, scrabbling to have a place at the table.

In those days I was very aware of what, and who, was around me. I chose to act out of my awareness of my external situation. I wanted desperately to fit in. I felt vulnerable when I didn’t, when I couldn’t. My sense of vulnerability didn’t really have a voluntary component, not unless one was insane, or masochistic. Vulnerability was a sign of weakness, a sign that one didn’t have the ability to cope with Life.

Thankfully, after years of feeling vulnerable, believing myself to be defective, unable to cope with the complexity of Life, things changed. I ripened into another kind of awareness. Sure, I spent years in therapy, doing spiritual practice, being a social activist, having challenging relationships, discovering what being a man was, and working on myself. These things contributed, but what really brought everything together, was something I had no control over. I, inexplicably, ripened into a new bigger, more complex being. Now I feel vulnerable differently.

Being vulnerable now is more of a voluntary experience. I can still get caught up and overwhelmed by the moment, but it tends to be less unpleasant than it used to be. I have learned through living and practiced desire to regulate myself. I have more choice now. Thankfully. I may have feelings, I probably do, but I have a lot more discretion about revealing them. I can be feeling-full and discrete.

Being vulnerable can be a lot of things, but here, I want to focus upon the voluntary display of the amalgam of complex feelings that makes vulnerability a strength not a weakness. Vulnerability has an infectious nature. That doesn’t mean others feel the same thing in the same way, but it does mean that others are impacted, they notice. Vulnerability is composed of a set of human emotions that communicate something important.

As I’ve grown older I have begun to find a more existential kind of humor funny. I can’t help but smile, sometimes, when something makes me recognize the hilarious situation I’m in. Sometimes, I can’t help being impressed by how funny being here is. I often laugh at my own difficulties. I am so grateful I can.

Vulnerability seems similar to me. I am incredibly vulnerable if I let myself know the fix I’m in. What’s more, is that I can feel vulnerable if I really get the fix some one else is in. The truth is, that for me, the human condition makes me feel pretty vulnerable. I guess that is why I sometimes feel moved to let my vulnerability be seen. It seems to most accurately express the predicament that I find myself, and others, within.

Vulnerability, for me, means that I may laugh or cry. Being human is ridiculously hard. It makes me grieve, praise, laugh and cry. I am vulnerable from head to foot, in every moment, in every way, and I laugh, curse and wonder within such an incredible existence. Vulnerability seems to be my natural state, maybe yours too! Can we connect with each other around this shared experience? I believe we can. In part, that’s why I want others to see and know my vulnerability. Openness is vulnerable. It hurts good. So does living. Hah! What a humorous twist there is to this whole deal!

“A Good Death Is a Village-Making Event”

He said the words that title this missive, and they have haunted me since. He is Stephen Jenkinson, a Canadian, who is Harvard educated, a theologian. And he has attended over 800 deaths. I was listening to a radio interview with Stephen when he said these words. It was like a big wet shaggy dog shook nearby. At first those words just shocked me into an uncomfortable wetness, then subsequently, when I listened again to the interview, these words drenched me. I believe I am now, like Stephen says, grief soaked.

 

Known as the Griefwalker in Canada, Stephen’s principle mission has been shedding new light upon our culture’s phobia about death. That is moving enough, but that isn’t what grabbed me so hard. What galvanized my attention was his answer to the question, “what constitutes a good death?” His answer came across as if it was customized for me to hear. I have been a community-builder all of my adult life, and suddenly I’m accosted by an idea that seems so right, and that has evaded me for so long. If I wasn’t so moved by what it says to me now, I would feel ashamed that I hadn’t realized this before.

I don’t want to spend time on Stephen’s work. If you want to know more, and I do recommend it, go to Ken Rose’s site for the 1 hour interview (www.pantedmonkey.com), and to (http://www.nfb.ca/film/griefwalker) for the Canadian documentary of he and his work. Instead I just want to focus upon the village-making aspect of death, and life.

He points out how one significant part of life is ignored by our current attitudes about death. This is familiar to we elders, who are used to being ignored (or worse). I was taken by the sense that we don’t really know what death holds for us, we rarely talk about it, and we don’t inquire into the experience of those who are dying. In all these ways we are missing the potential of death to bring us together. It is, after all, one experience we all have in common. Dying probably has a lot to say about life, a lot we may not even know.

I am touched by the notion that there is a community-building aspect to dying. Dying transparently, apparently, holds a power that unites us. I can imagine that dying out in the open can touch us all. I can also imagine that knowing something about what it is really like changes the way we live. And finally, I can imagine holding the precious flame of Life so much more diligently, mine and yours.

I want that, for us, for my self, for this stricken world. I have attended some memorial services that brought out the village, now I want living to do the same. Is that possible? I know I can’t make it happen with anything I do or say, but it appears that by living and dying well I might be able to enhance the chances. So I’m writing to you to direct your attention, to the extent I can, to the work of Stephen Jenkinson, and to the kind of life/death I hope to share with you.

I share in the destruction of our world, I can’t seem to avoid it. I know that the end of an unsustainable way of life is coming, and that I probably won’t make the necessary transition, if one occurs, but while I am alive, I want to be working to lessen the unnecessary distances that keep us from being as connected and whole as we can be. The world is a holy vision (so are we really) and we need each other to see it clearly.

Trying by Lucky

I have to admit I write about this reluctantly. I have an ambivalent relationship with trying. I guess these mixed feeling can be attributed to once having someone say to me, that “try was a coyote word.” By that, I took her to mean it was a word I might choose to give myself an out, a way to fail comfortably. I know that tendency too well. But, trying goes deeper for me than that. At least I hope it does. That uncertainty is the source of my ambivalence. I really don’t know how much of myself I am giving to anything. I’d like to think I am in charge, that I define my efforts, but I really am uncertain about that. So trying stays in my vocabulary and I have to live with the uncertainty that comes with it.

Life seems to constantly be asking me to be more than I see myself to be. It isn’t just that I have an inaccurate image of myself and I can do, and be, more. That certainly happens. But there are times when Life seems to be asking me to do something I know I’m not capable of. Sometimes I do know myself, and recognize my actual limitations. Life doesn’t seem to care. It asks me, in no uncertain words, to go ahead.  Then, if I have the appropriate audacity, I have to try. Trying in those kinds of moments is a leap of faith. It is going beyond myself in some desperate attempt to mollify the unknown.

I’ve told myself, and enough precious others, that I know my writing, and my work building community is on track when I’m having an “oh shit” moment. When I realize I’m thoroughly over my head, and I have put myself in this place where I can see no way forward, I know I’m doing a good job. I have to go to the place of my limitations to discover any possibilities. I can’t really explain something that is this paradoxical. I have to be hurting and totally afraid too get to a place where I have a chance of making a difference. I don’t like to be raw that much. I don’t like to ache nakedly in public ways either. But I know this is what it takes for me to do anything real. I want to try, and I want to avoid it like the plague.

Life is asking that much of me. Sometimes, if I’m really honest, most times, I just try to ignore the fact that I can feel when I’m being asked to go further than I’ve gone before. If I put it off long enough the call gets louder and I begin losing my confidence in myself, and in Life. I want to do anything else. I even fool (or so I think) myself by doing things sort of like what I’m being called to. I’ll try anything to avoid trying what I know is real. No doubt this is the real source of my ambivalence. I know I’m still susceptible to fooling myself.

I should know better. I’m just Lucky enough to have been pushed off the cliff, and to know that falling and flying can be the same thing. But, I’m still living in a world where it looks like falling can lead to suffering. I don’t want to suffer, but if I’m good at avoiding that kind of suffering, I suffer with the knowledge that I’m avoiding something crucial. In the end, I try because I make the choice of facing my lack of choice. I choose to suffer the not knowing, the leap into the abyss, the “oh shit’ moments, because I know that if I don’t I am going to suffer another kind of suffering. Either way I look at it I suffer, so it might as well be trying to be something I’m not.

Strangely, it seems as if Life thrives on this kind of choice. I don’t like it much, but you know what, being used by Life in this way, increases my respect for Life and for the level of challenge I’m engaged in. I have greater self-respect, greater compassion for others, because I have an idea how hard, and how precious, it is to really try.

Trying, if it comes too easily, is suspect, because really trying is a trial. There is doubt and no way out. The jury doesn’t render the standard verdict of guilty or not guilty. In this case the jury is within, and the consideration is the quality of life. Real trying is living uncertainly. It is leaping into the unknown without the pretense of a net. It is what Life is doing with us.

Loving Yourself — Lucky

A report from the Slow Lane

Sometimes I believe I’m not part of the whole. I know, that’s silly, and it hurts so much. I know better, but every now and then some form of amnesia comes over me and I forget. I guess the experience of connection (despite the fact that it has been lifelong) doesn’t run deep enough yet. I frequently fall into moments when I feel untethered, when I am lost, or so it seems. I can’t seem to consistently hold myself with the reverence needed to maintain appropriate perspective. I am finding that loving myself is not easy. And, I am gradually learning how essential it is to holding on to my connection with the whole.

Loving myself is still fairly new, and is tenuous at best. I didn’t know, until recently that it was necessary to care about myself, and even possible. If I hadn’t had a long time of lonely recovery after my stroke I might not have ever known how important I am to the equation of unfolding.

I look back at that time with wonder. Early on, the life I knew was defined by grief, loss (so much of who I was disappeared), and some strange will to go on. Only later did it become about what remained (and thankfully that was a lot). Somewhere in that long time of day-to-day uncertainty I came across my neglected self. I think it was when I felt alive enough to feel alone. I started longing for a relationship. It was a totally irrational desire. It always has been. But at that particular time, this longing, for a relationship seemed especially off because I was so severely broken physically and psychically.

Being irrational, the situation didn’t matter much. I longed for someone to know and care about me anyway. Well, almost needless to say, there was no one there. This was a good thing. It was another of the painfully disappointing lessons that I was lucky enough to be brought to. The absence of someone else was gravelly disappointing to me, but it introduced to me the one person who was there. Me. I didn’t much like or trust myself so I wasn’t thrilled to discover this remnant of a human being. The only reason I didn’t dismiss him is because I couldn’t. This misfortunate circumstance (which I could literally do nothing about) was the beginning of the relationship that frees and connects me now.

I didn’t know it at the time. I was just chagrined. I was stuck with me. I had managed to become the booby-prize in my own life (thankfully). I had a hard time sleeping at night, because sleeping alone meant sleeping with me. I wasn’t ready for that kind of intimacy. Ready or not, I got to know myself. And I discovered something. I’m not proud of what I realized, of what I have been doing all these years, of how I have used the women in

my life, of how I have avoided the obvious. But it became clear to me, that I preferred someone else to love me. The way I put it, in my own mind, was that I would rather have some woman do the dirty job of loving me than having to learn to love myself.

Happily for me, though it didn’t seem like a boon to me at the time, no woman was volunteering to sign up for the job. I continued to be left on my own. Disability is the shits, but sometimes it forces one to sit still. I got to know me because there wasn’t anyone else around.

It started with compassion. I realized that although I couldn’t personally love me, I could have compassion for the difficult life that he/me lived. Paying attention that way I began to admire the way he/I courageously persevered. I started to like what I saw. That is when loneliness became solitude. The time alone was better for me than I ever imagined. I was learning something about loving the one I’m always with.

I had a few friends. I could see, during this time of learning, that they tended, as I had done, to avoid them selves. I could see how this was costing them, and I got a lot clearer about how not loving myself was costing me. It was then I realized I had to quit avoiding doing the one thing I had always felt was a bad idea. Too avoid the pain and misery of living in a constant lie, I took on the pain and misery of learning to love the untrustworthy soul I seemed to be.

During the Christmas season only a year ago, I gave myself, accidentally, the best Christmas present I had ever received. I was alone as usual. I was scared about what that might mean. I wasn’t sure I could face more long-ticking hours of silence and aloneness. Instead, I had a wonderful time. I was the good, reflective creative companion I always wanted. I gave myself the seasonal spiritual retreat I always wanted. I discovered I loved myself. I, and the wisemen, arrived to behold another form of the Christmas miracle, the birth of a new relationship. Light has poured out of it ever since.

There are periods, like earlier this week, when I forget that I am always connected, and that I am a living portion of the whole. I forget to hold onto myself, that strange paradoxical being that resides uniquely as me, and somehow miraculously joins me to everything else. I forget to love me. I forget that I am love. Somehow, something of me keeps going, evolving right along with this mysteriously expanding Universe. I know it, live constantly in awe, aware of such fragile and impermanent creativity, and I forget.

I have some memory problems creeping up. Age is having its way with me. But I don’t think this is why I forget. I think I forget because I want to fit in. I go back to the well of community. It seems necessary that I forget so I can discover it again through my confusing connection with others. It turns out, that loving myself is still hard work, because the Universe is so big and diverse, and because loving myself means always going beyond myself to become larger, more complex, I forget who I am, and lose my grip on me,  in order so I can re-discover who I am, and learn to love me anew.

Loving yourself is learning to love the whole! Wow!

Longing— by Lucky

A report from the Slow Lane

Somewhere, some time ago, I felt so disconnected. This was before my stroke, when I lived in the normal world. I was longing for something I didn’t know I had. I longed to feel more connected, I didn’t know to whom or what, I just knew there was a feeling of emptiness inside. I was unseated by this feeling, unbalanced enough that I tended to blame everyone: family, wife, friends, culture, and mostly, in my heart of hearts, myself. I didn’t know that I was longing for something that had always been with me, that I was suffering a kind of reverse phantom limb syndrome. I was longing for a part of me (or my experience) that was present, but I couldn’t perceive it. Now longing indicates to me the awakening of unknown capabilities.

Longing seems to me to be one of the first phases of waking up. I had a dream recently that awakened me. The dream was vivid and it endured long enough, that in the dream I had time enough to think about what I was experiencing. As the experience went on I could feel, more and more, a desire to try an express what I could see. I felt, in the dream, a tremendous longing, that turned into a kind of action. The action ended up not being what I thought and it awakened me, left me aroused by the dream, awake, and uncertain about what had just happened. Longing, which occurred in the dream, awakened me.  To make a long story short it brought me too a new kind of awareness.

I think I have felt longing most of my life. Mostly, I have ignored it. Longing always seemed so ambiguous and distant that I couldn’t do anything with it. It was unlike desire, which would also haunt me, because desire would always be for some identifiable person or thing.  Longing instead was hard to identify and even harder to satisfy. I let it remain on the periphery of my awareness, primarily because I didn’t know what else to do with it.

So, generally, I had longings, but I didn’t really pay attention to them. That’s good, because if I had tried to do anything with them, I probably would have done the wrong thing. It’s starting to look like the longings that have accompanied me, have shaped me. Instead of me doing something with them, they seem to have done something with me. Longing seems to have been the first stirrings of a dim awareness; an awakening of some unknown part of me (or my consciousness). Longing was a herald that announced the arrival of new, still distant, possibilities, unknown mes, awkward beginnings.

Longing is a funny feeling. I don’t know how it is for you, but for me, I have some mixture of feelings. There is some form of inchoate excitement. This comes over me like having something not yet identifiable appear on a long inactive radar screen. I also feel a form of pain. It is like a kind of birth pang. This isn’t a dull ache, but it is there, like a subtle warning sign, obvious, but not too obvious.  I also have some sense of this being really ancient, like it has been around, and ignored, for a longtime. I’m having some kind of orphan feeling.

There is also a taste of grief. It is as if something ancient is coming near home at last. There is something prodigal about what happens for me. Its like what is coming is somehow returning. My heart is just as closed to it now as it was then, whenever then was, and I want no more than to barely notice. Longing seems to hang out near some barely remembered, and never-used gateway.

I’ve come to see the dimly recognizable a lot more clearly now. I hate to admit it, but I’m still ambivalent, I don’t easily give admission to new seemingly vagrant aspects of who I am. Longing is more trustworthy now, but I’m not sure I am. I reluctantly let myself be aware of what keeps knocking at my gate.

Still, I have learned something, longing is an early sign (perhaps an expression) of something coming into consciousness. I like longing a lot more now. It still is dusty and road-weary, having suffered too much exile, and it still meets a wary me, but by and large I trust that it is an emissary of what is. My gate is more open than closed now. Connection is still a longing, but it is more like longing for a loved one to come home than for an adult child who’s been away so long that is like letting a stranger into the house. Both are welcome, but one is easier to take in.

I long for the day when it is easier to welcome all my parts home.

Humankindness — by Lucky

I first ran across the word that titles this Slow Lane piece when I was doing my doctoral research into community. For over 20 years I have been captivated by it. Coined by an anthropologist, the word was his attempt to give expression to the way some people treated other people, not just people of the same village, tribe, or language group, but people of all sorts. This behavior and attitude fascinated me, as does the double meaning of this word. Now I have a vivid experience to go with the concept and I want to explore this phenomenon more.

I think I have liked the word “humankindness” because it captures something that has been difficult to express; that is, the connection that exists between us. The word has two meanings that express different sides of the same precious coin. Humankindness describes the similarity that exists between us because we are all of the class of mammals called humans. In that way we are all of one kind. It also refers to the way that others are held, with kindness, as we ourselves would like to be treated. The word humankindness addresses simultaneous attributes of what binds us to one another.

Some indigenous people evidently had the wisdom of noticing that all humans had something in common and therefore were respectable, worthy of kind regard. This simultaneous recognition and regard seems to be missing from our modern world. Recently, however, I came to the realization that this form of connection wasn’t a product of on-going physical togetherness, but of wisdom. People can, and do, come to this awareness, not because of the niceness of their families, friends and loved ones, but because they have grown wise.

Not long ago I was involved in a circle of people who began spontaneously to express their sense of community with each other. They had come to confront the dilemma of our times, the threat we humans pose for each other, the planet and Life as we know it. Confronted, as they were, by a vivid recognition of our limited ways, and the question about the kind of consciousness needed in these difficult times, wisdom began to emerge.

They didn’t talk about the need for community instead, they began to express their experience of community. A part of this group’s response to the horrible mess our kind has created was to feel how kindred they were. Humankindness emerged as way of responding together. Unknowingly this group began to access a kind of collective wisdom that isn’t easily conveyed. A hardship, the difficult, maybe un-survivable dilemma we are responsible for, evoked out of the group feelings of togetherness. The wisdom of combining, of sharing, of learning together, of facing the imposssible in unison, began to manifest.

Wisdom comes in many forms. It often surprises us. Collective wisdom, especially in these times, is indeed surprising. But, we are capable (as the anthropologist proved) of recognizing it, of being part of manifesting it, of turning to one another and growing a collective awareness. Humankindness because it is built on upon a biological similarity transcends religion, class, color, psychology, ideology, age, Culture, gender, or education. Humankindness because it is an attitude of regard isn’t dependent upon outside circumstances, but upon inside development. Strangely, a dilemma,of big enough proportions, awakens it. Outside circumstance in’t the sole arbiter of fate. Because this is so, humankindness can be extended.

I have come to believe that humankindness is a logical way point on the journey toward wholeness. Loving oneself is synonomous with loving the other. The mystery of all being is part of The Great Mystery. There is a fundamental Unity but it expresses itself through diversity. The profusion of nature is a reflection of the profusion of Life in which we ourselves are spawned.

The mess we have created could, if we let it, bring us together. That is what I experienced as we all suffered with each other. Facing the dilemma together, in each other’s presence, drew forth from us a fresh recognition of what we have in common. It hurt to notice what abides in us. Wisdom sometimes is the juice that gets squeezed out of us. Its there, but needs a little pressure to become available. Humankindness is the recognition that the squeeze is always on. Just being human, existing, could be enough.