Yet still I hope

My heart sinks every time I do this. I make the right turn, pull down the street and the house comes into view. I feel my brother stirring in the back, I wonder, if he is as anxious as I am. Does he feel like this every time he approaches the house and prepares to go through those doors. Anyway, as I slow the car and pull into the driveway there seems to be some other force pulling my heart out of my chest, like an angry gladiator thirsty for blood. My heart aches for me, for him. I try to smile, recap the day quick and slowly walk him to the door. This is what the unconscious is for I think to myself, I am glad he cant hear my thoughts. As we slowly walk up to the house I think how I just want to grab him and run, run like hell for a happier place, a place where little boys dont lose their caring mothers, a place where little boys dont have to walk into a house full of pictures of their wonderful mother who is no longer here, a world where little boys dont have to feel the immense weight of cold hard reality every day. Who do I think I am? Why do I think I can save everyone from pain? I know I can't and still I feel the urge each and every time I walk him into the house. The house full of Christmas decorations, Christmas lights, presents and a Christmas tree feels as empty as a dried up pool on a hot summer day. Is it me or does his heart sink like mine as I move in to give him a hug good bye, does he too want to run away? I look around and she is everywhere, and yet not here. The pain I feel at this moment, these few days I am home visiting when I come to the house. Is that his pain 365 days a year? The pain I sometimes feel I cant bear another second is that what he lives with? As I say my last goodbye,close the door behind me, and slowly walk to my car the feeling of apprehension and anxiety is replaced by sadness and worry as I carry the weight of these thoughts after every visit. I try to console myself with the thought that I cant change what is, that I alone cant restore innocence to a child, yet still I hope.

Life Cycle Intro

It is amazing how things suddenly enter our field of vision, often times we fail to see what is right there staring at us. It is only after much searching that the seemingly obvious becomes so. I had always thought this, or thought I knew what this concept meant until a trip yesterday I made to my mother's grave. As I was about to leave her grave, I spun around for one last look out at the trees and ocean and there it was, staring at me. After this revelation, I realized how time sometimes clouds what will become of us, but somewhere deep in the dark recesses of the moment are faint hints of the natural cycle of life. Where we begin and where we return, and who we are at these different moments in our life is constantly in flux. Over the past day though I was reminded of this eery nature of time in three different instances. To keep things shorter I have titled them Life cycle I, II and II....

Life Cycle Part I

We never know who we will be when we return to a certain spot, and sometimes when we return, without even knowing it we are exactly where we should be...

As I dropped Ali off at the ferry the months came rushing back. Here it was December and I was driving her back to the ferry again, but in just a few short months our lives had become dramatically different. In June as I was making this same trek to the ferry, I was dropping off the girl of my dreams, letting her go and fully expecting I would never see her again. As we waited in that parking lot, saying our last good byes I was flooded by sadness. I had met my match, the woman who I saw myself traveling the world with, going on adventures with and growing with. Six short months ago I was laying it on the line, telling her my dreams and asking for her to trust I knew we could make it work. As she stepped out of my car and onto the ferry I saw my dreams walking away. My stomach was uneasy and I did not know what would happen. As that ferry pulled away I had never felt so lost in my entire life, for an instant I held clarity in my hands and I watched it fade away into the horizon with each moment of the ferries movement. After the ferry pulled out of sight, I climbed in my car, let out a deep sigh and slowly drove home into the unknown.
Fast forward to yesterday. After spending Christmas with Ali, I am driving her home to the ferry. Those 6 short months ago seem unrecognizable. The words spoken, the time between and the people we are now are so very different. As I walked her on to the ferry I could not help but think back to that moment in June as I watched this very same boat pull away. Instead of anxiety and sadness I now felt happiness. The girl of my dreams was now the girl of my reality, and this same spot in which I had stood just a short time ago welcomed me with a new face. I had seen in a glimpse on that warm summer day, but it eluded me. Now though as I returned to the point of our fateful departure, I kissed her one last good bye and told her I would see her in a few days. If I could have seen into the future that day I would have never even recognized who I or we were to become. It is phenomenal to me that our bodies can be in the same place, but how time changes who we are inside when we arrive again at those same places. In a way we are always arriving and departing and while the places may seem the same, who we are is forever changing.

Life Cycle Part II

Time changes how we look at things, and sometimes we can not even see who we will become and where we will end up even though it might be right there in front of us.
Shortly after leaving the ferry I drove up to visit my mother's grave. It had been a long holiday and my visit was overdue. As I strode from the road down to her stone, I gazed into the distance. I was amazed at the beauty of the place, the ocean, and the trees swaying in the cold December air. I had made these steps many times by now, frequently coming to visit whenever I was back in New York. This time I made the same long timid strides, the ones that brought me to her resting place, the ones that reminded me that this was indeed real. Its odd as I think about those steps, its like in my head I somehow feel I might arrive at her grave and find nothing there, and frantically run to the car to go see her realizing it had all been a bad dream. Never was this the case though, instead as I took my last few steps the stone came into view, and it sunk in that this was very very real. There would be no epiphany, no waking up, this was it and I needed to breathe and deal with that fact. Slowly as always I crouched down to the dirt, silently telling her hello, wondering if maybe she was watching me at this moment, perched high above her grave maybe she could see me weep, my head bowed and think how I had changed since my last visit. After some time of silence I got up as I always do, peering out with my back to her grave to look out into the distance. Despite the fact that I had been here many times, I never saw what I saw at that moment. Gazing out directly from her grave was a clear view of St.Charles hospital, the very hospital I was born in some 28 years ago.
As I gazed out on to the hospital, and looked at the tiny windows I thought how odd this whole scene was. Here I was standing at my mother's grave, looking right at the very hospital in which she gave me life. Here in this moment stood poised the natural cycle of life, birth and death. This epiphany forced me to wonder what my mom was like nearly 28 years ago. I pictured her young and beautiful, about to give birth for the first time. I saw a 22 year old girl sitting in that hospital bed, just a few miles, and an eyes gaze away from her final resting spot. Of course she did not know this, we never the where and when, but to think that on that day as she gave birth, or as she held me in her arms, buoyant with the possibilities of the future I wonder if for one moment her eyes fell upon this spot that is now her grave as she looked out the window. In that moment of pure life, where the future seems so huge and impregnated with possibility and teeming with life, did her heart stop for a brief second as her eyes saw that spot, did something deep inside her know? And now? Does her soul pass over this spot, does she look down upon me here weeping at her grave and turn her eyes just slightly upward and see back into where she gave me life? Does she gaze back longingly at that hospital, at those moments of bliss and pure possibility and weep? Or does she look back at that hospital, gazing from her grave and smile at the amazing cycle that life is? I would like to believe she looks back with a smile. I know I do when I think that each moment we encounter is both tinged with the great hope of possibility life while also harboring the fact that at some point we will all meet our end. This is both the beauty and the tragedy that is life. So when I reflect upon this great cycle before me, it forces me to remember to savor those moments, every moment as hard as that it is. As my eyes gaze out into the possibilities before me, as I smile at the moments that bring me elation, I remember to be thankful for this very moment, for who knows when it may end.

Just thinking...

I cant believe that in nearly a month it has been 3 years. I have Mom's picture up in our house and her huge smile shines over the living room which I love. Every morning I wake up walk out into the living room, open the shades to let in the sun, hear the sounds of the ocean and see her smile. I wish she could "be" here, I know she would love it, but I also feel she knows and is here in her own way. Waking to that smile, I try to start my day thankful I am here, and thankful for my family and try to let everything else fall as it may. I am still amazed though that it has been 3 years, it seems like yesterday I was stepping off a plane into the cold NY December to bury her. It also seems like ages since I have heard her laugh and felt the warmness of her hug, and I think that is the hardest. She had this way about her, this lightness and belief in the good of people despite all she went through. I have never met anyone who could love so much, and who always had this lightheratedness about her. I miss her like crazy and after three years I realize that will never go away, but I need to turn that sadness into something productive, so I try to remember all the good I have in my life, and I have a lot of it.

Tasting the heady wine of freedom...

Not mine but I read this and found it worthwhile to think over:

"We move through the world in a narrow grove preoccupied with the petty things we see and hear, brooding over our prejudices, passing by the joys of life without even knowing we have missed anything. Never for a moment do we taste the heady wine of freedom. We are as fully imprisoned as if we lay at the bottom of a dungeon, heaped with chains." Yang Chu

So with that...how are we going to find that freedom? I think the answer is simple, it is right there in front of us. It does not lie in more clothes, more purchases, more money, a better car. This freedom he speaks of is so elusive because it is always right there, all we have to do is slow down, stop thinking and enjoy. The simplest of tasks are often the hardest though and pulling ourselves away from our "responsibilities" (checking email, watching the latest TV show) becomes increasingly difficult. I am guilty of this too, but my goal is to stop and enjoy more, pull myself away from those "pressing problems" and see how pressing they seem after a long walk on the ocean or a run through the woods. If they still need to get done, they will, but in the meantime don't sacrifice your freedom and vitality for the sake of those small things that add up and eat away at your day. Seize that freedom now. Taste the sweet elixir of life and don't wait until you have time, or put it off till another day....make someday today!

A way to start the day...

At work this week one day of school began with a really cool meditation that I think is a great way to start any day, as a way to be thankful and also ground yourself when life is tugging you in every direction. To "meditate" you just take some time to think about these 4 things...
1) Your Wow- What is something you saw this morning or see in general that makes you say wow (This could be something like an amazing blue sky on the way to work, a simple reflection of light you find stunning anything that makes you say wow).
2) Your Sorry- Think of something you are sorry about and whisper this intention or this apology to send it where it needs to go.
3)Your Thankful- Think of something in your life that is great and that you are thankful for. This could be a person, a job, your health whatever...
4)Your change- Think of something you would like to improve or change about yourself. This could be how you react to situations, reducing your anxiety, trying to say thank you more...whatever you think would be a positive improvement.

It's all in the hands

Overheard at this mornings early morning surf...."It's all in the hands, one where you have been the other pointed where you are going..." If you drop one hand and forget where you have been you lose balance, but if you drop your lead hand, you lose the hand that points where you are going. In surfing, and in life, this balance is critical. The past must not weigh us down, but serve instead as a reminder of where we have come from. The future is there too, ripe for the taking, and with some direction we will hopefully end up there eventually. In the middle though is the part that truly matters, that moment where you glide down the face of the wave, one hand back to where you were the other pointed to where you are going, but the body transfixed in that moment. The key it seems then is embracing that ever changing moment, aware of past and future but truly in the present. This is nothing new, and a central tenant of most Buddhist philosophy, but being present is one of the hardest tasks there is, and if I can exist there, if only for a moment, I feel better for it.

Why do we cloak our pain in silence?

Why do we feel we can manufacture happiness with silence?
Why do we let the pain go unsaid?

Silence does not take away the pain.
Silence does not change the reality.
Silence does more violence than good.

What happens to pain unspoken?
Where do those feelings go, left deep inside?

I can tell you, not speaking does not create the happiness we seek.
Our hearts know the pain of loss.
Our souls whisper out, looking for a listening ear.
We are all confused.
We are all in pain.
We all know all too well the pain of loss.

The loss is still there, spoken or not.
The pain is there, expressed or not.
The confusion is still there, shared or not.

So why do we choose to honor her in silence?
Why do we grieve to ourselves?
Why do we take this loss upon ourselves
And feel it is ours alone to bear?

Speak I say. Speak to me. Speak to him. Speak to her. Speak to each other.
We are all lost and all in pain without her presence.

Not speaking does not make this birthday go away
Another year without her.
Deeds left undone, words left unsaid, love left unexpressed.

So if she can no longer speak, console, and make us laugh
Than the need is even greater for us to speak.
To utter our pain.
To communicate our confusion.
To express our love.

She would want it to be like this.
In our moments of happiness she would want us to share happy memories.
In the depths of sadness she would urge us to look to each other for consolation.

Most of all she would want it all.
Every emotion. Every smile. Every tear. Every scream of anger at the pain of it all.
She would want it all expressed. Shared. Spoken.
We no longer have her, but we still have each other.
She may be gone, but in our thoughts, and in our words she lives on.
So why not speak of her.
In happiness. In sadness. In confusion. In memory.

Do not take this pain upon yourself.
We all grieve. We all smile. We all wonder.
Lets turn these whispers of our hearts
Into the emotions spoken form our lips.
Let us not bear this weight alone any longer.
Without her, WE are all we have left.

One last goodbye

Bear with this piece, its long and a work in progress, it might actually end up being a few separate works or chapters....here is a preview

“All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop.”

It begins like this. A long drive to the east end of long island. My grandparents in the front, I alone in the back. Alone? I guess not technically alone. Beside me lie the remains of my mother. Nearly 3 years have passed…3 years. Beside me a small black box. I try not to think or look, this is all a bit too much. I stare at the vineyards, farm stands, any beauty amidst the chaos of my mind right now. I never thought it would be this hard. I thought I was done grieving. It started as a simple request. My grandmother had decided that she finally wanted to put her daughter to rest, the remains had stayed too long in her closet, it was time. When my grandmother asked me to accompany her to the beach I agreed. I knew it would be hard for her, and foolishly thought that it would be a simple task for me.

Tasks like this can never be simple.

I realize this when we finally arrive at the beach. I take my grandmother by the hand, easing her step from the car, her dark sunglasses fail to hide the pain. “This is the right thing to do she says,” a sense of questioning in her voice. I tell her yes, this is what needs to be done. Strong. Resolute. Calm. I am all of these things until I glance to my left. Out of the corner of my eye I see my grandfather, he reaches into the black plastic box and pulls out a plastic bag. This is when I it all sets in.

Nothing prepares you for the day you see the remains of your parent in a small plastic bag.

Humbling. Philosophical. Sobering. I am not sure what you would call it. But when you physically see that in the end. After all the smiles. All the tears. All the laughter. All the joy. All the worry. All the pain. After all this, all that remains is ash. I thought I knew this, but at that moment I realized I had no idea. To really know such as thing you need to see it, and then maybe you can know. I still don’t know if I know.

Slowly we walk to the beach. My grandmother, a light fit woman, now seems to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders. My grandfather stands resolutely by her side, gently helping her make her way to the shore. She tries to smile. None of us are sure how to do this. Where to go? What to feel?

Finally we arrive at the shore. The three of us stand by the shore searching for answers. The small bag tucked under my grandfather’s arm.

“You should do it Bill”, he says.

“I know but I can’t,” I respond.

****

This is all too much for me. I know what I have to do. I know what I should do. Despite this, every muscle in my body resists taking that small bag from my grandfather. Call it denial. Call it repression. Call it fear. Maybe it was all of these things. As I hold back the tears I reach out my hand and slowly grab the bag. I look out at the sea and know what I must do. Slowly I ease my way into the ocean. The cool water splashes my legs. When the water reaches my knees I stop, look back at my grandparents and take deep breath. I take the bag, and in what feels like slow motion begin to turn it upside down. As light as snowflakes the ashes begin to fall creating a pool of deep gray around my legs. I look down, part in awe, part in amazement. The ashes don’t simply dissolve and disappear into the ocean. Instead the remains form a swirling dark gray tone around my legs. They linger. She lingers…as if trying to say goodbye. I breathe. A sense of peace washes over me. I alternate between staring out into horizon and looking down at the water as the small waves make their way toward shore, just as the waves since crashed make their way back out to sea.

In the midst of this perpetual motion, one wave beginning, another ending I begin to think. Where does one wave begin and one wave end? To the eye and with our language we clearly distinguish what we call A wave, a singular entity which rises, falls and crashes into the shore, never to exist again. But what of this wave, where does this “thing” go once it is wave no more. Is it not made up of waves that have crashed before it, and will it not become part of the waves that will come after it. In fact as you slowly break it down, the wave becomes just water, there is no beginning, no end, but for that brief moment that we discern what we call “a wave.” The water then that composes that wave then is both always arriving and always departing from shore. Each wave, each moment we suddenly distinguish, is composed simply of water, a bit of the previous wave a bit of the later, water from far off lands, water from close to home, no beginning, no end, just simply water in its essence. The wave then is a construct of the human mind, of our language and of our visual capability. Baffled by the endlessness of water, the way it is composed of pieces from all over, with no clear beginning or end, no neat lines drawn around it, our mind searches for something concrete, something we can clearly delineate and name. Out of this mass of endlessness and uncertainty, from the chaotic and infinite we describe the finite as a wave, a mass of water which makes it way to the shore, crashes and is no more. But it is simply because we have chosen to name this particular moment, instant and entity that the wave is no more. At the molecular level, at its very essence a wave is simply water, it has no beginning, no end, it is not its own unique entity, it is composed of the water before it, the water behind, the endless ocean from which it came.

All of this leads me to think, maybe life is very much the same way. From the infinite and chaotic we emerge, brought into life, the instant we are born. Much like the wave it is hard to discern from where we came, of what molecules, what journey are bodies have taken before this “birth into life.” It also seems at the moment of birth, like the wave, that we are headed to shore, on our own journey, and once we reach shore, our being will exist no more, “life” will come to an end. Much like the fallacy of the wave, it seems life then may simply be a result of our own inability to comprehend the infinite, and the chaotic, our instinctual need to carve out something discrete from a big swirling mass of uncertainty, pulling some small bit of understanding from the incomprehensible. We clearly delineate and mark off what we call “a life,” instilling the infinite with a clearly marked beginning and end. But is there a way to think beyond this invention of the mind, of language, of our own inability to fathom the endless? How might we think of life more like a drop of water in the ocean than a singular wave? Life viewed this way becomes less a distinct singular entity with a clearly defined boundaries and more like the flowing mass it is, drawing simultaneously on the many lives before it, the life it currently envelops and the lives to come. So as the drop merges into the ocean, the ocean also merges into the drop…or as a single life becomes part of the infinite, the infinite is also part of the single life, always there, amassed from memories of the past, sustained by hopes from the future.

****

These thoughts they race through my head, rushing faster than I can comprehend as I stare down at the remains of my mother, melding into the ocean, the ocean melding into her. And just as the ocean slowly absorbs the ashes, swallows it back into that infinite space that no longer has beginnings, or endings, but just simply being. So too my sadness is slowly dissipates, seemingly melding into the ocean along with the ash. As the pool of grey surrounding my legs slowly begins to fade, I feel her, sense her, there is an overwhelming sense of happiness. “Home at last she seems to whisper,” as the last visual remains of her presence swirl into the ocean, becoming one with the water. I wonder to my self, if it is her happiness or mine that I sense. It seems with this act she has been returned to where she belongs, among the infinite, that endless mass of forever that has escaped that realm of human thought that grasps for clear linear being. She was always a part of this vast ocean, long before she arrived, all the while she was here, and forever she will remain. For a brief moment she stood on these shores, I know this because I was there. She loved the ocean, its as if she glanced out at its vastness its beauty and understood the chaos, the complexity that is life. I also envision her returning now with smile on her face. Laughing at me as I clumsily pour her ashes into the water, laughing at my fear of the plastic bag, of all this. Laughing because she knows that life is more then the instant we mark off, that she was long part of the vastness and that cremation, remains, ashes, they are all just symbols we hold on to in our search for clarity in the murky depths of this ocean of life. I sense her laughter and smile too, for I slowly begin to sense it as well. As the ocean has no boundaries, no clear place, she will be everywhere forever with me. We know not where the ocean comes from, nor where it is going. Perhaps her remains are right there as I stare out into the pacific from my house, perhaps she will be there as I dive into the ocean in some far off land, perhaps a bit of her will remain, right there on the shores of Long Island, greeting me whenever I return home to this spot. Knowing her, and knowing the ocean she will be in all of these places. Her soul finally free to roam, to explore and to travel as it pleases. No longer constrained by the confines of life, of these human imposed limits, she can now be the free spirit she always was, and forever will be.

****

As for me, well for now I must step back into the confines of life, of this clearly marked entity we have created. I will go on, as a wave, but deep down will know that I was here long before I arrived, and I will be here long after I depart. And then it occurs to me, that maybe this analogy is not so crazy. I, my physical being, is the result of reproduction. Back further then we can ever trace we began, our cells, our being, is the culmination of all these past lives lived, their regrets, their hopes, their fears, their lives. Each of us carry this long lineage in our cells, our essence is derived from them. My mom, dad and many others literally live on inside of me, without them I would have no being. I too will pass on this life (perhaps) and in that life, will be the lives of those before me, and the lives of those to come. So maybe this ocean thing is not so crazy after all, just like the wave, once you break life down into its individual molecules its hard to discern the clear beginning, middle and end we so strive to see.

With this thought, I slowly turn my back to the horizon and head towards shore. As I look up I see my grandmother’s head resting on my grandfather’s shoulder. Both of their faces carry an odd mixture of sadness and joy, beaming smiles bursting through the damp wetness of tears. They look at me and open their arms in embrace as I emerge from the ocean. I hug them, smile, and we take one last look at the vast expanse of water before us. I smile, and for the first time assuredly tell my grandmother we did the right thing. She is free, I say, free to roam as she always dreamed. And we, we too should be free I say. Free to know that wherever we look, wherever we go, she is there, smiling, peaceful and patiently waiting for us to join her in the infinite. But until then she seems to whisper, enjoy the ride, enjoy your wave, but don’t fear the shore, for you will only be returning to what you always were, what you will always be, a piece of the vastness.

Random thoughts

I saw this quote and liked it a lot:

"Better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else's life with perfection."

And also yesterday at yoga (what? yoga? I know somehow I am hooked):

"Have no fear, no envy, no meanness."

No easy task but something to strive for...

Really? Forever?

I just found this post in my drafts folder, it looks like I was writing it in May after talking with my sister about the "foreverness" of loss. It is published in May but I figured I would republish it here so it can be fresh....

Really? Forever?
Her normally strong voice suddenly quivers
The small tears welling up in the corner of her eyes
Give away the pain she so deeply hides
I have no explanation
All I can say is
I too have those moments
They suddenly emerge
Puncturing my normalcy, reminding me that
A wound so deep may heal, but you will forever bare the scar
And like new skin, this new sense of self is different
Despite the years that may go by, this piece will forever be different
Sometime it catches you off guard, lifting your shirt off to go for a swim
A friend may startle you, where did you get that scar.
Its like that. Sudden. Abrupt. Right when you least expect it.
Its then you realize. This healing you thought was over. Its not.
Healing. For some reason we assume healing is a return to normal.
But just as that piece of skin will forever stand out, will never fully integrate itself with the whole.
So too. This wound, will carry with it the story of pain.
The scar then is not the bodies way of healing. It is the bodies way of telling a story.
If it wanted to heal, it would never be visible.
But no. The scar. It tells a story.
And we each have a story, our wounds, though deep and hidden.
They serve to remind us of the pain. Our vulnerability.
And thats all I can say.
It does not make sense. It does not help the pain.
This wound will forever be there. It will remind me at moments I least expect.
That there are things beyond my explanation. That I have been to the depths of sadness.
But I have emerged. I will not be the same. I will not understand forever.
And somehow with all of that I will just have to be. Be me. Be scared. Be hopeful. Be confused.

Tedium and Making Choices

Today I was inspired by a piece I read on Paulo Coelho's website. The piece was a long exchange between Paulo and a spiritual teacher but the gist of the exchange involved questioning why people love the safety of routine and how routine can lull us into tedium, the place where movement ceases and we are caught in the safe haven of routine. Paulo asks if a person can remain in this state his/her whole life," to which the spiritual teacher responds:

"Yes, a person can stand for the rest of his days facing one of the many doors he should go through, but he must understand that he has only truly lived up to that point. He may continue to breathe, walk, sleep and eat - but with less and less pleasure, because he is already spiritually dead and does not know it. Until one day when, as well as his spiritual death, physical death appears; at that moment God will ask: "what did you do with your life?" We must all answer this question, and woe betide those who answer: "I remained standing at the door."

This passage made me think, especially at this point in my life, because I feel I have been at this door for too long, waiting, changing, deciding...lost in the comfort of school. School has become my zone of tedium, my safe haven of routine. Here there is no applying for jobs, finding health care, really much worry beyond simply waking up going to class or going to my office and reading. A nice life, I admit, a very very nice life. At the same time I feel though, just as the teacher speaks in this passage, that I experience less and less pleasure every day as a result of this. The time for change is upon me, no longer do I want to stand at this door. Stepping out of routine I feel refreshed, anxious and scared. There are many more questions I will have to face, there will be struggle and life won't be as easy as retreating to the books in my office. But with this move I feel like I will finally be LIVING. I feel that after 3 years I am emerging, my path is clear and I have a solid anchor to face this change with. My dreams, my hopes and my ambitions have finally began to coalesce into a plan. I feel alive again, and not just living, but really truly ALIVE! With my anchor by my side, and the cold waters of the pacific lapping at my feet, I am ready to embark to unchartered waters, to get back to exploring the places I have always dreamed of and living the life I have been hiding from. It won't be easy but with the crash of every wave, and one look at that smile I know it will be ok. The ocean whispers, welcome home, you have been on the shore for far too long, come swim my cold waters, take the risk of swimming out, cool dark water over your head, you never know, don't fear drowning, simply keep your head up, eyes on the horizon and lands of adventure you never knew existed will greet you soon.

Pictures

New pictures are up check them out at www.williamjcotter.shutterfly.com

The Memory Box

Being home. What is odd about being home is that though you are living in the present the past seems to be right along side you, more present and more tangible than it is when you are off in your world, the world you have created. It makes me wonder, do we run from home because it stifles us? Unable to really shake the past, how can we ever create the present? Or do we leave out roots because sometimes the weight of the past is too heavy to live in the present? All of these thoughts came rushing at me today when I picked up my little brother from his house, the house where my mom used to live before she passed away. Every time I come home to visit and go over there, my skin tingles, my eyes water and my body floods with emotion. As I walk through that door, I see the kitchen she used to cook in, the coffee maker she would stand smiling at as we chatted from the table as she made coffee for my visit. The pictures are still on the walls, her smile, her presence everywhere. Its eery because everything is the same, and my brain for one split second expects her to emerge, harried from the other room, telling me to sit, make myself at home, she will be in in a minute. But it doesn't happen, instead as I wait for my brother I stare into the kitchen, into the clean sanitary emptiness that now exists, and try to imagine her, her smile, cooking food, hosting, doing 8 million things at once, her energy, her love. And I wonder...does my brother feel this every morning when he awakes up, that brief feeling of hope that as he emerges from his bed, he will wake to my mom preparing breakfast, smiling, good morning hugs? It haunts me just to imagine this. Today's trip was even harder as Mike found a box of memories my mom had stored, old cards, letters we had written her. Tangible traces of the past, staring at me in the present. As I opened the cards and read the letters I was struck with pain, grief, happiness and confusion all at once. As I read each word I envisioned my mom placing them in her box of memories, treasuring the loving words of her children. The past was here with me, I was holding it. Old thoughts, old emotions, read by my mom, held by my mom, stored by my mom. I slowly read the old letters and cards and was doing alright, sad but alright until I got to that one....as I unfolded it I saw it was a Christmas card from my sister to my mom, each and every line was sweeter than the next. But then it hit me and it hit hard, at the end of the letter my sister has written a quote, a quote a stumbled over, barely able to see through the tears when I finished. Reading the quote left me light headed and weak...it read "Without you, there'd be no sun in my sky, there would be no love in my life, there'd be no world left of me...I love you! Merry Christmas!" "There'd be no world left of me" That line I couldn't let it go, it ran through me head over and over and over again. Those words, they ran through my mind and I suddenly understood my sisters pain on a whole new level. Those words so beautifully describe her relationship with my mom, and I wanted nothing more than to hug my sister at that very moment and let her know I could feel her pain and sense her loss. I also wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, the person she had become, the amazing, hard working, smart, funny, kind, intelligent woman she is, despite losing a large part of her world. Those words will have to wait for it is too late to call now. For the rest of us I just have to say...life is short, tell the people in your life how you feel. Write a letter. Send a card. Make it into their memory box, so one day you too can hold the past and know the people you loved knew how you felt and treasured the words you wrote. Maybe the past is not so scary after all, it reminds us that there is nothing more precious than the present. Maybe the weight of the past can propel us to action, maybe it can inspire us to open up, seize these precious seconds and live......

This moment

Do you ever look around and think I want nothing more than this moment? Often I am so caught in the past or planning for the future that I don't stop to live, breathe, and savor. Tonight was one of a few times recently that I wanted nothing more than to be right where I was doing exactly what I was doing, and it was odd to feel that sense that there was no time better than this very moment. My dad whipped up an amazing meal, and as I sat around the table eating dinner with the family and our special guest I thought to myself, this is so amazing, I want nothing more than to live every last bit of these fleeting minutes, watching as they passed on the clock ahead. As I looked around that room I thought, this is it, this is LIVING, when you want nothing else but this very moment. I have my trials, I have my worries, and I have bad days and good but today was one of those days where everything was so clear... and I thought to myself, I am so lucky to have the life I have and to be surrounded with the people I have in my life. There is no better feeling than being content, and it is a feeling I often don't let myself feel, but when I let it in, when I realize all of the great things in my life it feels good, it feels beyond good, it makes me feel alive.

Inspiration

What happens? In between moments of pure exhilaration where the ideas flow faster than I can type and I worry about all of the ideas I am losing as I furiously try to jot them down, to those moments where every last bit of creative inspiration seems to have been mysteriously sucked from my veins. Today is one of those days. In fact it seems it has been a string of those days. My motivation to read. to write. to be inspired. all seem to have gone missing. I would be very worried except this has happened before, but it forces me to wonder where do those thoughts go? Should we seek inspiration within ourselves, searching deep for emotions gone missing? Should we seek inspiration from others, hoping their insights will remind us what lies hidden in ourselves? Should we seek yet another outlet? At times it seems writing makes so much sense to me. I sit down, I create, I feel and at the end of it all I have turned my own life questions and emotions into some sort of piece that others can read. This process, the act of putting my thoughts out there into the world has some sort of therapeutic quality. Putting the words out there finalizes them, secures a place for emotions, where one day I make look back and reunite with past questions/thoughts/feelings. At other times though, writing leaves me frustrated, uninspired and makes me feel worse than when I began. On those days I run. I find running therapeutic because it is one of the most absurd things ever, but also one of the most meaningful. To spend an hour off running, and arrive right back where you started. To run down the same roads you drive or bike but see them in a different light. Running reconnects me to the present, to my breath, to every step....and for me, a person who often spends far too much time in the past or the future those moments of "present" are the very moments I need more of.

Really? Forever?

Really? Forever?
Her normally strong voice suddenly quivers
The small tears welling up in the corner of her guys
Give away the pain she so deeply hides
I have no explanation
All I can say is
I too have those moments
They suddenly emerge
Puncturing my normalcy, reminding me that
A wound so deep may heal, but you will forever bare the scar
And like new skin, this new sense of self is different
Despite the years that may go by, this piece will forever be different
Sometime it catches you off guard, lifting your shirt off to go for a swim
A friend may startle you, where did you get that scar.
Its like that. Sudden. Abrupt. Right when you least expect it.
Its then you realize. This healing you thought was over. Its not.
Healing. For some reason we assume healing is a return to normal.
But just as that piece of skin will forever stand out, will never fully integrate itself with the whole.
So too. This wound, will carry with it the story of pain.
The scar then is not the bodies way of healing. It is the bodies way of telling a story.
If it wanted to heal, it would never be visible.
But no. The scar. It tells a story.
And we each have a story, our wounds, though deep and hidden.
They serve to remind us of the pain. Our vulnerability.
And thats all I can say.
It does not make sense. It does not help the pain.
This wound will forever be there. It will remind me at moments I least expect.
That there are things beyond my explanation. That I have been to the depths of sadness.
But I have emerged. I will not be the same. I will not understand forever.
And somehow with all of that I will just have to be. Be me. Be scared. Be hopeful. Be confused.

random thoughts

a quote i found recently that i thought made a good point:

"The simple possibility of achieving that which we desire causes the soul of the common man to be filled with guilt. He looks around, and sees many others who have not succeeded, and so he thinks he does not deserve it. He forgets everything he overcame, all he suffered, everything he had to renounce in order to come this far."

Also I was struck by a passage in Deleuze about the refrain in music...as he points out the refrain is just that a repetition of that which we already heard, but each time we get to the refrain we hear it differently (as we are a result of what came before it) and also are about to embark on a new journey for the next piece after the refrain will be new. Viewed in this way the refrain is kind of like life. Each day is resembles repetition (some days more than others) you know the usual wake up, eat, shower, work, lunch, procrastinate, break, eat, run, study whatever. The point is though that we have two choices: first, we can let the refrain be mere repetition, not alerting ourselves to how we have changed and the possibility for changes that emerges with each day. second, we can look at the refrain, the repetition, as a small bit of the puzzle, serving as that piece which we are both familiar with, but which we approach each and every time with new experience. In a good piece of music the refrain is central and a good artist turns mere repetition into a musical experience. And that I guess is the aim of life, to view the refrain as music not mere repetition. Did that make any sense....or am I asleep at the keys?

another memory

bear with this post it is kind of a flow of thoughts that I had hoped to turn into a story, for now Ill just post here in its very rough form....

The airplane ride from California to New York was like no other. In some way he stood in this hybrid space. Suspended over the interior of the US, no longer in California, not yet in New York there was still the potential that this was a false alarm, there was no room for reality at 30,000 feet. Instead he sat and wondered. Do any of these people know. Does anyone on this plane have a clue? To them I look like just some guy going back to New York. Little do they know that I have just suffered an immeasurable loss, my life though normal at this suspended moment would forever be different once I stepped off that plane. No one prepares you for the day when you have to bury a parent. No one prepares you for how it feels to be flying home, and yet knowing home will never be the same. There are no words to measure the time it takes to go somewhere when you are already there and never will be there at the same time. And this is how he felt. He knew what awaited him upon disembarking from the plane, but here amidst the clouds one was left to wonder if maybe upon landing things had changed, there had been a mix up, something anything. There was not a rational thought running through his head, and he knew this, but hope overrides rationality any day. In stead he dosed off, stared, contemplated, did anything he could to in order to fill this 6 hour trip with something.

Stepping off the plane the cold New York air hit him hard. It took his breath away and it somehow felt that the cold air was a warning. Go back it said, get back on the plane and pretend this never happened, there is nothing here to see. Pressing on he walked the cold corridor from the plane to the baggage claim, anxious, nervous, unready. Those last few steps, he saw the revolving doors and he saw the face of man unready to give the sort of explanations and condolences he had to. He saw the face of a man that also seemed to wish he would go back so that he would not have to see his sons heart break. He saw the face of a man who knew that he could no longer protect his son, that he would have to see his son hurt, he would have to let this pain take him and have him. He had never seen his fathers face like that before. The normal airport smile, the normal bright eyes. But no, those eyes were filled with the smooth film of pre tears, the head sunk as if trying to shoulder the pain for both of them. And then slowly as he emerged from the doors, the embrace. They both sort of fell into each other, lost for words, they did what came natural and hugged. In that hug each knew there was a pain beyond words, the cold embrace said more then they could ever say. His fathers embrace tried to apologize, it tried to make him understand, it tried one last time to protect and foster. The awkward small chat quickly passed as they stood watching each and every bag go by. Another cold walk to the car and then it was something he would never forget. For lack of words, for lack of knowing what else to do his father handed him the paper.

“Its right there he said” pointing to the small article at the bottom of the page of the Newsday that gave a brief and very sterile definition of the disaster. And at that moment it hit him. Just as the black type from the newspaper stained his hands, the cold reality of it all stuck to him as well. There was no more in between, no more wondering, there it was in cold black print. The beautiful life of a mother summed up in those few words.. “head on” “collision” “9:10” “December 9th” “fatal”. With those words he lost all hope, and it became clear that he was indeed going to have to face this. There was no mistake. This was no dream. This was cold hard reality. Welcome to the real world it whispered. He was lost. He was confused. He turned on the radio and looked at the morning sky. You have been gone 1 day already he thought into the air. And already it feels like too long.

running from who i am...becoming who i want to be

"Becoming isn't part of history; history amounts only to the set of preconditions, however recent, that one leaves behind in order to become, that is to create something new." -Deleuze

How do we remember? How do we forget? Where exactly is remembering located? How does our body remember?

So I am not literally running from myself if you will. The title of the post comes from a thought I had last night on a run. I have not run much in the past few years, instead relying on the cliche line I was a runner to justify who I used to be and who I could become should I want to. But after weeks of feeling that cool dark cloud of anxiety, sadness and pessimism descending upon me I found it time I better start running from who I am at this moment, to become who I want to be...running as my means of turning negative thoughts and emotion into positive energy with a little help from those exercise induced endorphins.

Running. My escape. My chemical of choice. After more time off then I care to admit, i laced up the shoes, threw on the IPOD and went for a run in the cool spring heat of davis. The instant I stepped out the door, memories of who I was quickly surged through my body. My muscles knew exactly what to do, my heart followed and my body was overwhelmed with the sense of confusion, it remembered in a way the runner I was while simultaneously giving into the runner I currently am, not quite as fast, or able to run quite as far. BUT that feeling was still there, in every step, cool sweat poring down in the evening heat, music blaring I felt alive, I felt happy and I felt content. The memory of runs long gone passed through me, the experiences, the highs the lows, it was all there memories unleashed with every foot strike. Blazing through streets (blazing being a relative term), I suddenly felt more of who I want to be and less of who I am. With every step my mind dropped the annoying academic debates running through my head, it dropped the anxiety, it dropped the doubt, it just was at that moment free to roam, to be to become. Mere chemicals, molecules flooding the brain as a result of the run changed my outlook, and gave me new perspective. Running reminded me that I am simultaneously not my past, and a product of my past all at the same time. It also reminded me that with every journey we start anew. I am not the runner I was, I may never be, but once I drop that sense of history I can become something new, a new me, a new runner, a new thought. So what is becoming? Its letting go of who you were, who you feel you have to be, and realizing that to create something new you need simply to act in the present.

The Mo(u)rning of (A work in progress)

**Note: I lost my mom in a car accident on December 9th 2005. Sometimes when I think back to that morning I envision how all of the different people in my family went about their mornings that day, before the first phone call informing us that she has been lost. I know what my morning consisted of, and there is a little of that here, but what I find intriguing is wondering how that morning played out for different people. Below is one of these stories, focused on my little brother Matthew, who is now 9 and what his last morning with Mom was like. I warn you it may be sad to read, but in writing I find a weird sense of solace, so here it goes…**

The Mo(u)rning of

I wasn’t there. I had never been there. This exists only in my mind. A recreation of something I had never seen. And yet in my imagination I conjure up more sadness then I ever thought possible. I see innocence as I have never seen before. With that I will begin.

I picture it vividly. The cold December air, the darkness that hangs over the early morning, as if night is refusing to give up, that latent darkness that hangs on ever longer in those cold New York winters. I see his face waking up to her cool coaxing.

“Its time to wake up Matthew she says”

Little does she know he is already awake. I know he was already awake because in our conversations he told me how he thought it was funny that mom always used to wake him up because he actually woke up to the sound of her alarm. Maybe she knew too, but still needed the ritual of giving him a smile, a kiss and a nudge to wake up in the morning. Maybe he knew he could wake up, but laid in bed that cold December morning, like other mornings anticipating her bright smile, anticipating the good morning nudge. Anticipating her soothing voice that gave no indication of the rush she was in, to prepare breakfast, get dressed, pack his bags, get him on the bus and rush to work (hopefully) in time. None of that was apparent in her voice. Instead it was a calm affirmation of morning as if they had all day to get ready. That gentleness awoke him.

The time between. How do we look back? I don’t know how he looks back on those moments prior to the bus. The problem is we don’t realize whats coming. We are not prepared. I picture then not a little boy who paid close attention to every moment, knowing that these would be the last with his mother. No, instead I picture a little boy happily eating breakfast. No conception of death. No conception of ends. No conception of the pain of abandonment. A boy filled with the hopes of a 7 year old. A boy eating cereal with the unconscious assumption that his mother would be there in that very kitchen, watching him eat breakfast before his last day of high school. No sense of temporality. No sense of time. There was no rush to cram anything into these moments. Moments thought to be trivial and everyday that would turn out to be “last” moments. Those moments we don’t anticipate being the last, but are.


What I see next. Gathered from pieces of conversation with my grandmother and Matt scare me, haunt me and sadden me even though they only exist in my imagination. I see them walking out the door, Mom in her work clothes, Matt wearing his not so warm Yankees jacket, insisting “its not that cold mom.” She acknowledges him only with a smile that says, I love you even when you’re stubborn. As they wait for the bus they chatter, Matt with his friends, Mom with the neighbors. In every ones actions, words thoughts today is a day just like any other. How do we look back on those moments? How do we reflect? If only they had all known what was to come, would things have been different? Would they have savored the morning conversation? Savored last good byes?

All I see at that bus stop now is a little boy who has no idea the world that awaits him. I picture his smile, carefree and innocent. His funny laugh, his smirk, the ease with which he interacts with people. If only I could save him from this moment. As I play it back in my head I see it all happening but with that horrible feeling that I know the outcome. In my head I want to go back and tell him, hold on to that hug Matthew, get every ounce of goodbye from her for this is it, after this moment your life will never be the same. But it is like one of those horrible dreams where you try to speak but somehow you have lost all ability to make sound. So it goes, I play it over and over in my head. I envision the bus pulling up, the good bye hug she gives him.

From my conversations with Matt I do know what happened next. As he got on the bus she gave him a kiss goodbye, and told him they would go bowling that night. I can picture it now, the smile on his face at the prospect of a fun Friday night bowling with his mom, and the smile on her face, the joy she felt when ever he felt so happy. And that was it. Those last few seconds of normality for everyone. Its hard to picture this all because it seems like a dream, as I re create the scene over and over in my head I want to make it stop, change the outcome, or do something but instead it plays on.

In my head I see the bus pull away. Mom, taking a long deep gasp of the cold December air rushes to her car in order to make it to work on time. No time to wait, no time to ponder, just as quick as the bus moves out of view she is into the care and off to work. It is at this very moment that I want the world to halt. I want that little boy filled with the anticipation of Friday night bowling to return home to the warm arms of his mom. I want my mom filled with anxiety to simply be able to make it to work on time, and return home to do what she does best, deliver happiness to the lives of others. But just like a bad dream, I have no control over this scene. The bus pulls away, Matt gives one last wave and smile, Mom beams back blows him a kiss and that is it. At that very moment little did anyone know what was to come.

In a rush Mom hastily pulls out of the driveway, and on this cold December morning heads off to work. When I think this scene over I wonder what was she thinking? In those three short miles from the house to the scene of the accident what was going through her head. In my head I see the car moving, but I also see the last seconds of her life ticking away. I guess this is the problem with memory. Mom had no idea what awaited around that bend, though in my head I see her approaching that turn and want to intervene, save her, save us all. But time moves on. I like to think that in her last moments, as she was rushing to work, she was filled with thoughts of happiness and not worry. Knowing my Mom she was already plotting the day. Her mind raced always at speeds that most would find hard to comprehend. She was probably planning her first meeting, lunch, when she would get Matt, what she would cook for dinner, when they would go bowling. I wonder what was her last thought? As the car slid over that center median, and the van fast approached did she have time to think one last happy thought? Did all her worry disappear? Did she know this was it? Those moments somehow replay in my head more often then I would like. Those last few moments of life, somewhere in between 908 and 909 am on that morning she was here with us, rushing to work, going about the everyday, and then just like that she was not.

What is most odd to me is that although it was at 9:09 am that my Mom passed we all went about our daily lives. Matt was off to school anticipating his run Friday evening, Michelle was off to class, my alarm would be going off in 2 hours and I would be out the door to give a presentation at school. Up until some one realized Mom was not where she was suppose to be we were all living. All living with the assumption that our lives would remain the carefree, happy ones that they were at that very moment. Even while she was no longer with us, we went about the day as if she was, assuming she had made it to work, assuming today was a day just like every other. It is those moments that truly mess with my sense of time. I look back and see myself walking into class, thinking that this presentation was the most important thing of the day, nervous beyond belief. As I gave that presentation I had no idea of the phone call I would receive when I finished class and turned on my phone. We all have no idea when that moment is coming. In a way we have to live the lie that everything is normal until proven otherwise, if we did not we would go insane.

It feels odd to be writing this. At this point I must come to grips with how the story really ends. As I type these words I am forced to confront the fact that there is no going back. I will never be able to be at the bus stop urging Matthew to giver he one more hug, I will never be able to prevent her from rushing off to work, I will never be able to know her last thoughts. Instead I must relate the final moments as they occurred, not how I want them to be. This is how it happened….

Matthew returned home late that afternoon. Again, I was not there, and my imagination runs rampant but this is how I envision it. As the bus pulls up I wonder at which point he notices, something is wrong, someone is missing. Slowly the bus door opens up and instead of my Mom being there to greet him with a hug and take him bowling, he instead sees me grandmother, my aunts and his dad. As innocent as 7 year olds are I would venture to say some part of him knew something was certainly wrong. Could he tell on their faces the new they were about to deliver? Did he know that there would be no bowling and no hugs? Did he notice her car was not there? Just as I contemplate those last moments of my mother’s life, I also contemplate the last moments of my brother’s innocence. I see his each and every step as approaching that loss of innocence, and again I want to intervene to prevent his world from being crushed. I can not though. Just as I can not prevent myself from picking up that phone call, and hearing my father’s voice on the other line trembling like I have never heard it before. Just as I imagine my brother knew what had happened the moment he saw my mom was not at the bus stop, I somehow knew at the quaking of my father’s voice that I had lost my mom. He didn’t have to speak, he didn’t have to utter those words. It is akin to what Freud calls the uncanny, when you just know something, you become aware before you are told. I was aware I had lost my mom as my dad trembled out the words, “Bill, I don’t know how to tell you this…” And that is how it occurred, or at least what I remember about the morning of.

time keeps on slipping slipping....

into the future. name that tune. even if you don't know it you can probably hum the tune and you know those words and all too well that time, despite out best attempts, keeps on slipping into the future. somehow 2 weeks has just blown by. from letting out a huge scream of joy as i flew down the face of a great run in Whistler with some great friends, to nervously giving the best man speech at my good friends wedding. I feel like these past 2 weeks I accumulated so many experiences and smiles that it is somehow ok to be back at school, reading theory and dreaming over the next moments of escape. I also realized why the time went to quick, I was too busy living that I wasn't doing much thinking. And I need those moments, I think we all do for our mental sanity. Those "flow" moments where you are not aware of before or after but without knowing it you are simply immersed in now, with only the big grin on your face to show for it. Those moments where we are in it, living it, and sucking every last drop out of this gift of life are those moments we look back on with fondness. For some crazy reason it seems lots of us are hell bent on accumulating money. Money has become the thing that defines a person, the thing which we always want more, at the expense our our hopes, our dreams and sometimes even our morals. But what about experience? Why do we need to measure a person by the size of the bank account but the total of dollar bills accumulated? What about an experience account? What about heading out there and accumulating moments of joy, happiness and ecstasy? Instead of envying someones new ride, there new clothes or there high paying job why not ask them when was the last time you let out a scream of joy, had a laugh with old friends, had a smile on your face so big that it hurt the next day, felt stoked to be alive? Jobs and money are obviously vital to accumulating experience but money may not be the be all and end all. I guess that might be the anthropologist in me. I am curious what makes people get up every day? What makes all of the other crap worthwhile? What are those things that get people inspired? What brings a smile of excitement to peoples faces? I am curious about all of this and I want to know how people achieve it in their own unique ways. There is no one way to happiness, despite what the self help section at Borders may lead you to believe. Somehow happiness has become a business where to find out how to be happy you need to work a lot to afford to buy all the books on happiness. I think its bullshit. Now I will admit I have read these books and even enjoyed some of them. But I think that the real secret lies in our greatest resource...other people. Try it and I think you may seem that there are may ways to live a life. The next time you meet some one in the street or catch up with an old friend, ask them: When was the last time you felt really alive? What do you love to do? What makes you get out bed every day in the face of seemingly endless obstacles, confusion and work? What moments when remembered put a smile on your face? And after a few of these questions you'll see it, as the person talks about those experience suddenly something will ignite a memory and that spark, that smile will appear on their face. So head out put those dollars to work and accumulate some of those other things..experience, fun, and memories that make you laugh so hard it hurts.

learning. knowing. learning that which we always already know...

amazingly after finishing off a 25 page paper which I struggled over I find nothing more soothing than getting back at the old blog. I guess its like drinking off a hangover in a way (though I have never understood how this works), to get over the pain of all that writing I need some writing to cure the pain...anyway next up a little Plato.

In my paper about the construction of memory and how we remember or what we even call remembering I came upon an interesting idea by Plato. Let me distill. I bet you already know it, even if you think you don't. Let me explain. Plato asserted that nothing new was ever learned during life. Humans for him were born knowing everything of significance. This original knowledge is lost over time and events though so that when we think we are "learning" we are actually recalling some original truth which we had forgot without forgetting. A little out there maybe but I think Plato might be on to something, he was a pretty smart guy after all...

This idea is optimistic which might be why I like it so much. The truth is there. We know it. It exists inside of us but we need to simply "learn" it anew. What this means is that remembering is in a sense returning to our original "all knowing" self. Our capacity for knowledge is already there, we just need to pull back the curtain of life a bit to find out what we have forgot. Sometimes we get so caught up in every day, in feeling like we need to learn it all. What we need maybe is to stop and listen, learning in this sense may not be of the reading the books sort but more of a stopping to listen to the void sort. If deep within us lies the knowledge we seek rather than looking externally maybe we should also leave some time to turn inward. Savor those moments of silence. Take the time to listen to the knowledge within you that think you do not possess. Maybe this is what instinct is. Or following your gut. Or following your heart. Either way you cut it I like the idea that I once had the answers but I need to simply just recall what I already knew. This is all experience is then. Slowly through the gradual wearing of time we begin to see, begin to realize and begin to feel like we actually do know something. I don't know how much sense that makes, but the pain of writing has left and the joy of sleeping has quickly descended upon me. Back with more philosophical ramblings from after a brief snowboard trip to Whistler BC where I will hopefully recover some of that ease on the snowboard that i once knew but feel I have forgotten. thanks to Plato though I now know, its there, always has been. just need to peel back a few layers of experience and let it emerge. hopefully ill be thinking my next thoughts deep in the middle of a big powder turn or maybe i wont be thinking at all. ill just be living. yeah living the moment that sounds pretty good right now!

a favorite story of mine

I can't claim credit for this story but I think it is amazing....

THE MAN FROM BOGOTA
A Short story by Amy Hempel

The police and emergency service people fail to make a dent. The voice of the pleading spouse does not have the hoped-for effect. The woman remains on the ledge - though not, she threatens, for long.I imagine that I am the one who must talk the woman down. I see it, and it happens like this.I tell the woman about a man in Bogota. He was a wealthy man, an industrialist who was kidnapped and held for ransom. It was not like a TV drama; his wife could not call the bank and, in twenty-four hours, have one million dollars. It took months. The man had a heart condition, and the kidnappers had to keep the man alive.Listen to this, I tell the woman on the ledge. His captors made him quit smoking. They changed his diet and made him exercise every day. They held him that way for three months.When the ransom was paid and the man was released his doctor looked him over. He found the man to be in excellent health. I tell the woman what the doctor said then - that the kidnap was the best thing to happen to that man.Maybe this is not a come-down-from-the-ledge story. But I tell it with the thought that the woman on the ledge will ask herself a question, the question that occurred to that man in Bogota .
He wondered how we know that what happens to us isn't good.

What we need

Interesting piece I found online....

Absolute control

Each person knows how best to be at peace with life; some need at least some degree of security, others launch themselves fearlessly into danger. There are no formulae for living out one’s dream: each of us, by listening to our own heart, will know how best to act.

The American writer Sherwood Anderson was always extremely undisciplined and only managed to write when fuelled by his own rebelliousness. His first publishers, concerned about the abject poverty in which Anderson lived, decided to send him a weekly cheque as an advance on his next novel.

After a month, they received a visit from the writer, who returned all the cheques.‘I haven’t been able to write a line in weeks,’ said Anderson. ‘I just can’t write with financial security staring at me across the desk.’

Traces of life

“What we see resonates in the memory of what we have seen; new experience always percolates through the old, leaving a hint of its flavor as it passes. We live, in this sense, in a remembered present” –Adam Zeman

Do you ever have those moments where you are not quite sure where you are? Not literally where you are physically, but where you are in time? Have you ever had those times where time seemed to fold on to itself and you were in the same place but everything was different, as if the life you had been accustomed to just changed with out you knowing? The other day I had one of those moments........



After seeing I missed a call from my mom's old cell phone number, which my little brother uses to call me occasionally I called it back. As I was standing there on the beach, I did not give much thought to how many times the phone had rung, I was on the phone but in that waiting phase where your mind wanders as you wait for an answer. Then all of the sudden the phone went to voice mail...."Hello, you've reached Barbara...." For a brief second I wondered if I had just awoke from really long dream. There on the other end of the phone was my mom's cheery voice mail, the one that always made me laugh because it is so her. By that I mean you can tell she set up her voicemail while doing 10 million other things (as she usually did) and you can sense the happy franticness in her voice. She ends the voice mail with "have a good day, night, ahh whatever time it is" and laughs.



This voicemail made me think of the traces we all leave on life. Here it is nearly 2 and a half years later and my mom's voice is still there. For a few brief seconds I was flooded with tons of happy memories of my mom. Her franticness. Her gentleness. Her cheer. Her overflowing exuberance for life. Just from a simple voicemail. For a few brief seconds there I was standing on the beach wondering if I had imagined it all. We leave traces. We leave moments. It was not just the trace of her on the voicemail that startled me, but the traces of her I see all over the place. Moments that take me back in time. Just prior to that phone call I had been out in the water surfing. As I paddled around in the gorgeous pacific ocean, I thought how did I get here? Not literally here but in this present moment.

For me that present moment was distinctly tied to my mom. As I sat in the crisp pacific water waiting for the next wave I was flooded with memory of my trip to the surf shop way back at the young age of 15 where my mom purchased me my first ever surf board. I remember my mom carrying it out of the shop for me and squeezing it into her car. I remember the first time we took a trip to the ocean with the new board and how excited she was that I was going to surf. I remember those humid new york summers and my mom shuttling me back and forth to K road in the Hamptons just so I would have a chance to surf. All of these memories emerged from seemingly nowhere as 12 years later I sat in the pacific waiting for yet another wave. This this is the thing about time and memory that amazes me so much. We often think of time as a linear progression, and that we possess our memories. But maybe memories possess us, they come back to remind us and re-create bits and pieces of our life that we conceive as "past". In that moment my mom was alive in a different sense. Her giving nature, her sense of adventure and sacrifice, all of those are what led me to be paddling out into the pacific this weekend. Small actions, actions she probably thought nothing of but live on for time immortal. Time in this sense lives on. It is not a simple linear flow from one moment to the next. Our memories can re connect us with past moments, illuminating in a sense how we arrived in the present moment. The present moment then is inextricably tied to the past. Those seemingly minuscule moments, the hour or so that my mom and I bought that surf board 12 years ago, weave themselves into the everyday fabric of our lives. For now and forever whenever I paddle down the face of a wave, as the cold pacific water catches my board and it picks up speed, as I quickly hop to my feet I will feel my mom gliding along with me. Call it heaven, call it after life, call it memory, call it what you will but somehow I know in those moments though she is gone in the physical sense she is very much there.

Quote of the day

"We go out into the world in search of our dreams and ideals.Often we store away in some inaccessible place what is already there within reach of our hands."
(Maktub)

I don't think I can hope to add much to this. I saw this quote and it felt like someone kicked me in the stomach it rang so true. How often do we search for that which we already have? Why is the distant so more appealing than the close? Why does everything have to be a process of discovering rather than simply realizing we have it here, right now? What do we give up in search of our dreams? Who do these dreams belong to anyway? I also dont know who I would be without these dreams. The search consumes me and if I woke up one morning content I would feel empty. Is that insane? I think it is possible to be happy without being content, or maybe again I am struggling with content versus complacent, I can't distingush the two and perhaps therein lies the problem.

blogging for your health

this just in...blogging is not only good for you, its good for you

http://dsc.discovery.com/news/2008/03/03/blogging-social-health.html

does blogging about blogging count as a blog post?

inspiration overflow

what a day two posts! lots of inspiration? or lots of work? a little bit of both. anyway i saw this quote from the tao te ching and couldnt help but think.......

"And because he is not competing, no one in the world can compete with him."

I think this is a good line to reflect on amidst the chaos we live in. Often we all succumb to the pressure to compete. Buying a new car that's nicer then a friend. Having a better job. A better degree. A better paper. A nicer wardrobe. But in the the end all of this ends up creating more stress then it is worth. If we enter into the circle of competition we become burdened by it. We realize that although we may out compete some one in some area, we are also being out competeted by some one else in the very same area. This creates an endless loop where are best is not good enough, our things are not nice enough, we are not smart enough, wealthy enough....you name it.

But if we can some how step outside the competition and not compete then whatever we do is enough because we are not competing with anyone nor is anyone competing with us. What might this lead to? I think it could lead to that c word that is rarely mentioned. The c word that I am just as guilty at times of equating with death...Contentment. When was the last time you thought I am content. Often it is I am well, but could be better. The paper is good, but I could do a lot more to it. The car is nice but its not a.... The house its nice but will be nicer when...

I am guilty of this trap far too often. I rarely reflect that you know what things are good and I am content with where they are. How has something so natural become so foreign. Think about it. When was the last time you met some one who said they were content. A life lived nowadays seems to be one that must involve change, competing and constantly seeking better. But where does the line get drawn? When does enough become just that? When does time spent day dreaming in the sun become time lived rather than time wasted? Being content even if for a few brief moments, thats my goal for the week. Not complacent. Content. The distinction is hard and one I struggle with, but content is what I seek.

What would valentine's day be without family....

"The worst day of life life my life what do you think?"- Napoleon Dynamite

So the random quote comes from a valentines day card I got from my sister. It is one of those talking cards and it made me laugh so hard that I sat at my desk for a good ten minutes opening and closing it just laughing.

Now (you/y'all/no one) depending on who reads this blog might be thinking WTF bill, what has a silly valentines day have to do with all the insanely overly thought slightly depressing blog posts of the past?

Well thanks to a tip from a friendly Canadian blog reader I was persuaded to think that my blog should be a collage of me if you will. Rather then posting only when my life seems out of sorts and I am caught in some philosophical mess, I should also post when life feels good, when the sun is shining, I come to school happy and all I want to do is run around screaming life is good!

Today is one of those days, and looking at the card from my sister on my desk made me think about that. I am ridiculously blessed. There is a lot of things that dont make sense to me. There are many days I wonder WTF is my purpose here, it has to be more then this. But you know what, when I think back to moments I have had with my family and my friends EVERYTHING makes sense. I have amazing parents, awesome siblings, loving/funny/caring/ grandparents, an amazing god mother who is like a mom and best friend all in one to me, fantastic aunts, cool uncles....I dont want to brag but I am blessed. My friends I wouldn' t trade for the world, they keep me grounded, keep me afloat and each have qualities in them that I wish I had in myself. Most of all though they are loyal, and real.

So yeah. I am sure this is far from the end of my philosophical where do I fit musings, but this is also the beginning of recognizing that amidst the turmoil, sadness and confusion my life is filled with amazing people, and spectacular moments where I feel so incredibly lucky to be alive! Today is one of those days....

"Life is divine chaos. Embrace it. Forgive yourself. Breathe. And enjoy the ride..."

that place where weakness and genius coincide

reading Benjamins reading of Proust, forced to think about that place "at which genius and weakness coincide" or like Proust, Benjamin's inability to change his life's conditions "even when they were about to crush him". For some reason Benjamin felt the need to bless this curse. At moments I think this is each and everyone one of us, and I know often it is me. With school I know (think) this is not living. Up late reading, thinking, sorting, finding relations, thinking through existence, subjectivity, ethics, the shifting terrain of life. But all of these moments spent thinking, not living what of those? Forced to watch these moments go by, knowing they will not return but wholly incapable of escaping. What if our biggest strength is indeed our weakness ? What if that which gives us life is simultaneously removing it? What if the very thing that makes us who we are also is our downfall? Thinking of Chris McCandless in Into the Wild, his very essence, the thing that drove him to have all of these amazing/crazy/life affirming experiences. His ability to dream to set off for Alaska to satisfy that primordial urge to wander and find meaning is also the very thing that killed him. Alone in the wilderness of Alaska, driven by passion and curiosity (that genius) he was killed by that very unbridled curiosity that allowed him to take risks others would never have. His very being in the end betrayed him and was the end of him.

Good stuff

Check out the pictures from my friend Jeremy who I met in Zanzibar his photography is amazing....if you go to the archives page you can buy some great pictures too:

http://www.fedoraphoto.com/

http://www.digitalrailroad.net/shockley/Default.aspx

http://fedoraphoto.blogspot.com/

deleuze, delusion, its 1030 and I feel a flu coming on

you know that ache, the one that signals the beginings of getting sick...its that latent pain that is not yet but warns you of what will/ might be...well I feel it so its off to bed...

but briefly after reading some Deleuze I was intent on thinking about possibility, about that dynamic activity called life that Delueze says is lived in the in-between moments, those moments that offer nothing but the possibility to become, so we are always in the process of becoming, there is no stasis, no begining, no end point, but always eternal possiblity as Deleuze notes:
"life takes place in the middle:this indefinite life does not have moments, however close they might be, but only meantimes, between-moments"

what is interesting than for Delueze is neither the begining nor the end but the middle, that place where we always are and are always moving from. life in this sense is just between moments of possibility, with potential in each one. so those moments that feel like between? well they are moments of potential offering nothing more than the opportunity to become. i guess than our hope for stasis is irrational at best...hopefully there is potential then in this moment that I will not get sick. potential for happiness in the depths of sadness. potential for understanding when none of it makes sense. potential for clarity amidst the confusion. we are pure potential.

gonge xab dideh

I just read about this persian idiom today and found it pretty interesting...the idiom is meant to represent the state of awakening after a dream in which one is still bewildered but begining to decipher the images. This mental state I think can be applied to both dream and non dream like states. Those moments where we begin to awake from something, and bewildered try to "make sense: or piece things together. After trauma, tradgedy etc we there comes a moment where we realize we are emerging, but from what and to what it is not clear. Slowly in the re-emergence we begin to decipher, to understand or at least in some sense gain perspectice. The trouble it seems is that there is no real single oint of emergence from trauma, as a gradual process it would appear then that we are deicphering images but still fuzzy, still entangled in the very trauma we are trying to understand. Is there an idiom for perpetual bewilderment, constant sense making amidst inconsistencies...

what would you do if you had no fear

brace yourself for a little sappy new age feel good thought experiment...so i am reading this book "what would you do if you had no fear" and i thought this is an interesting idea to think through idealistic or not. the first step then is to think of the things you fear. these fears if you think about them will gurantee that you what you fear will come true. the idea then is if you air your fears, somehow rid yourself of their power then there will be more space for positive thoughts, aspiration and action. as i spend far too much time worrying and fearing i think i should start to air them, whether you find them here on this blog or not is inconsequential, the point is i let them out of my mind. so here goes what will be very long and continually updated list..at some point ill move on to what i would do if i had fear for now some fears....
I FEAR
-not seeing all of the gorgeous places i dream of seeing
-not finding satisfaction in my work
-i will spend so much time making decsions that i wont have any time left to live the decsions
-i will miss my little brother grow up
-i won't see my siblings as much as i want to
-i will lose the people i love and they will die not knowing how much they meant to me
-my own potential. it stares at me, demands of me and yet i wonder if i can answer it
-what will happen when i truly commit myself to something (among other things this PhD)
-being stuck
-that i will be bored when i figure it all out
-the very stability i crave
-that i will die without having lived every day i have been blessed with
-that i will never be content with any decsion i make
-being content
-being alone
-the safety of school

slowing it down

a new book out there has been reccommended to me, i have not picked it up yet, but it is called In Praise of Slow and talks about the merits of slowing things down in a world that is obsessed with speeding things up.

check out the blog: http://www.inpraiseofslow.com/slow/blog.php

and here is a quote

"Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save."

what is retirement then if we rushed all of our decisions to get there, taking jobs we dislike, working extra hours to build 401 k's and neglecting ourselves in the hope that when we arrive at the magical age our "self" will still be there and will have all the time in the world to do all the things we want, except that we have lost our passion, creativity and dreams to life in pursuit of retirement.

how do you recall experience without images to remind you of an instant