Seventh time’s a charm

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Who knows why certain things capture our imaginations. A few weeks ago my friend Bill posted a Joan Halifax essay on his blog called “The Lucky Dark.” The phrase comes from a translation of a St. John of the Cross poem, and basically it refers to all the dark, scary shit that we hate—like suffering, death, loss, and fear—but that also can be deeply transformative when embraced. Just as the phrase “Waiting for the miracle” captured my attention and guided my creative process for years, “The Lucky Dark” seized hold of me right away, and I knew it would be the title of my next album.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I do musically, what it means to me, and how I see the process unfolding now that I’m back in Carrboro, NC. There’s quite a music scene here, and I had a great time being a part of it a few years ago when I played bass for My Dear Ella. My buddy Eric—the heart and soul of MDE—is still playing music here, fronting a new band called Death of the Sun, and presently putting the finishing touches on a new record that is going to be absolutely fantastic.

I’m not sure how I fit in to the music scene right now, or even that I fit in at all. When I settle in to my little studio on a Saturday evening, I’m just looking to open up and see what happens. The process is so wonderful, so enlivening, that the end result is almost beside the point. I share it here on my blog for a lot of reasons. Of course, I get a thrill when a little praise is thrown my way. But really my music is part of a bigger picture I’ve been sloppily painting for years now. For lack of a better word, it’s a spiritual practice, a way to connect with others and the depths of myself.

Last night I intended to record a song I’ve been kicking around for a few years. But when I went searching for drum beats, I tickled the virtual ivories a little on the way, and got lost there for the whole evening. Here’s what happened:

Seventh time’s a charm.mp3
I will pack my things
I will hit the road
I will not look back
Then I always look back
I will wait all night
for the words to come
Set them free like tears
Let them go like tears
Take me to the edge
This time I’ll jump right in
I won’t change my mind
for the seventh time

Enough

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I love it when a little epiphany strikes me when I least expect it. Yesterday I was walking between buildings on campus when I noticed a dead mouse lying next to a cigarette butt. I stood there for a few seconds in a daze, not sure what I was looking at. Suddenly I was laughing audibly and, furthermore, I felt completely free from the tension that had been building all week as I wrestled with job-related decisions. I suppose a dead mouse, in and of itself, isn’t all that funny but, for whatever reason, the juxtaposition of the mouse and cig-butt struck me as so absurd, I couldn’t contain myself. My only thought as I headed back to the office was “This is enough.”

As in, this is sufficient, just to be a human being, to breath and notice things and laugh once in a while. I had just interviewed the day before for a fairly well-paying mental health job. Had they offered me the job on the spot I would have accepted, for the simple reason that doing so would end the madness, the struggle not only to find a “permanent” job, but to be fearlessly honest with myself about what I really care about. Somehow, between me and the mouse, I was able to admit that it doesn’t matter to me whether I’m helping suffering people get better (what I’ve done for the better part of fifteen years) or whether I spend all day folding name tents, making copies, and editing course syllabi (what I’m doing at the moment). Truth is, if someone offered me a job with my ideal schedule (30 hours a week or three days off instead of two), I wouldn’t care what I spent my time doing, as long as I could make enough to deal with my expenses.

I mean, I wouldn’t participate in some evil enterprise, like helping to elect John McCain, but as long as the job didn’t stress me out too much and it involved pleasant interactions with people, then I could just as well be a mailman as a therapist. In fact, delivering supplies to various offices on the UNC Campus was probably the most enjoyable job I ever had. Cruising around campus in my beat-up truck, listening to the radio, leisurely strolling up and down the halls with a printer cartridge under my arm, the pleasant exchanges with the front desk workers as they signed the invoices. Too bad it only paid seven bucks an hour, or I might still be doing it.

This job I just interviewed for, it’s serious business, helping abused kids get the appropriate mental health services. It’s so important that you have to carry an emergency pager and be ready to jump in the car 24/7 to save the day in a crisis. Of course, you don’t get holidays off, because human suffering never takes a vacation. Presently, I’m the “Minister of Tedium” for the UNC Office of Whatever. If I put a staple in the wrong corner or use Times New Roman instead of Calibri, it’s no big deal. And I’m kinda liking that. Nothing’s ever really that big a deal.

What do I really want to do? I just want time to “be,” to live. To dick around on my guitar. To write on my blog. To snuggle on the couch with my wife while we watch a stupid romantic comedy. Without exception, I stuck with my previous mental health jobs not because I was “helping people,” but because those jobs fit into an overall life-picture that included a smile on my face. As soon as that smile disappeared, I disappeared. The fact that I was helping people was great, but it was never what kept me showing up day in and day out. I’ll always care about and try to connect with the people in my life. And damn it, that’s enough. In fact, it’s just perfect.

Changes on Chapel Hill?

It’s amazing how quickly things change. A few months ago I had this little raised freckle on my neck. Now it’s a hideous, potentially cancerous mole that needs to be removed. Then there’s the little college town of Chapel Hill, NC, where I was married two years ago and where I lived (or lived right near) from 1998-2003. Now I’m back, working a temp job on the University of North Carolina campus, just as I did ten years ago when I first arrived here. The buses here are still free, but nearly all the people who ride them now have iPod “earbuds” in their ears, along with half of the pedestrians. This morning I tried it out for myself, strutting around campus to the Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive, feeling like Travolta swinging a paint can. At the Open Eye Cafe in nearby Carrboro, you’ll now see folks’ heads buried in their Mac laptops instead of their philosophy books. Without exaggeration, at least half of the customers on any given day are sporting Macs. And if you’re walking down Franklin Street on a bright Sunday afternoon, you just might get… a shotgun stuck in your face and asked to fork over all your money.

Yesterday afternoon was for fourth armed robbery in Chapel Hill in three days. We’re talking broad daylight. Sawed-off shotgun. Last week I heard some people talk about the recent murder of Eve Carson, the former student body president at UNC. I was in Mexico when this tragedy happened, so I needed to Google it to learn about the details. Apparently, in March of this year, two guys from nearby Durham just walked right into Eve’s house, abducted her, forced her to withdraw a bunch of money from an ATM, and then shot her numerous times. I read about this Thursday, then I find out Friday that someone had been beaten and robbed on campus the previous night. Monday morning I turn on the news and find out that two men were robbed at gunpoint in broad daylight on Franklin St. (the major, heavily populated hotspot in town) on Sunday afternoon. Also on Sunday, a woman was robbed at gunpoint at an ATM machine at the mall. Also, a man was robbed at knife-point in front of the Franklin hotel. Today on the news they report yet another ATM robbery. Again right here in little Chapel Hill, in broad daylight, with a gun. Now I’m starting to get a little freaked out. This is the place I convinced my wife was the best place for us to live? I do some more Googling. Find out that Chapel Hill’s annual “Apple Chill Festival” was recently cancelled–as in, it will never happen again–due to multiple gang-related shootings during the last round of festivities.

The community is obviously shaken by the recent turn of events. I’m shaken. People are talking and blogging about it, but discussions seem to come to a screeching halt as soon as the issue of race is brought up. It so happens that the perpetrators/suspects in all of these crimes fit the same general description: Young black male.

I have to admit, I find myself “profiling” based on race, dress and class in a lot of situations. Given there’s apparently a young black male–about six feet tall, wearing a solid colored T-shirt, sagging pants and baseball cap–running around town with a shotgun robbing people, one would have to be crazy not to be cautious around someone fitting that description. The problem is, of course, there are lots of people that fit that description, the vast majority of whom are not criminals. But what do we do with the fact that such a disproportionate number of violent crimes are being committed by young black males in Chapel Hill?

And why is it I only hear bigots and black stand-up comics talking frankly about racial issues? I admit it, I’m hesitant to post anything more about it on my blog, even though I’ve been thinking about this stuff for a week straight. I’ve deleted about four pages worth of thinking on this.

Fear breeds ignorance and ignorance keeps the status quo in place. And right now, I’m afraid.

Some things don’t change.

Drapetomania

According to Encyclopedia.com, drapetomania is form of mania supposedly affecting slaves in the nineteenth century, manifested by an uncontrollable impulse to wander or run away from their white masters, preventable by regular whipping.

An extreme example of pseudoscientific psychologism, to be sure. But the shit that psychologists, psychiatrists and drug companies peddle through the media these days is just as shameful, as far as I’m concerned. The fact that highly educated and otherwise reasonable people parrot back this “psychological problems = brain dysfunction” nonsense is upsetting, to say the least. If I were hooked up to brain scan machines, just thinking about this crap would undoubtedly set off a flurry of glucose consumption somewhere in my head, and the trippy colors on the screen could then be used as proof positive that I am suffering from a chemical imbalance of alarming proportions.

I’ve ranted on this too many times before [See Brain Rape and Anxiety and Elephants, Parts One, Two, Three, and Four] to say another word. Here’s Thomas Szasz making the point far better than I can:

Bang Bang Bob

I woke this morning with these words echoing in my head: “Lackawanna High School, ball and chain.” Utter nonsense, random words that spilled from whatever meaningless dream I was falling in and out of. It occurred to me as I rolled out of bed that I was as far removed from the state of equanimity I enjoyed in Mexico as I possibly could be. My mind is filled with echoes of used car commercials and the theme to Family Guy. My body is stiff with tension and I shuffle across the bedroom floor like I’m wearing a suit of armor. I tell myself “Today I start to come back to life”, but by the time I reach the bathroom I’m thinking it again: “Lackawanna High School, ball and chain.”

What in holy hell does it mean?!?! I think it three or four more times before I finish my morning pee. When I look in the mirror I can’t help but think back to a conversation Eric and I had this past weekend while we moved my stuff from Kentucky to Carolina. We were catching up during the ride to Lexington, chatting about old friends and some of the familiar faces I’d be seeing around town now that I’m coming back to Carrboro. It’s been five years, long enough to notice how people have aged. Eric joked how so and so had lost a lot of hair, grown a gut, and now looks like “Old Bart.” My friends and I often communicate like this using Simpsons references, this one referring to an episode where Bart is shown as he might look in the future, if he became male stripper with the moniker “Bang Bang Bart.”

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It was hilarious when we were talking about so and so, but this morning it wasn’t so pretty standing in front of the mirror with Bang Bang Bob looking back at me.

So I’m tired, worn down by the move and anxious about being broke and jobless. But today the dust is starting to settle. I know this because I wouldn’t be writing if it weren’t so. Soon enough I’ll be working again, and I’ll lament that I didn’t enjoy being jobless while I had the chance. Soon my wife will return from Mexico and my heart can at long last settle into its joyful rhythm.

Right now though, today, it’s finally hitting me–I’m back in Carrboro, this town that I love. There are boxes to unpack, errands to run, resumes to send out, things to remember, and things to forget.

“Lackawanna High School, ball and chain.” Maybe it meant nothing to me an hour ago, but now it’s a fucking mantra. Nothing means nothing.

Psych!

So, one of things I’ve been doing these days (other than rehabbing my knee) is thinking about the field of Psychology. I started trying to figure myself out at an early age, was a Psych major in college, and later on grabbed a funky Master’s Degree in East/West Psychology. On top of that, I’ve been working in the field for fifteen years, yet I’ve never considered myself a “psychologist.” This is probably because, in the technical sense of the term, a psychologist is a licensed professional, one who has jumped through a series of hoops which I’ve avoided for various reasons.

Yet, in a broader sense, I am a psychologist, as I’ve dedicated a big chunk of my life to a fairly systematic inquiry into the nature of human experience. As an undergrad, I had a real love-hate relationship to the field. More than anything, I was looking for a method of self-discovery, and what I found was an academic discipline which appeared disinterested in the deeper realms of subjective experience. A “study of the soul” it was not, especially at Binghamton University, where they took a strictly experimental science perspective. The APA (American Psychological Association) seemed to me to be “The Man,” keeping down creative inquiry for the sake of some money-driven status quo.

When I later moved to San Francisco and was exposed to the perspective of Transpersonal Psychology, my mind was blown and I felt like I had finally found my place in the field. As a graduate student at the California Institute of Integral Studies, I felt completely at home and certain that I would be a famous Transpersonal Psychologist who would rock the world with my brilliant discoveries.

But then those fucking APA Nazis pulled the rug out from under me, as I was told the East/West Psychology program would have to be torn down (with only the POSSIBILITY of eventual restructuring) in order for CIIS to meet new accreditation criteria. With student loan debts already at critical levels, it seemed insane to invest tens of thousands more into a program which might soon cease to exist, so I stopped my PhD work in its tracks, wrote a master’s thesis, and got out of Dodge.

Love and Rock N’ Roll took center stage for the next decade, and my work in the mental health field, while engaging and meaningful in many ways, has been primarily a matter of paying the bills. Which brings us to today, as I contemplate the next stage of my journey, the one that will begin when my wife and I return from Mexico in May.

For a while now, I’ve wanted to try my hand at teaching Psychology. The trouble has been — aside from my funky master’s degree giving pause to potential employers — that nearly all academic institutions are locked into the same cookie-cutter, status quo, APA sanctioned curriculum that drove me nuts back when I was an undergrad. So, I’ve been re-examining the landscape, seeing if there isn’t a way for me to operate within the established field while still bringing in the transpersonal and integral perspectives.

I’m sure it can be done, and in the coming weeks I might use this blog to think out loud a bit on this topic.

The Power of Now

My mother was watching “The Biggest Loser” the other night while I was exercising on the stationary bike. I remarked that it was hard for me to feel much sympathy for these grossly overweight people, much less give them a big pat on the back if and when they lost weight. After all, I said, isn’t that like giving someone a medal for ceasing to bang their head against a wall? I mean, it’s a good thing to lose weight, but aside from the rare thyroid condition or what have you, didn’t these people get fat in the first place because of ignorance and poor choices? Clearly, I wasn’t feeling much in the way of compassion for these people, and my mother got on me a bit, saying that not everybody is as disciplined as I am.

Now the first thing I thought to myself was “Shit — I’m always lamenting my LACK of discipline.” Then I really started to ponder about whether or not any of us really has a choice about such matters, whether or not we truly are responsible for our own misery and/or fulfillment. I’ve been operating on the premise that I, in fact, AM responsible for my own happiness, having seen time and again how I choose the dulling comfort of the status quo when faced with the possibility of deep personal change. So, naturally I assume most other adults choose a life of relative ignorance and suffer the consequences accordingly.

This way of thinking though, does let one off the hook when it comes to feeling compassion, which might be an indicator something is amiss. After all, isn’t compassion supposed to spring naturally and effortlessly from the state of spiritual wakefulness?

Anyway, later on I went upstairs and finished the book The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle, and came across the following:

It is misleading to say that somebody “chose” a dysfunctional relationship or any other negative situation in his or her life. Choice implies consciousness – a high degree of consciousness. Without it, you have no choice. Choice begins the moment you disidentify from the mind and its conditioned patterns, the moment you become present. Until you reach that point, you are unconscious, spiritually speaking. This means that you are compelled to think, feel, and act in certain ways according to the conditioning of your mind.

This makes a lot of sense to me, as did about ninety-nine percent of what Tolle had to say throughout the rest of the book. Apparently, Oprah liked the book as well, and her stamp of approval put the book in millions of hands. Basically, Tolle subscribes to the notion that the main barrier to spiritual enlightenment is our identification with the mind or ego. He advocates a practice of focusing awareness and attention on present moment experience, particularly the felt sense of the body, as a means of breaking our attachment to thought forms and thus realizing our true, transpersonal nature.

His basic view of enlightenment fits quite well with my own experience, and I appreciate his keen ability to express subtleties of spiritual inquiry in simple, direct language. In fact, he expresses his views in a pretty radical fashion, and it surprises me that so many people read his book. I wonder how many people really “bought” it. It struck me that if one REALLY believed what this guy was saying, the implications would be staggering in terms of how one goes about living one’s life. This certainly has been the case for me, although I’ve been struggling to integrate my transpersonal realizations into my daily life for many years now, long before I came across Tolle’s book.

For the most part, The Power of Now struck me as an articulate expression of what I already know to be true in my experience, at least as I understand it presently. However, I can’t endorse it a hundred percent. At times Tolle slips out of his clear, direct, experience-based language and makes bold, dogmatic metaphysical claims. For instance, he made reference to the Tibetan Book of the Dead and claimed one needed a certain degree of consciousness while dying in order to realize “conscious immortality,” or else be subject to “another round of birth and death.” This strikes me as nutty. How in the bloody hell does he know what happens at biological death? And he also equates women’s premenstrual tension with “the awakening of the collective female pain-body” — as if we’re just supposed to take his word for it. Again, this is kinda nutty, and would be quite enough for many to reject everything else he says. And that would be a shame.

I’ll close with another quote from the book that I dig. By “practicing surrender” Tolle is talking about accepting the present moment as it is, which means letting go of thought forms and becoming deeply present to the flow of experience as it felt in the body:

Until you practice surrender, the spiritual dimension is something you read about, talk about, get excited about, write books about, think about, believe in – or don’t, as the case may be. It makes no difference. Not until you surrender does it become a living reality in your life.

Helping people

There’s an interesting discussion going on at the Progressive Buddhism blog under the heading “The difficulty helping people.”

A commenter named Bill shared the following Taoist story, which I like a lot:

There’s an old Taoist story about a man whose horse ran away. When it happened, all his neighbors came over and said “Gee, it’s really awful that your horse ran away and so forth…” And the man said, “Maybe, maybe not.” The next day the horse came back and brought twenty really nice wild horses with it. And all the neighbors came and observed how really great it was that this guy now had all these new horses- and the man said, “Maybe, maybe not.” The next day the man’s son was out trying to break one of the horses, and got thrown off and broke his leg. All the neighbors came over and talked about how awful that was and so forth, and the man said, “Maybe, maybe not.”

So finally, the next day the army came by conscripting young men to go fight in some war, and they didn’t take the man’s son because he had a broken leg.

Harris good, Wilber bad

Blogger ~C4Chaos continues the Integral-Atheism discussion:

“Excellent discussion guys. allow me to address both your points with a link to a debate between Sam Harris and Scott Atran (post-Beyond Belief 2006 conference).

i do like Sam Harris, but i think Scott Atran had the upper-hand in this exchange due to Atran’s field experience and his implied approach of meeting people where they’re at, in short, Atran’s arguments is more “integral” than Harris’s arguments, especially when it comes to the discussion of sacred values.”

My response:

I’ve written about this many times before, but it always amazes me when highly intelligent people disagree. What does it say about reason that we can support almost any claim? That’s a whole other discussion, I know.

I must have some bias for Sam Harris’s way of thinking, because I always seem to agree with him. He has a real knack for cutting to the quick:

“The point is not that all religious people are bad; it is not that all bad things are done in the name of religion; and it is not that scientists are never bad, or wrong, or self-deceived. The point is this: intellectual honesty is better (more enlightened, more useful, less dangerous, more in touch with reality, etc. ) than dogmatism. The degree to which science is committed to the former, and religion to the latter remains one of the most salient and appalling disparities to be found in human discourse.”

Ironically (as a supposed, pro-evidence guy), what I didn’t like about Atran’s essay is his continual referencing of social science studies. Whenever someone says “Studies show…”, I get very skeptical. Without the study in front of me, I have only the author’s interpretation to rely on, an interpretation which I may or may not agree with. I’ve always preferred common sense arguments to “Studies show” arguments. Working in the mental health field as long as I have, I’ve seen first hand how economic, political, and personal agendas can distort the process of scientific research. This too, is another discussion, although I’m surprised religious-minded folk don’t use this argument more when railing against a science-based society. Scientific conclusions are often not nearly as objective as people might think.

Wilber is a master at stretching the “Studies show” spiel to support a conclusion that he undoubtedly arrived at long before digging up the research. Look how much mileage he’s gotten out of Taylor’s TM study. I’d be more impressed with AQAL if Wilber came right out and said “I just came up with this shit, because it makes so much sense” — instead of trying to make it look like a model built from the ground up through careful examination of empirical evidence.

With that, I’m WAY off topic and revealing to myself (and probably to all of you) what MY not-so-hidden agenda in all this must be, namely to shoot down Ken Wilber and to prop up Sam Harris. WHY I’m compelled to do this, only semi-consciously, I’m not sure. I’ll have to sit with that a bit.

Radical Authenticity

So, I’m sitting here trying to revision the concept of “spirituality,” strip it of all religious baggage, and make it accessible to reasonable, critical thinkers for all time. Unfortunately, my knee is aching a bit, so I’ll have to knock this out in the next ten minutes or so. Well, shit, I may as well just Google it then, as I’m sure someone has already figured the whole thing out…

No way! Somebody DID figure it out. And that somebody was ME! Sort of. About seven or eight years ago my friend Steve asked me to write an essay for a book he was editing about the “Spirit of Generation X.” I tried my best to distill my twenty-something wisdom down to its essence, and what I came up with was the concept of “Radical Authenticity.” Basically, that’s my life project, in a nutshell. To be as fully myself as possible, to realize my potential as a human being, to wake the fuck up. So, I Googled the phrase “Radical Authenticity” and lo and behold I made three — count ’em three — amazing discoveries. First, my essay has recently been re-published on some “Integral” website. “How embarrassing!” was my first thought, as my writing style was pathetically imitative back then (it still is to some degree). I even used the word “alas” at one point, which is straight up Ken Wilber at his most pompous. Second, some dude from the Institute of Transpersonal Psychology wrote an entire dissertation on the concept of “Radical Authenticity” and created Radical Authenticity.com. Now I’ll look like a poser for using the phrase, although it seems I coined it first. Lastly, that man-weasel cult leader Andrew Cohen has apparently become fond of using the phrase in recent years (again, post my essay), making it even more difficult for me to reclaim and re-tool the concept.

Okay, maybe “man-weasel” is a little harsh. And although Cohen does strike me as an ego-maniacal cult leader freak, I must admit I like the way he unpacks the concept of Radical Authenticity. Here’s what he says:
[From “The Challenge of Radical Authenticity“]:

There is a battle to be fought between the ego’s investment in image and falsehood and the authentic self’s passion for truth and transparency. Most of us do not have the courage to aspire for true integrity of self and soul. Even those who have deep and powerful experiences of higher states of consciousness, of profound emptiness and intoxicating joy, usually remain terrified of radical authenticity. But if evolution is to occur in a way that is stable and meaningful, radical authenticity is the most important part of the path. The power of your own potential transformation ultimately rests on how deeply authentic you are capable of being, at a soul level, as a human being. Radical authenticity is the ultimate threat to falsehood.

And that other dude really goes all-out in his definition [From RadicalAuthenticity.com]:

The word authenticity comes from two Greek words, “autos,” meaning self, and “entea,” meaning tool or instrument. The word radical comes from the Latin word “radix,” meaning root that goes to the source or center of something’s life (Webster’s New Twentieth Century Dictionary Unabridged, 1979.). Consequently, used together, the phrase connotes that a person is the very best tool or instrument one can be in the world to the extent that one’s actions and very mode of being flow from one’s center, or Source of being.

Additionally, for me there is another key implication in the phrase: Assuming that we all come from the one same Source—and that this is a benevolent and congruent Source—it follows that to the extent that one is radically authentic, i.e., whose actions flow from the very Source of who one is, then the result of those actions serve not only the individual but also all those impacted by those actions . . . at least in the long term, if not the short.

God bless Google. I can hit the sack now that my work is done here. I’ll keep thinking about this tomorrow. Maybe I need a new phrase. Integral Authenticity? Nah, too Wilberian. How about Head the gong? No… Too idiosyncratic (and too cool to pimp out for such purposes).

More on this later…