Not Heavy

7/1/2010

I just had to share this.

I was just taking a bath, and I was thinking about Rob–the homeless man I wrote about in my other blog, who made me so happy when I got him to smile a bit, tell me his name, and sit with me at Dunkin Donuts to have a cup of coffee and get out of the cold.  Then I thought of the many other people, homeless or just in trouble, who I’ve gotten to know and prayed for over the past few years.  I’ve prayed that they would be healed and made whole again, become well, lose their addictions, find homes, find love.  Some have done better, and some–like Rob–are pretty much in the same states they were in when I met them.

Without thinking about it too much, I said to myself, “Maybe all one can do is to pray for them and give them comfort while they live out their time in this world.”

I closed my eyes to see if I’d get an answer to that, and I saw, “Yes–kab lo.”  At this point I know enough Hebrew to know right away that “kab lo” means “not heavy.”

Almost immediately, I knew what he was referring to, and I started laughing out loud.  Earlier this evening, while I was making dinner, I had the radio tuned to the New York oldies station and the Hollies’ song “He Ain’t Heavy” (which I haven’t heard in years) came on.  I was singing along at the top of my lungs (much to the dismay, I’m sure, of anyone “with ears to hear”).

So it seems only right that I include the lyrics here, although I highly recommend listening to the song itself (apparently I’m not the only one):

The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where
But I’m strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother

So on we go

His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We’ll get there

For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother

If I’m laden at all
I’m laden with sadness
That everyone’s heart
Isn’t filled with the gladness
Of love for one another

It’s a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we’re on the way to there
Why not share

And the load
Doesn’t weigh me down at all
He ain’t heavy he’s my brother

He’s my brother
He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother

Nothing Left…

30 June 2010

There have been a few moments during my meditation in which things become very intense; usually, so far, I have to stop, although I’m trying to learn to relax and let it happen, as I know that it will take me where I want to go (wherever, exactly, that is).  It’s very physical, and it feels as if I’m about to break through something (or, as it was described to me months ago, as if the “veil” is finally about to be shredded completely).  I can’t really describe it any better than that.

It happened a few days ago, and (just to be sure), I asked if it was a good thing.  He answered several ways in Hebrew–first, something about “benefitting” and “exultation”, and  little later, in a sentence that sounded like, “Na namorin…go get her,” but seems actually to probably mean something about getting over a wall to a pure pasture.

In the middle of the  night that night, I clearly heard, in English, “…when there is nothing left to prove, nothing left to say.”  It seemed to be an answer to my questions about how I would know when I got to where I was going, and to many others that I’ve been asking, consciously or not.

Trying and Trust

6/21/2010

This afternoon I was reading about Tao in a book called The Way of Chuang Tzu, by Thomas Merton.  So much of what I’ve read in that book, and in the Tao Te Ching and others, seems to fit with what I’ve been being taught in the past couple of years that I often go back to it when I’m feeling that I’ve lost my way a bit.

But today I wanted to clarify things a little more, so I said, “OK, just tell me one thing–just a yes or a no–so that I can understand a little better.  Should I try, or not try?”

I closed my eyes and saw, “Ken”–”yes” in Hebrew.  It kind of surprised and confused me.  I really thought that much of what he’s been trying to teach me has to do with just letting go, learning to interfere as little as possible, and letting Abba do things Abba’s way.  And I’ve seen, over and over, how well things work when I’m able to do that (and how disasters tend to happen when I’m not).

I was trying to keep my promise about accepting the yes-or-no answer, but I had to ask, like a little kid who keeps needing more information, “Try what, exactly?”

“Trust,” he answered.

“Try to learn to trust that I don’t have to try?”

“Yes.”

Got it.  I think.

“Teach Your Children”

6/15/2010

It seems to be a particularly active week in the cruelty-to-animals department.  This morning (still feeling horrified by the idea of the kids on Long Island setting a turtle on fire) I felt compelled to write to a DJ on a local NYC rock station and point out how ignorant and dangerous it was for him (a person with some degree of “influence” as a result of his job) to joke about how he’d kicked a pigeon in the city.

I sent him the link to an article I’d written a few years ago (it was published in ASPCA Animal Watch and a local magazine called Big Apple Parent) about children and cruelty to animals.

As I’ve mentioned here and in my other blog, I was reminded a while back that, “Words don’t lead to love; love leads to love.”  But sometimes all I have at my disposal are words.  So I thought I’d share the article here:

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN

The sky over Meschutt Beach is overcast, and the beach is empty except for three or four families and a lot of seagulls. At the water’s edge, a small group of adults and children gather. They are looking down at something in the sand, and I hear someone say something about a jellyfish. I get a sick feeling in my stomach; I know what’s coming next. A boy of about 12 reaches down and picks up a rock, and I turn away as he raises his arm. I don’t hear the sound of the rock hitting the jellyfish, but I hear the approving, mock- disgusted ‘ohhhs’ uttered by the adults as the creature is crushed.

I’m glad, at least, that my son is busy shoveling sand into his bucket, and isn’t aware of what is happening.

A few minutes later, a man and his son walk up the beach toward where we’re sitting. The boy, who is about 9, is throwing rocks at a pair of young seagulls swimming together just offshore. His father is coaching him with regard to his aim, which is getting increasingly accurate. ‘Don’t throw rocks at birds!’ I blurt out, disgusted. The father turns toward me, angrily, but doesn’t say anything. He and his son continue on up the beach.

I’ve been told that I’m too sensitive about such things (personally, I don’t consider this to be a problem), and that I should keep my mouth shut because it will get me into trouble one day. Yet what I’m about to write has little to do with my own feelings of disgust and sorrow when I see something needlessly hurt or killed, or my personal beliefs about how far up on the evolutionary ladder a creature needs to be in order to be considered sentient enough to be spared being hit with a rock. But in my lifetime I’ve seen and heard about too many of these parent-condoned random acts of cruelty (in ‘good neighborhoods’, with ‘educated’ parents) to be able to console myself that they are committed only by the occasional miscreant. For example:

- My cousins used to amuse themselves behind their nice, suburban-Connecticut home by putting firecrackers into frogs’ mouths and blowing them up. Their parents were fully aware of what they were doing.

- In the Hamptons, a father fished while his daughter passed the time stomping on the (still-living) fish he’d already caught.

- Somewhere else on Long Island, a couple of boys found an injured red-tailed hawk. They tied it to the back of a bike and dragged it around for a while, then lit it on fire. The bird had to be euthanized. (In this case, I don’t know where the boys’ parents were, but it’s hard to hide a beautiful bird with a 6 foot wingspan in a suburban neighborhood).

- In Florida, a toad made its way across a grocery store parking lot. A teenager, on break from his job inside the store, grabbed a broom and slammed it down on the toad, then went back to hanging out with his friends. (They laughed about it; I cried all the way home, and later called the manager to complain).

- Also in Florida, at a zoo at which children were allowed to interact with some tortoises in an outdoor area, several of the children took advantage of the opportunity to kick the tortoises in the head. Neither their parents nor the zoo’s staff said a word about it.

- As a child in Connecticut, I was playing with a friend in the backyard. We caught a moth with my new butterfly net, and one of us (I swear that I don’t remember which one of us actually did it; such a convenient lapse in memory can only mean that it was me) tore its wings off.

I must have been about 5 when we caught and killed the moth. My friend, holding the wingless creature, remarked that it was dead. ‘Good,’ I said. At that point my mother, who was nearby, said something that shaped my feelings about cruelty to living creatures for the rest of my life. ‘It’s not good when something dies.’ She didn’t yell, and she didn’t punish me. But I never did anything like that again. (I only wish that she had stopped us before we had killed the moth).

In raising my own son, I’ve made it a priority to teach him that it’s never OK (except in self-defense, when all else fails) to hurt or kill a living thing, whether it’s a worm, a bug, a dog or another person. I rescue injured birds, and he helps me to care for them.

He has never intentionally stepped on an anthill, or (unlike his mother at the same age) pulled the wings off a bug. He wouldn’t dream of thowing a rock at an animal, whether it’s a jellyfish or a horse. When he sees something that has been hurt, he wants to help.

What’s most remarkable, though, is that my son’s respect and concern for all living things has extended into his relations with other children. At the playground, and in school, he has a reputation for being kind and non-violent (yet never passive). I do believe that he was born with a gentle disposition, but I’m also quite certain that his being taught compassion and empathy from the beginning of his life has shaped his personality.

Yes, I am self-righteous. I’m proud of my son, and I’m horrified when I see parents stand by and watch, or even express approval, as their children stomp on, pull at, chase, and throw stones at animals. I’ve come to believe – to my great sorrow – that human beings are naturally inclined to want to inflict harm on creatures more vulnerable than themselves. But parents have a responsibility to curb and correct this instinct just as much as they do to toilet-train their children (it’s often mentioned that cruelty to animals in childhood is a predictor of violence in adulthood). Because, regardless of how you feel about jellyfish or insects or frogs, it matters. Cruelty and compassion are the same in that, if they’re nurtured, they know no bounds.

Here’s one more example: when Al-Qaeda wanted to test the efficacy of the toxic gases they planned to use on Americans, they gassed puppies. Clearly the transition from killing dogs to killing people was pretty effortless for them. Yet, depraved as the terrorists are, they are human, and at one time they were children.

Burned Turtle, and Love

6/14/2010

Yesterday I saw a headline in my “local news” section of CNN.com that said that some teens on Long Island had been charged with setting a turtle on fire (it was on Long Island, a few years ago, that some teens also found what must have been a wounded hawk, set it on fire, and dragged it around the neighborhood behind a bike).  I couldn’t read the actual report; nothing upsets me more than hearing about someone or something who is helpless (and, even worse, uncomprehending of why something so horrible would be happening) being tortured.

Continuing in the vein of “trying not to assign blame in any situation,” mentioned in the previous post, I said–yet again–”HOW am I supposed to think about something like that?  How can I not ‘ascribe blame’ in a situation in which something is tortured for no reason, out of sheer cruelty?!”

All he answered was, “Know love.”

I’ve always thought of myself as a more-or-less decent and compassionate person, but I’m coming to realize that so much more is expected of me–of all of us.  A year or two ago he said to me, “Don’t just have good intentions.”  It takes real work, and sometimes I have no idea how to do what I’m asked to do, even with the best intentions in the world.   And yet I know he’s right.  He’s proven it over and over.

Blame/The Hard Parts

6/11/2010

I’ve been so fascinated with the things that have started to happen now that I’m meditating regularly that I’ve been very remiss in working on learning to live as he’s been asking me to live pretty much from the beginning.  So much of it sounds so easy, but learning to live in the dwelling-place of love (I keep remembering the time when he told me that I “keep leaving”), and trying to pull my roots out of the useless, counterproductive aspects of this world is real, minute-by-minute work.  It’s like taking the vows of a bodhisattva every few minutes, just to remember.  And I’m lazy, and have a terrible memory, and I like my comforts as much as anyone.

But I’ve asked him to keep reminding me, even though I should at this point be able to remind myself.  As usual, he obliges me.  Sometime early this morning I heard him say, in English to make things absolutely clear, “Try not to assign blame in any situation.”

My first thought was (and still is), “How can I possibly do that, at least when it comes to the things that I hear about or see every day that seem utterly heinous and clearly evil?”  I read the news (and people’s opinions about things that happen) and at times I get so angry and frustrated that I can’t read any more (lately I’ve been asking him to help me to understand how to think about such things; I guess that I now have my answer).  And there is something satisfying–albeit ugly and dangerous–in assigning blame, in finding a scapegoat, in thinking I can decide who is “right” or “wrong”, “good” or “evil.”

But I know that he’s right, and, as usual, utterly consistent–not to mention supernaturally patient.

Subject and Source

6/6/2010

I’m hearing more and more these days, usually in the middle of the night or just as I’m waking up or falling asleep, but also during the day when I’m wide awake.  As has been the case for a long time now, most of it is in Hebrew and/or Aramaic (and very rarely Greek), but sometimes I’m given a break from the lexicons and simply told things in English.  Lately, even if I hear it through the course of an entire night, or even over a few days, everything seems to be related to a particular incident, as if I’m being taken back through history and walked through the things that happened a very long time ago.  So far we still seem to be on the “fire in Magdala” incident that I wrote about in my other blog.

 I’ve remarked that the things I hear–especially in English–sound a bit like poetry, or (as I joked), the words of someone whose “first language is not mortal”–someone used to thinking and communicating in images rather than in words.  (A few mornings ago–a morning following my talking about that before falling asleep–he said, “Made my poetry to bounce off of yours.”)

Two or three nights ago I heard this: “Subject (is the) same as the Source.”  I capitalized “Source” when I wrote it on the notepad I keep next to my bed, so it seems that I immediately understood it to mean something specific, even though I was half-asleep when I wrote it.

But something new happened the night before last–if I’m not mistaken, I believe that something was said in Latin (another language I’ve never studied, unfortunately).  I heard what sounded like (this is how I wrote it out in my half-asleep state, at any rate), “Enteba el est.”  Although I don’t know Latin, I somehow knew that “est” is some form of the Latin verb for “to be.”

So far I haven’t figure it out (it is possible that I’m wrong about the Latin, but I have a feeling that I’m not, and it would certainly make sense that I might hear something in that language in connection with the events that I’m being “walked through”).  But I think that “el est” MAY be something like, “illa est”–”that one is”?

And it looks as if there’s a word (“intabui”) that means something about wasting away or decaying, but I have no idea how it would be conjugated.  My best guess is that, if what I heard was Latin, the sentence meant something like, “(She’s) wasting away/decaying, that one.”  It sounds like kind of coarse, but perhaps it was spoken by a coarse-sounding Roman…

I’d love to find out, of course.  If anyone out there knows Latin, please help me out.

(LATER)

I was just reading about “vulgar” Latin–the Latin that may have been spoken by the less-educated people of the Roman Empire back in the day.  I THINK that “v’s” might have been pronounced as “b’s” (not unlike present-day Spanish) sometimes, so, with that in mind, I looked up words that might be spelled something like “enteva.”  I found “antevio”–”to go before.”  Of all the four million ways of conjugating verbs in Latin, it seems that there must be one that would end up being pronounced as “anteba.” 

“Illa” can also mean, “that way,” or something along those lines.  Maybe the whole thing means something like, “Go ahead; that’s the way”?

On “Death,” and Good News

5/26/2010

I think that, for the most part, I’m going to stick with recording here only things that I hear, or that I’m asked to write.  I might editorialize a bit sometimes if it seems necessary as explanation, but my own thoughts, in general, seem pretty uninspiring in comparison.

So I’ll start with something I was just told as I thought about how to proceed with this blog, and wondering if I should write about something that occurred to me yesterday as a result of all the things that have happened.  I saw what looked like, “Basos lamad” (the words are transliterated, and often when I see words rather than hearing them the last couple of letters kind of fade away before I can really see what they are–fortunately, the meaning of Hebrew words is pretty accessible if one simply has the root word to work with).

I knew already that “lamad” means “teach” (it also means “learn,” which is kind of a nice touch), but I had to look up the root “bas.”  I found the word “basar,” which means “flesh,” but also means, “to bear good news/preach/gladden with good news.”  I assume that it must be the Hebrew word for “gospel.”

In any case, the thing that I was thinking about writing about here for my first “real” post seems to me to be very good news.  I will try to say it simply and in as few words as possible:  what I’ve come to understand over the past few years is that the concept of death as being an ending, something always tragic and to be dreaded, is very much a misunderstanding.  We think of life as the “main event”–something out of which we need to squeeze all the juice we can because “life is short” and it’s “all we get.”

Life may be short, but it’s definitely not all we get, nor is it the main event.  It’s more of an intermission, a temporary sojourning-place (very often the Hebrew word “ger” is used in various contexts in what I hear; it means “sojourner” or “temporary inhabitant”–an alien visitor in a strange land).  The important “times” (time also being kind of a misleading concept) are the interstices between lives (yes–lives, plural)–the waking periods between dreams.

That is not to say that our lives can’t be beautiful and meaningful and filled with joy and bliss.  But there are ways to see the world as an extension of heaven, and finding the ways to open our eyes and hearts and do that will help prevent the other possibility that I became acutely aware of early on–getting “stuck” somewhere between earth and “heaven.” (I do not think of “Heaven” in the usual sense of a “place” into which only a chosen few who have followed a certain set of man-made and God-attributed rules are permitted.  In fact, it’s that kind of thinking that often keeps people trapped and in fear once their lives end.)

So much for keeping my own editorializing to a minimum, but what I just wrote is based on over three years of experiences.  I’m just trying to distill them down to something useful here.

Starting Fresh

5/26/2010

For those of you who have been following my old blog, “Open Your Eyes and Love Them” (which will now be private), this is a continuation, but in a somewhat different vein.

For those of you who have never visited the old blog and are interested, you may want to start with my “About Me” page so that what I write here will make somewhat more sense.

Just so you know, the word Shamayin (the title of this blog) means “Heaven” in Aramaic.  I’m calling it that because sometimes I feel that I’m getting so close…