Exploring the Cause of Suffering

The root of all suffering is the fear of death.  Our death, the death of loved ones.  In the more empathetic the fear of the death of strangers, animals, plants, the planet.

Is this true?

Let me explore things that cause suffering in me, and see if they are rooted in the fear of death.

My biggest suffering these days comes from the fear of having made the wrong choice. In life, love, career, even daily activities.

I worry about it. Have I missed the boat? Missed the call of the universe? Missed the path to becoming more connected to spirit, missed True Love?

I create the movies of my life as it could have been. Would I have become more wealthy? More talented? More influential? More powerful? More connected? But ultimately, isn't that all about becoming more loved?

What am I missing. What am I not seeing, not doing, not interpreting right that causes my suffering?

Is this fear of death? Or is it fear of failure. Fear of wasting this amazing opportunity to be alive in this exquisitely crafted body on this beautifully conceived planet. Wasting this gift. Squandering it to fear and anxiety.

Most of me has come to terms with death as a transition. A doorway to a different existence that we cannot conceive of with our human mind. I do still fear the pain that may attend death. Or a long illness of slow deterioration.  But death itself. No. There are parts of my ego, surely that do. I feel that the ego does not survive the transition. Blessed relief that will be. So yes, ego still tries to sound the alarm.

But I’m becoming more able to recognize the voice of the ego as different from my true voice.

Suffering, in my physical body, has been a great teacher for me. I’ve spent many many years being sidelined by illness. Broken plans, stuck at home, unable to follow through. I’ve struggled through doctors and endless self help books. And still the sickness would derail my best laid plans. I was told it was "all in my head". But it didn't come from my head. It would blindside me when I thought I was on the right track. Not enough to take me out, just enough to keep me from venturing outside the comfort zone.

But I’ve learned something very helpful in the last few years. Inspired by a newfound love for myself, and for life itself. By a new sense of unconditional worthiness. Now, when I have pain or illness, I’ve learned to go inward and search for its source.  To sit with the pain, not turn from it, but to go to its very center. Listen to it, bring it my total attention, and then love it. Just sit in its center and feel love. If there is something I’m doing to cause it, diet, activity or lack there of, thoughts, feelings I will begin to see it. Once the acute pain has subsided, in the coming hours or days or sometimes right away, there is a knowing that comes to me as I’m about to do something that will cause more physical pain or disease. And it leads me to go within and discover the thoughts, the beliefs that cause my ego to panic and knock me down.

In the past, my ego held the power. It used pain and illness as a way to limit me. It does so in the mistaken belief that it is protecting me. Keeping me safe from physical danger or emotional pain.

My ego was thoroughly schooled by my parents. Keep your head down, don’t make waves, it’s a jungle out there, life is cruel, don’t swim with the sharks, people are animals, men are dogs (from my mom), you’ll end up sleeping under the bridge. And they modeled that life for me. Go to work, come home, make dinner, watch tv, go to bed. The weekends are grocery shopping and laundry and yard work. Enjoyment was knitting, reading romantic novels (the predictable mass produced kind) and for my dad, drinking. That was it. No vacations except to visit grandma. No hiking, no adventures of any sort. Nothing with any moving parts that could possibly go wrong.

I was fearful, sick and lonely most of my childhood. I felt unloved and unwanted. I was convinced I was ugly, repulsive even. I was an irritation and something to be tolerated. A burden, a responsibility. One more thing to weigh down their lives with joylessness.

Then, at school I learned that I was smart. This gave me a lot of positive reinforcement from the teachers, and a lot of negative from the kids. I hid my papers and lied about my grades to be more accepted. It didn’t work. I wasn’t a physically attractive kid. Scrawny, bony, tiny, with glasses, crooked teeth and nondescript stringy hair that my mother cut herself. I’m sure I always had a worried look on my face, or I was trying too hard to be liked. I was awkward and clumsy at sports, always picked last for teams. I took offense easily and couldn’t control my habit of correcting everyone. The know-it-all. The Teacher's Pet. And I labored to maintain those good grades, to be perfect for the teachers. At the same time knowing that alienated me more from my peers. But they were a lost cause. School was everything to me. And once they taught me to read, well, that was my escape to another world. I read about families that were loving and caring and had fun together. They danced and sang and played. I read about True Love. I read about friendships. About adventures and pets and vacations. The real world held nothing for me.

As I grew I began making a few friends. I would dig through their lives for things to enrich mine. I would go with them to church. Fascinated by the strange songs and customs. Everyone standing and sitting or kneeling. Communion, speaking in unison, prayer. These were all foreign and exotic and fascinating to me.

In school, 4^th grade, they had us all learn an instrument. I chose violin. I tried, but didn’t like the sound of it. I wanted to play piano. So after much cajoling, my parents got me lessons with our neighbor. She was blind, as was her husband, both from birth. I picked up a little piano, but was fascinated with their lives. They lived alone. He did woodworking, table saw and all. She would forget to turn on the lights. They had a very precise system for hanging clothes so they would wear the right colors together. They had a seeing eye dog that would walk them to the grocery store where the clerk would help them pick out their food. She had a piano and an organ, back to back in the living room. She would tell me “stop looking at your fingers, the keys aren’t going anywhere”. She could always tell when I was looking at my fingers.

She wanted me to be in her recital. Just the students and parents. I was terrified. I told my mom I didn’t want to take piano anymore. I wouldn’t tell her why. She was relieved to not have to pay for it anymore.

I followed one friend to Spanish dancing classes. Castinets, flamenco dresses, the whole thing. I loved Spanish dancing. I was 11 and 12. Beanpole was my nickname. I looked comical in those outfits. My thin hair plastered to my head and wound into a tiny bun. But, I was amazed that I was good at it. The teacher would point me out as an example. She said I could leap like I was flying. Oh, I ate that up. I look at the pictures now and see that big, happy, smile sparkling with braces and I remember that joy. It was the first time I had pushed through the fear of being in front of others, performing, risking, standing out. The costumes were bright, colorful, flamboyant. The music was infectious and fun.

Another friend and I decided to try out for cheerleading in Junior High. It was a fairly big school. 7^th and 8^th graders. We worked up our routine. Made matching little skirts with little pom pom trim around the hem. It was when I realized this world of jocks and cheerleaders was not one I was invited to. The well dressed and coiffed ladies politely watched our routine. We were devastated. It wasn’t about being good at a cheerleading routine, it was about looking the part and being in the right group. We were nerds. Not jocks or soshes. Ohhh, ok, I get it now. Labels, Limits.

We moved again. We moved often. Always the new girl. Never quickly accepted. Just as I was making friends, finally, we would move again. The older I got, the harder to make those friends. Even one or two. Which is all I really wanted.

So why did the universe provide that for me? The constantly being thrown into a new situations. The lack of acceptance. The teasing. The hopeless combination of physical and emotional awkwardness and intense empathy and yearning for love. It felt like punishment. Proof that life is cruel and hard. But mostly empty, boring and lonely. Proof that I was unworthy of love, that I was better off  not relying on anyone but myself.

What did I learn? I went inward. Reading, thinking. I was, and am, so curious about how people think, what they feel. How is their experience different than mine? I was exposed to psychology, sociology, history and literature in school. I read it all with fascination. Trying to puzzle out this thing called life. Using what I saw as my strongest attribute, my mind. But my mind didn’t work like the other smart kids’. They were good at memorizing dates and names and formulas. I wasn’t interested in that, except to maintain that all important grade. I was more interested in the theories, the big pictures. The systems behind everything. The matrix.

When one is not given love for being beautiful on the outside, the ego searches for other ways to secure love. I thought the love would come from my skills, talent, knowledge, from being the best. And so whatever I did I would strive to be the absolute best at it, it was a compulsion. I didn’t know it was for love. I thought I just enjoyed doing a thing beautifully for the sake of the thing. And yet my experience had taught me that, being the best at something does not bring you the love and respect of your peers. It brings you jealousy, and the desire to find fault. You are labeled. Teacher’s pet, stuck up, know it all. So why did I continue to do the same thing expecting a different outcome? I guess, it was that positive reinforcement from the teachers that propelled me to continue seeking love that way. I’m sure they saw a small, awkward, intense little girl, ignored or tolerated by the others, the one who listened to them with rapt attention, followed every rule and completed every task with intense focus. I was probably a breath of fresh air to them, and a subject for pity.

One of my early sayings was that I love mankind, but hate people. That is to say, I find the heart of humans, of mankind, to be good and loving. It is what we are made of. It is our very essence. But somehow, as we all jockey for position, trying to secure love, something is lost. Compassion? Empathy? Until we feel wholly loved and worthy, we will sacrifice anyone else to achieve that. But the irony is that it can’t be done. There is no amount of love and adulation that comes from outside that will fill that gaping hole in us. That can only be filled from within.

Is it a hole? Maybe a gap is a better analogy. We come into this world of duality, from a place of unity and connection. We immediately search to be reconnected. As a baby we bond with our mother, then with our family. When that bonding creates the flow of love, we thrive. If the love doesn’t flow, the gap remains. We feel unconnected. The ego is born to navigate this journey. It learns through our experiences. When do we feel love? Do more of that. When do we feel separate? Do less of that.

As a child I was sick a lot. When I was sick, my normally distracted parents paid attention to me. They listened to me, sat with me, made me special meals, talked about my condition and what to do about it. I felt loved. So my ego arranged for me to be sick a lot.

When I reached out to other kids, to make friends and play. I was ignored, laughed at, made fun of. Do less of that.

I got good grades, teachers saw me, the love flowed. Do more of that.

I went to church. The people took notice of me, welcomed me (with ulterior motives in retrospect) I felt love flowing. Do more of that.

And then puberty finally arrived. Late for me, much anticipated. True Love was just around the corner I was sure. The first experience of love was so intense. A boy who saw me, couldn’t take his eyes off me, sought me out, called me beautiful. Oh my. Do more of that! I was hooked on that drug very quickly. It became my life. My one purpose. Everything else fell away to the pursuit of basking in that love. School, friends, nothing was a higher priority.

I struggled through gaining and losing that experience many times. The real heartbreak was the realization that the love did not come from the other truly seeing and knowing me. We were hormonally driven, which lines up nicely with our need for connection. But, ultimately, after time, the hormones would fade. It wasn’t me at all they loved. It was my body, the experience I could give them. They blossomed in the strong flow of love that came to them. I was bridging the divide for them. Completing the circuit.

But as I would realize they really weren’t seeing me, didn’t know me at all, the flow would diminish. They were no longer enthralled. I was no longer enthralled. The connection would break.

My expectations were so much greater than they were able to provide. True Love. I’d read about it so it must be true. So, obviously, I was not worthy of it.

When my first son was born, I thought I would burst with the intensity of my love for him. Every cell in my body melted at the sight of him. His every cry gave me pain. Not being able to understand his needs was excruciating. I cried, I worried, I didn’t sleep, and I was swept up in an intense experience of love. The knowledge that I would do absolutely anything to keep him safe and happy. To provide a beautiful life for him. And the terror of feeling I would not be up to the task.  This, then was the real True Love, right?

But that intensity faded. And with it my worthiness. The yearning returned.

My suffering came, and still comes, when I try to satisfy that yearning with something or someone outside of me. But it works for a while! When I connect with someone the love flows. The circuit is completed. We are part of the flow of life. That is love. That experience of the flow. It is real. But it isn’t the source. The source is within me. It is me. When I go within, I can experience that same flow. I can feel my connection with everything, everyone. It’s been there all along. It can’t go away. When I’m experiencing that love, I can see it in others. I can see past their egos, their fears. I can connect with the love in them.

When we fall in love with someone, when we have a child, our ego steps back for a time. All of its criterion have been met. This is someone worthy of our love and we are worthy of theirs. It drops the barriers. And we let flow the torrent of love that has been seeking an outlet for so long. It dances and skips like a swollen creek when the snow melts. It is all consuming and joyous and ecstatic.

I have discovered that I can feel that love when I connect with any living thing. When I learn to silence the ego, rise above it, I can feel that love every minute of every day.

My childhood, my adulthood, all of it, prepared me to understand that. Life led me through experiences that taught me all I need to know. I’m still being led and challenged.  Pain and suffering are teachers. I was, and am, exactly where I should be, doing exactly what I should be doing.

I don’t get sick much anymore. I don’t strive to be perfect. I strive to recognize the voice of ego, and my true voice. I strive to listen and take risks and follow my own advice. My true advice. The voice of love that rises from the flow. If I start to feel unloved, unseen, I just go within. It’s always there, like the stars in the sky. We don’t see them when the sun is out, but they are there. We don’t seek that inner flow when we are basking in the sun of external adoration. But the sun goes down, and the stars are visible once more.

So is suffering caused by the fear of death? No I think that is secondary. The ego sees death as an ending of the possibility of love. Suffering is caused by feeling disconnected. Feeling outside the flow of love. Fearing the loss of love.

But, in reality, that can never happen. It’s just the ego, in its bumbling, well meaning attempt to protect us, that keeps us from experiencing the reality of our existence.

We are love. We are made of love. We are held together, conceived, created by love. We are remade every moment by the flow of love. Of life. Life is love. Life is the manifestation of love. The translation of love into this world of duality.

Life is a journey. It’s meant to challenge us. It isn’t a game we can win by being the best or having the most. Death is not our enemy, or to be feared. We are all worthy of love, we are love.

I have so much more to learn. Trying again and failing again to live in the flow of love every moment. To be who I truly am and live from that place. I feel like I’ve only just begun the journey, and all of my 62 years of experience have brought me here. Every single one. I would not have made the discoveries I have made without those experiences. And I’m so excited to keep learning and failing and growing.

Life is such a gift.

Following the Path

Painting has been a path for me. To peace and joy. To discovering the endless, timeless dimension of love that is who I am. Who we all are. It is a long and winding path. Full of obstacles and confusion. But a path that has led me to where I am. A viewpoint on the road. The vista is breathtaking and life changing. And I know the road continues from here with many more vistas, and obstacles to come. And I am so grateful for this journey.

There are many many paths, many combinations of paths. They all lead to the exact same place. Your route is individual to you. Only you. And you have already found it. You are on it. Right now. Look around at your circumstances, look within to your heart. This IS your path. You are right where you should be! On your path. Wherever you are, you are on your path, on your journey.

Life is not a destination. It is a journey that never ends.

Painting, Art, has been one of my turns. One of the roads on my journey. And I'm so grateful I took that turn.

When I finally let myself explore art and creativity, it was for all the wrong reasons. I was single, divorced (3 times), mother of 3 teenagers, full time Bookkeeper and so very miserable. One of my favorite sayings was "I hate my job more than life itself". I was desperate to find safety and comfort and opportunity for my family, and work that was meaningful and not painful for me. I was deeply fearful that I hadn't, and wasn't, going to make that happen.

I didn't see any way that I could provide that security on my own. I needed a man who would provide that for me. Even though that had failed me many times. I just kept doing the same thing, hoping for a different outcome. I just needed to find a better man. One who could support me and my kids, provide safety, kindness, wisdom. I didn't believe in "True Love" any more. That had failed me. Not because he had stopped loving me, but because I had stopped loving him. That absolute conviction I had in the love I felt. The world changing, all consuming love I felt. It. Went. Away. So I wasn't looking for that. I needed to attract the right man, the right life partner. And to do that I needed to bring something more to the plate. Even though, looking at myself from this distance, I can see all I had to offer. I was loyal, loving, accepting, smart, empathetic, hard working, reasonable, practical, I was still relatively young and very passionate, in good physical shape, and pretty darn cute. I couldn't see any of that. And obviously, whatever I was wasn't enough. The proof was in my misery. This urge, this drive came from deep in my subconscious. I didn't think these thoughts clearly then. I was just driven to do whatever I needed to make my vision come to pass.

I was driven to wake up and be at the gym by 5:15 every morning, 6 days a week, to spend 1.5 hours working out, shower, hair, makeup, clothes and to work by 8:00 am. Working hard to secure my job and rise in the ranks, come home to making dinner, coercing kids into homework, chores, cleaning, shopping. Going out to have a social life, dating. Be everything to everybody. Be better.

And I was miserable. Drinking to numb myself to the terror and sadness that were inside. I felt like I was treading water in a bottomless pool filled with monsters circling just below my feet. Knowing that it was only a matter of time before I would wear out and slowly sink and be torn apart. I was just hoping my kids would be grown and self sufficient by then.

So. I decided my resume, as a human being, was lacking something. There must be something I wasn't doing that was keeping me from the life of comfort, safety, love and inner peace I was looking for.

I had tried religion, multiple times. Committing 100%. And that felt right for a time. Until it didn't.

I wanted to add Artist to my qualifications. People had called me creative because I was crafty, but I knew that wasn't real creativity. It wasn't Art.

Art was something I had always admired and envied in others, but was somehow denied me. Another of my favorite sayings was that I was an artist without an art. I felt I had all the negative traits associated with artists - moody, passionate, flighty, full of demons, alcoholic, prone to depression and despair, solitary, weird - but none of the benefits of love, respect and beauty. When I did career and personality testing, the tops choices for me were always Artist or Minister or Psychologist. So obviously, there was something wrong with the way I was doing life.

My first impulse was writing. I always loved to write, and read. In fact for most of my life writing was what I felt I was meant to do. And what scared me the most. I could get lost in my writing. In creating a world. In exploring the depths of my mind and heart. I would completely lose myself and the "real" world. I was afraid I would go so deep I wouldn't come back. Writing tears out pieces of myself and smears the blood and gore on the page. I was afraid it would consume me. That I would disclose my fraud to all the world and they would laugh and turn away.  Or burn me at the stake.

It had always felt like the thing that would prove my worth. To be a writer. To see my books on a shelf. To have people read my ideas and have that change their world, awaken them to a whole new way of being. To have them sit in rapt attention listening to me. Believing my words, Loving me. It was as if I could see that future. Feel it, live it. But it was a dream. And I would wake up and realize it wasn't real. That would take such a commitment of energy and time and heart. I wouldn't have what it takes. It would send me further into obsession, depression, illness, exhaustion. And What. If. I. Failed. That would be it. The dream gone. The reality of my worthlessness exposed for the world and me to see. Sham. Fraud. Talentless. Regular. Normal. Average. Nothing to write home about.

The risk was too high with writing. Besides, there are a bazillion writers in the world. Penniless, hopeless, miserable alcoholics holed up alone in some tiny, ugly apartment. Beating their brains day after day and getting nowhere. Right?

So I turned where I always turn when I'm trying to find answers in my life. To a book. And I found "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron. It gave me a process. A way to unlock my creativity. And through that process I distilled my choices down to Painting or Writing.

I hadn't done any painting, ever, in my life. Took no art classes in school. My electives were all academic to give me a better chance to go to college. But I had always been fascinated by artists. By color and beauty. And that came out in my explorations about creativity.

She had us write everyday, whatever came to mind. That led to a practice of almost automatic writing. Just writing down a question, and then letting the words pour from my pen without thought. And I was seeing insightful, wise answers that I felt came from somewhere else. Through me, not from me.

And I asked myself what I should commit to. What path should I take to add this "Creative" attribute to my Worthy Human Being resume? And then my hand drew a paintbrush. Just right there on my lined notebook paper. Clear as day. A paintbrush.

So I decided to pursue painting. That was 17 years ago, and I had no idea what I was getting into.

I'm going to continue this exploration of Art and why I do it in the coming days. Because I want to distill what it is I am trying to accomplish by teaching painting. Why it is so very important to me, even more important than the painting itself. It has changed me. Broken me. Opened me. brought me to a place of inner peace and self love that I never thought was possible for me. I want to share that with whoever else looks up at an intersection to read the street signs and sees that they are on the corner of Art street and Main Street. And they decide to make that turn.

I'm not an old woman. I'm not a young woman.

I'm not an old woman. I'm not a young woman. I have been given the luxury of time. Time to listen to my thoughts, listen to the silence, listen to the world around me. To stop rushing about. Stop trying to get somewhere or become something. Time to try to uncover who I really am.

I've been given the luxury of being invisible. No longer a part of the competition for a place in the hierarchy. Because I have let it go, and because I am past that age.

Through my life, my experiences, my reading I've learned a lot of things. The healing power of nature and of truly hearing and being heard by another soul. I've learned the emptiness of owning more things. The precious fullness of sharing a song.

Now I find myself in a place of waiting. Of sitting, listening, in the center of my purposelessness.

When I listen and let down my barriers I drown in the pain and the beauty of life.

I am solitary by nature. But my dreams are filled with people. I treasure the solitude and I fear it. But in my dreams I fly fearlessly. Lifted high in the air by letting go of all doubt. Showing others how to fly. How to let go.

Did I miss my calling? Was I looking the other way? Did my will impose itself on my life and blind me? Am I in the midst of my calling right now and not aware of it?

I feel the vast loneliness and isolation in the world. The knowledge of all the horrors my ancestors perpetrated on others like a huge dead weight on my back. The yearning for understanding, healing, connection. The cries of the earth as she is raped and tortured for our selfish short sighted comfort.

I feel powerless and alone. Seeking the light. Somehow I know I have to stay here. Not pushing it away. I have to stay in the silence. Watching and listening. Waiting.

Letting go. Until I can fly here on this side of life.

Filling the empty

Being an empty nester can feel. Well, empty. I spent so many years with my kids as the primary focus, that there is a big emptiness when they are not there. For the first couple of years it was great. More time, more freedom. I thought there would be less worry, but that isn’t really the case. I still worry about them, I just seldom know if my worrying is justified. I start thinking I have some psychic connection and if I’m feeling anxious or worried, there must be something wrong with one of them! Ha, that can really make you crazy. Should I call and seem like a silly old lady? What if I don’t and they really need me? Should I call all three?

But there is a positive thing that I’m beginning to realize now, after almost 10 years of empty nesting. I’m beginning to enjoy how amazing it is to interact with my kids as adults. To enjoy them and the amazing people they have become. Without feeling responsible for their lives.

When they were little I had to be a mom first, and me second. The worst thing about single parenting isn’t the exhaustion. Working full time, taking care of the house, living paycheck to paycheck on a good month, helping with homework, driving here and there, keeping track of where they were and who they were with. I got used to exhaustion the first week of being a parent.

What was worse was as a single mom most of the time, I really had to be both mom and dad. There was no tough parent, soft parent dynamic. I had to be both, and figure out when. When things were crazy there was no one to confer with, come to a decision with. Which were big issues to stand firm on, which were little stuff.

But my biggest issue was fear that I would let them down. Me, personally, not my Mom Self. That I would get sick or just burn out. That this was just too big of a job and I wasn’t qualified. That my introverted, quirky, socially clumsy self was a terrible role model for these precious babies. That I would miss some very important thing in their life, that I would miss a turning point that would take them down a bad road just because I wasn’t paying attention. That I wasn’t showing them enough love, or that I was being too soft. That my guilt would lead me to overcompensate and be soft. That I would be selfish and weak.  It was all on me. If I wasn’t there, the options for them were not something I could live with. It kept me up at night and followed me like a little black cloud.

But I must have done okay. Or they are smart enough to work their way past my failures. However it worked out they are all loving, productive, content, thoughtful, creative adults! I’m not taking credit for how they turned out. You can be the best parent in the world and still have a child who struggles. But for me in this empty nester part of my life, I can finally relax. I can talk with them, text and email and all the other things. I can visit and enjoy being with them. And I can be just me. And just love them. And if I screw something up now, well it’s just going to affect me, not three other innocent people. But you know, I’m not so worried about that anymore. I’ve done okay so far, maybe I can keep it up after all.