Some days it is easy to answer these. My Mom. For being such a dedicated and stalwart ally. Not an easy word to use as it implies a strategic relationship as opposed to one more rooted in love, although abundant love is and has always been there. It is simply the most truthful description as it seems we have both always been under some kind of threat of one kind or another. Most self inflicted. We have had each other’s back. She decided to move into an assisted living facility three years ago (maybe four!) and it is 9 hours away from me (each way…an 18 hour round trip). So I saw her in person last in February. Yesterday we learned that COVID is in her place (she is negative) so I am, impulsively and somewhat nonsensically driving there to see her through her window. She doesn’t know I am coming. I will get her a Thanksgiving dinner from Cracker Barrel LOL. But waking up (before reading the question of the day) I realized that today of all days, that words are wonderful and yet the actions I take should reflect my gratitude.

Venice…everything about it: the quality of the light, the sound of my feet walking on the paving stones echoing in the winding alleys, the constant sound of water lapping and the smells of food, detritus of various lineages and the sea.

Puppies, and their indefatigable joy at just being. They embody eagerness.

Waking up in the morning in my cabin many years ago and in the dim light of a lavender dawn seeing the woods around me covered in freshly fallen snow and the dense silence it afforded.

I think for me to be able to do this I would have to have a significant amount of additional self confidence. As it is a basis of being able to bear the sense of vulnerability. Along with a commitment to move beyond the ways others can, shall we say, not live up to my expectations. A Commitment to bear responsibility for my uncritical eye. Apart from whether or not I could muster the wherewithal to actually do all that on a constant basis, I must say I question the wisdom of it. There is an attractiveness for sure to what I could only assume would result in a lightness of being. Just not necessarily grounded.

Anger and resentment are unavoidable I suppose. They happen. Something triggers the dynamic in my neurons and boom, there they are. Now the question is amusing. Almost like “what would getting out of bed in the morning change?” . Anger and resentment as static conditions are corrosive and debilitating. And I think, in my experience, to sit with them is extremely lazy. Treading water, exhausting, and gets me nowhere. So moving and working through them is essential. Getting beyond them. Which usually means accepting something I cannot change. Admitting some personal lack of power as a result of that acceptance. Charting a course to stay clear of the conditions affording the triggering event if possible, and even, with time and effort and often outside help, disable the trigger altogether.

For quite a while now I have everything I need. A roof over my head I can afford, meaningful work, the resources required to live comfortably and all in peace. All received at very little effort on my part and with acute awareness of so very many around me not. My response to that reality is twofold. Primarily and to the point immense gratitude for my fortunate situation, and secondly a fierce determination to not get bullied into thinking it isn’t enough. Resisting the relentless drumbeat of dissatisfaction that seems to get pounded into me so much by my 21st century lived experience in our North American dominant culture.

Just because I go out on a sailboat doesn’t mean there will be wind. And should a favorable wind come, I cannot be certain from which direction. I can only trim the sail to use it to power the boat according to the skill I have. My experience of perception is that it is, at best, fickle. I no longer doubt much other than myself. Gravity works (somehow). The forces at work outside myself are just that. My task is to find a path through each moment doing as little damage as possible. So the contradiction is baked in. I cannot know the ends only the means. All the great teachers seem to point to this simple fact. I often doubt my understanding of the principles and facts. This does not affect my faith in the process. For it seems when I come down to it that the practical faith I encounter each day keeps me from going mad. And, for what it’s worth I will add, those I have encountered in my history harboring a deep certainty make me nervous.

The art of storytelling. Story can be the backdoor to the person. Through which we allow suggestion and the triggering of our imagination, ultimately stimulating the connection between the soul and our conscious being. Our souls are waiting, patiently, to take our hand and walk with us through our fears. Stories can provide the means to courage. Courage for what? Many things. Confronting our dark basement. Letting light in. Making room by relinquishing the burdens we have so meticulously collected and nurtured. In a way good storytellers are locksmiths providing keys to the heart. I want to do that. That is how I feel I can serve the world.

My aunt Genie, who when I was 13 and sent away to boarding school upon the disintegration of my childhood home, came to visit me almost every weekend and took me home for an overnight. Gently and very subtly she walked me towards a place where I could begin to discern a future. A future as a strong and independent individual. I will forever be in her debt. Many great writers including novelists Melville and Steinbeck, Spiritual masters Merton and Joanna Macy. Many teachers including Tom Yeomans and my (several, alas) Novice Masters. ALL my family dogs growing up.