Dear living,

I’m feeling a bit foggy this morning – mentally and physically. Ambivalent. Melancholy. Playful. Anxious. Disengaged. Curious. Hopeful. Appreciative. Annoyed. Cranky. At ease. Tired. Puzzled. Discouraged. Disappointed.

I, or perhaps more precisely my current gaggle, feel all of these at this moment. And the feelings are changing faster than I can write them down. Questions – searching to understand my experiences of self and you.

And now an unexpected sneezing fit. Eyes watering, multiple forceful sneezes in quick succession, drainage in the back of my throat. What brought that on? I’ve been sitting in the same spot writing in my living room for a while now, and this histamine reaction appeared to come out of nowhere.

And somehow, that sneezing fit seems very relevant to the relentless questions. Perhaps all my experiences are of the same ilk. I simply find myself having them. All my experiences emerge unprompted – ungoverned. The experiencers also emerge – unprompted – ungoverned.

Yes! That feels right and true. There is noticing, there are noticers, and there is a continual parade of sensations, thoughts, emotions, physical reactions, and interpretations. The ongoing parade always seems to include at least one meaning maker. One or more aspects of me always seem to be crafting and silently verbalizing a story to try and have whatever else is happening make sense. As far as I can tell, the story-making is arising just as mysteriously as the recent bout of sneezing. I didn’t ask for it – I’m not sure why it’s happening – and I’m not controlling the inner narrative that emerges.

And that last set of sentences doesn’t sit quite right with me. My use of the word I to describe what’s happening feels inadequate. Who or what is this I?

I feel a constriction in my chest as I entertain this last question. My breathing becomes restricted. I feel a painful burning sensation in my chest that reminds me of when I experienced my first heart attack. An aspect of me starts to panic a bit that I might be having one now. And something in me hopes that I am. And something in me chuckles knowingly at this familiar story line. It’s like watching reruns of an old sitcom TV series that I vaguely remember but that have slightly different scenes each time the episode is replayed.

Now the painful ache in my chest, with a lot of variety and textural changes emerging through the range of movement with each inhale and exhale, claims my attentional spotlight. The other happenings within my gaggle seem to continue, but more like muted murmurings in the shadows. Pain on center stage, joined by a supporting cast of fear and delight and disappointment and bemusement. And of course, one trying to make sense of it all – one dutifully looking for opportunities to nudge the narrative toward an arc of redemption.

Constriction and undulating pain with each draw and release. By the way, who’s breathing? Each inhale emerges. Each exhale follows. Now something feels a need to take control of them – to make them better. To make them longer, smoother, more admirable. Something seems to have an ability to affect the shape of the waves of breathing, but the recurring rise and fall of the waves themselves seem completely beyond that something’s influence.

Now sensations of my heart beating and blood pulsing in my neck gradually enter my awareness – accompanying the uncomfortable pinch in my chest with each rise and fall of my rib cage. Now vivid visual images appear while my eyes are closed: a soothing scene of a river flowing calmly through a stately stand of trees in pleasant light, a violent orange eruption against a heavy black volcanic mountain, a tender embrace of an imaginary fragrant cool breeze traversing my cheeks.

Now an uncomfortable tickling constriction in the back of my throat emerges – clamping down on my breathing more as if to support the pinch in my chest. It seems intent on stopping me from giving voice to these experiences.

Something haughtily challenging the narrator to explain all of this. The narrator reluctantly acknowledging that it cannot – yet, in spite of the swirling eddies of potentially redeeming story fragments swirling in the mental room.

And the pinch. And the breaths. And the longing to understand who is noticing and why.

Something in me wants the pinch to stop – to go away. And the more intense the longing for it to stop becomes – the more prominent the pinch becomes.

What is this?

A pinch, a noticer, an interpreter, a narrator, one who critiques. Is there a pincher? It seems to the interpreter that someone must be applying the pinch, but the source of the pinch is not perceptible in this current episode. The pinch – the breaths – the heartbeats.

What is this? Why is it happening? Who is noticing?

I’m not sure, but I suddenly need a nap.

Unresolvedly yours,

Ken

Dear living,

I’m writing today to say thank you. Because of you, I had the great fortune of meeting and knowing James Kapp. My opportunity to engage with James intensively over his last few years helped preserve and enrich my relationship with you – and still does. Some days my heart aches for him. And I feel his presence and support within me now.

I first encountered the practice of Listening to the Great Silence with James. I can still hear his words inviting me to experience you in different ways:

What if silence is not the absence of sound?

What if silence is that which contains all sound?

What if all sounds originate from, abide within, and return to the Great Silence?

Listen. Listen. Can you hear it? Can you hear the Great Silence?

Come and sit with me. Let’s listen together.

Initially, those invitations undid me. They shook my identity and beliefs in ways that I could barely tolerate the first few times I heard them. These questions evoked internal explorations and experiences that something in me found both terrifying and surprisingly restorative. Engaging in this practice revealed how aspects of me that had seemed so sure and solid for so many years could be unraveled by simply listening differently.

And like a bee to flowers, even decades after being introduced to this practice I find myself coming back to this way of listening throughout each day. I see now that this was one of the many gifts you have given me that makes our continuing relationship possible.

With gratitude,

Ken

Dear living,

I need your help. Something in me is trying to understand what we’re up to here. We’ve been together for at least 60 years now and something in me is often grappling with what this thing we have together is.

I don’t remember how or when we met, but it seems you have been with me from my beginning. I cannot recall a me that doesn’t include you. Each morning that I fall awake, you are here. Each evening as I fall asleep you are with me.

There have been times when this thing we are in together felt so hard that something in me has demanded that we put a stop to it all. A teacher whom I trust encouraged me early in my adulthood to engage with you while imagining death is sitting on my left shoulder. I sense that what we have is tenuous.

And I know I’m not your only one. I see you in others too. Other people have shared with me their delights, confusion, and fears arising from their relationship with you. I see people frantically racing around, desperately trying to project confidence and find a safe place to stand. I see you dancing in the blue jay and the elm. I see you wriggling in the sunfish being swallowed by the green heron.

And every day, seemingly in every moment, something in me needs whatever this is to make sense to it – to fit within a clear and acceptable narrative – to fulfill a presumed promise to produce a tidy set of meaningful outcomes. And lord knows there’s been no shortage of people compelled to tell me what those outcomes should and shouldn’t be.

Yet so far, the only perspective I’ve been able to find that reliably feels true, is that I want to enjoy you. Can it be that simple? Can we play together in this unfolding mystery for no reason? Can we spend our days cultivating and savoring connection, wonder, and joy? Are you up for that?

Yours,

Ken

Have you noticed that we are always noticing?

As an organism, our systems rely on monitoring for, registering, interpreting, and responding to mind-boggling amounts of never-ending streams of information. Our living fundamentally depends upon this process. Incredibly, we have an amazing array of ways our body and mind use to monitor the current state of our circumstances, both internally and externally.

Will you take a few moments right now to reflect on what you are noticing and how? What comes forward in your awareness? How does noticing your noticing affect your experiences?

For me, as I pose this question to myself in the moment of this writing, I notice many things. I notice a strong internal sensation in the front portion of my lower belly that extends through my upper back and around the right side of my neck and up to the base of my skull. The sensations are rich and full – like a dynamic symphony that register as layers of temperature, pressure, and movement.

The movement shows up as a pleasant vibration accompanied with a resonant pulsation repeatedly traversing those places in my body I described above through what feels like a wide silken scarf shaped in an unbroken curving arc. I notice an affirming sense of warmth. I notice a slight holding within my muscles that introduces a familiar sense of pressure – pressure with intent and directionality. This pressure dances with and affects the pulsations.

I notice contrasting patterns of light and shadow in my office – with a bright area on the closet door to my left illuminated by the sun streaming through one of the high windows in front of me. I notice the color and textures of the computer monitors, the desk, the walls, the plants, the curtains. I notice the brightly lit green of the grass and tree just outside my window. I notice the clicking of the keys on my keyboard and the calls of a solo American Robin.

I notice a gentle cool breeze flowing through the screen of my open window – caressing the side of my face and the back side of my right hand. I notice a lingering aftertaste of green tea. I notice a faint aroma of earth. I notice smoothness of the keyboard keys under my moving fingertips.

I notice my fingers moving on their own to bring these words to the screen. I notice no one seems to be giving these fingers instructions on how to find the keys. I notice wondering how this is happening. I notice pressure in the soles of my feet assuring me that my feet are resting on the floor. I notice a sense of balanced uprightness in my torso as I type. I notice the subtle movement and accompanying sensations of breathing. I notice no one is giving instructions on how to breathe. I notice a slight pang of hunger, followed with a little more saliva flowing into the lower portion of my mouth and onto my tongue.

I notice along with each noticing, a rippling of emotional responses that remind me of the rings that appear briefly on the surface of a lake when you skip a smooth stone across it. I notice the emotions seem to be affecting each other, bouncing and echoing off each other within and through my body and mind. I notice my body’s shape and gestures shift subtly with the emerging emotions – like a gentle upturn of the right side of my mouth as if to smile. I notice flickers of increased contractions in various places seemingly to brace against what feels difficult, scary, or unwelcome.

I notice an externally silent, and internally noisy, running commentary. I notice that the words I hear in my mind far outnumber the ones that make it to this screen. The utterances in the spirited internal dialog seem to be originating from multiple somethings within me. I recognize each of the somethings as familiar aspects of me – none of them complete. They often have differing opinions and reactions to all the other noticings. I notice they never ask permission to voice their opinions and demands.

I notice a wondering about all that must be happening in and immediately around me that is going unnoticed by me.

I notice that so much more has appeared, stayed for a while, and disappeared than I can possibly reflect in this writing. The experiences and my reactions to them occur so much faster than my ability to describe and record them.

I notice a curiosity about my noticers. Who within me is noticing? How? Why? What are the implications of their noticing?

More phenomena, more reactions to the phenomena, more noticing.

I notice a sense of pervasive stillness from which all this activity emerges, abides, and returns. I notice recognizing this stillness – like an old and beloved friend – and feeling happy to feel held in its warmth and tenderness.

I always have a choice.

That's what they all say.

But even when I think I should, 
sometimes I just don’t.

And whether I do or I don’t
have a meaningful choice
about what I feel, think, say, or do next

in this moment, in these circumstances,

is not really up to me.

Is it?

The brusque, pleasantly offensive aroma of the garlic remnants from last night’s dinner in the compost bin - unapologetically filling the small space

The weight of the blender base

The melancholic memories of rejection - real and imagined

The notable clenching through low abdomen at the sound and vibration of the Vitamix in the not yet light

The spontaneous, gentle, repetitive humming while brushing teeth with the industrious Oral-B

The savoring of warm water a little too long - cascading over skin containing oceans of grief, compassion, and inappropriate laughter

The 160-degree water poured over 2 teaspoons of curled Tamaryokucha Organic leaves - and waiting for 2 minutes and 45 seconds

The warm glow of an inner smile anticipating that first sip

The steady restful stillness bearing witness

How many times have we heard admonishments like these?

We’ve been taught from an early age well into our adulthood that certain ways of being are acceptable, maybe even enviable – and others are forbidden. Even before we recognized it, we began to internalize and then mimic or reject the holding patterns and openness of our caregivers and peers.

Given how rarely we’ve been encouraged and supported to attune to and consciously honor our bodies, it’s no surprise to me that so many of us find ourselves with bodies who often feel cranky and hard to move. Our postures and movement patterns shape how we know ourselves, including how we react to our circumstances and what we see as possible. We quite literally come to hold ourselves as a certain kind of person.

At some point though, some of us begin to chafe against these conditioned patterns of holding and imposed constraints. We start to notice something undeniable within us longing to move in new and fresh ways – to open in sometimes frightening ways – to migrate toward something that feels more life affirming.

What if our habitual compliance with the external demands of who we hold ourselves to be could change for us? What if we could find circumstances that enable us to honor our internal longings to move more authentically? What if we could learn to listen closely to the small, quiet indications that some aspects of our body feel drawn to move in unfamiliar ways – ways that feel true and liberating?

If this evokes some appeal for you, please take a few moments to find a comfortable posture and invite a smooth and even breath.

After a few moments, bring a gentle curious attention to the sensations in the bottom of your feet. See if you can name quietly to yourself the sensations you feel in terms of pressure, temperature, or vibration. Notice how those sensations vary in different parts of your foot. Between right and left.

Notice what changes, if anything, in your experience as you do this. See if you can allow your emotional life to rest into the foundation of your feet. See if you can let your mental process ride the gentle rise and fall of your diaphragm.

If you find yourself able to attune to your experience in these ways, be curious about whether you can detect any specific urges to move. Perhaps you notice a desire to gently sway like a young tree in a gentle wind. Or to roll your right shoulder up and back and around. Or to shake out your fingers, hands, and wrists in a gentle, playful way. Perhaps you notice a desire to jump or dance or shout. Whatever desires to move that you notice, can you allow yourself to try them out and see how they feel?

Here is a song that makes this same invitation in another octave.

What has this exploration been like for you? What, if anything, would you like to carry with you after this?

I, me, mine. I haven’t found a way to think, write, or talk about my experiencing of and participating in living without relying heavily on these words. And yet, as I notice these words emerge in my mind, something in me winces a bit at their insufficiency for conveying what I mean.

Somehow, our culture has settled into familiar patterns of making direct and certain statements with these simple terms that seem so far from what I actually experience. We routinely say things like “I am sad,” “I want ice cream,” and “I don’t want to cause harm.” Who is this I of which we speak?

We routinely use these simple words in these familiar ways to point to that which is thinking, feeling, saying, and doing. But my experience of myself and others is far from simple. I experience myself and others as vast and mysterious and often self-contradictory. I experience myself and others as a bundle of wanting and not wanting at the same time.

I often find it difficult to answer the question “What do you want” with a simple response because I almost always sense what I can refer to as me wanting many different things – sometimes seemingly diametrically opposed to each other. I often find it difficult to answer the question “What are you thinking” with a simple response because I am often aware of many thoughts appearing, abiding, and disappearing without “my” effort. I often find it difficult to answer the question “What are you feeling” with a simple response because I am often experiencing a wide range of emotions at the same time.

These themes of noticing and reacting to noticing are central to my exploration in this love letter. So, I want to share a bit about how I am thinking about this now, and the words I often use to try and express more precisely what I find to be true about my experience. I invite you to think of this next section as a glossary I likely will refer back to in future posts.

Some distinctions I find helpful

· Distinction – this word is central to my evolving understanding and relationship with living and the support I offer to my clients. I first encountered it during my training as an Integral Coach at New Ventures West. I use it to mean the noticing and calling out of something within the whole of what we encounter that can support recognizing some important differences between aspects of that experience. Whether a distinction is supportive depends on the context and intentions related to what we are observing. And I find it helpful to recognize that naming distinctions doesn’t negate wholeness.

· Aspect – I use this term often to mean a nature, quality, or characteristic of something (like our self); it represents a way we can view a phenomenon and attend to it. For example, “One aspect of an apple is its smooth and fragrant skin.” This way of thinking and speaking supports seeing nuance and distinction within whatever we are observing.

· Facet – I often use this term as a synonym for aspect. It also evokes the metaphor of the small, polished, flat surfaces on a cut gemstone. As we turn a gemstone in our hands, different facets are revealed through how they interact with the light – each belonging to the whole and yet presenting a new experience.

· That which notices – I sometimes use this phrase as a way of interrupting our habitual translation of words like I, me, and you. I find this phrase unfamiliar enough that it can sometimes invite us to be curious about what we are referring to.

· Something, or something in me – for example “I am sensing something in me who feels angry” as compared to “I am angry.” This is a powerful linguistic move that can open a new way of relating to our experience.

I first encountered this term through Steve March who offered it to me to help me make sense of an experience I was having during my coach training at New Ventures West. It was introduced as a way that Ann Weiser Cornell recommends as part of her approach called Inner Relationship Focusing developed with Barbara McGavin. Inner Relationship Focusing is offered with the intent to support people to make peace with their inner world. Ann studied and practiced with Eugene Gendlin, a philosopher and psychologist who developed the method called Focusing. I trained with Ann to learn the primary components of her method and how to apply it. I and many of my clients find this to be a very supportive perspective.

· Self-in-Presence – Ann Weiser Cornell uses this term to refer to the aspect of the self that has the capacity to notice and relate to our somethings with curiosity and calm. It is an aspect of our self that is not reactive to whatever arises.

· Verbal analytic self – that aspect of our self that presents itself to us and the world through concepts, words, and “reason”.

· Most integrated self – I will often use this term to point to that aspect of us that is least encumbered by our habitual fixations.

· Conceptual awareness and non-conceptual awareness – I encountered this distinction through the teachings of Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche. Rinpoche encourages his students to notice that we engage in different forms of noticing. Most of us are more familiar with conceptual awareness, meaning that everything we notice is automatically related to through our structures of interpretation and beliefs. When engaging solely through conceptual awareness, we don’t notice that there was noticing before concept. Non-conceptual awareness (what Rinpoche also calls naked awareness) is a way of noticing before it gets translated into our ideas and beliefs. It is a more direct, unfiltered way of experiencing.

· True nature of mind and the busy, narrating mind – this is another important distinction I have encountered through various Buddhist traditions. In these traditions, the true nature of mind is experienced as spacious, still, and illuminated. The busy, narrating mind describes the aspect of our mind that is prone to a lot of chatter and rumination.

· Quality of self – this is a phrase I learned from Judith Blackstone while training to support people with her Realization Process. This term points to the direct sensing or feeling of that which we recognize to be me – not a thought – a feeling.

· Fundamental consciousness – another phrase I encountered through my studies with Judith. We use this term to point to an experience of our own nature as a fundamental, unconditioned, all-pervasive consciousness. This can be thought of as the basis of both our individual sense of wholeness (our authentic self) and our experience of oneness with the environment.

· A singular, unchanging, autonomous self as compared to a compounded, impermanent, and interdependent self – I encountered this distinction through the writings of Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche and other Buddhist teachers. A few shorthand ways I use to describe this distinction are a concrete self as compared to a functional self, or self-as-object as compared to self-as-process.

· System 1 and System 2 – I encountered these terms through Daniel Kahneman’s book Thinking, Fast and Slow. Kahneman introduces these two “fictional” terms to describe two very different ways the human mind processes experiences. System 1 represents the fast, automatic, intuitive, and largely unconscious ways we encounter and relate with the world. System 2 represents the slow, deliberate, effortful, and conscious ways we can encounter and relate with the world. Kahneman asserts that we mostly know ourselves as System 2, but the vast majority of how we experience and respond to our encounters is happening through System 1.

An invitation to reflect

What is present for you now after relating with this post?

What, if anything, has been evoked in you?

Who is the one noticing?

Who is the one describing?

Movement.

Always moving.

Stillness.

Always still.

Neither

interferes

with

the

other.

I am both.

Your path of living and mine have intersected in this way, at this time. How curious. How strange. How wonderful. Of all the places we could be, we are here. Just here now. And we will never be here again – not in exactly the same way. We are changing. This is changing.

Where is here?

Who are we?

What is this?

I am playing and dancing and wrestling with these questions in this love letter. What you will find here is my art. And by art, I mean anything that one or more people make, or bring into being, that can help the ones expressing it, or others who encounter it, to notice, attune to, and appreciate more of what is true - more of what is true about themselves, each other, and the world.

I am making it. It is making me. I am making it for me – and for you. I am making it because I want to. Because I am afraid to. Because I can. Because I must.

I don’t know how often I will post. I’m not sure what themes will emerge. My promise to me and to you is to keep showing up and to share as generously and openly as I can.

May all our connections and explorations be infused with curious wonder and unreasonable joy.

Be well.