Arranging the Furniture on the Titanic

You want to hope for something better than what you have right now, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be hoping. But then, you forget that you have it all right now anyway, and you don’t know it.
Anthony de Mello

I love setting intentions for the New Year. There’s something very satisfying about getting clear on where I’d like to see my life heading. I usually come up with a list of twenty or so intentions, such as “to live simply, laugh often, love deeply” or “to invest wisely, see my assets grow, and have a worry-free income of 5%.” When I look back at the previous year, I’m always amazed to see how many of these intentions have manifested—often in totally unexpected ways. I soon learned how important it is to be very specific in what I ask for. One year I forgot to mention that I wanted a year free from legal hassles. That was the year I got sued.

Recently I’ve taken a different approach to setting intentions. I’m more willing to let God, Source, or Spirit be in charge, rather than “me” trying to be in control of my life. I realize that I have no idea how spirit is meant to move through this body-mind. Who is to know if what the “little me” wants is for my highest good? All it wants is to avoid pain and find pleasure. Lately it has come down to one simple intention: to live each moment in present moment awareness—and let God take care of the rest.

I've also begun to question whether setting goals really takes us where we want to go in our personal lives. It works well for business, which is quantifiable, but does it work for finding something as abstract as happiness? There are three important things we often miss:

1) All goal setting is future-oriented—and there is no future. It is essentially an attempt to create a new and better dream for ourselves. If we do the steps in our plan, we believe that we’ll feel better, be more fulfilled and happy. But doing things to make the ego feel better is all happening within the dream of illusion. Because it is within the dream, we’ll inevitably experience the pain and suffering that comes along with it, no matter how successful our action plan is. We’ll have a few moments of feeling good, believing that “we” (our egos) have accomplished something. But then dissatisfaction will set in and we’ll go on to the next thing to accomplish, and the next, all towards some impossible end when all our goals are satisfied. But there is no end.

Fulfilling our goals can at the most bring short-term happiness (otherwise, why would we need to go on to the next one?). We have to ask what it is that we really want, beyond satisfying our desires. What if we were to turn our attention inward to finding happiness that doesn’t come and go, and fulfillment where there is nothing that needs to be filled? The first step is going beyond the illusion that there is something out there in the future that will make us happy.

As Eckhart Tolle says, “The joy of Being, which is the only true happiness, cannot come to you through any form, possession, achievement, person, or event—through anything that happens. That joy cannot come to you—ever. It emanates from the formless dimension within you, from consciousness itself and thus is one with who you are.”

2) Most intention setting is based on the fundamental assumption that there is something wrong with me, and I have to somehow “fix” it. For whatever reasons, I am not enough just the way I am—because if I was enough, what would there be to “fix”? Working with intentions distracts us from the realization that we already are whole and complete.

Can you conceive of the radical thought that right in this moment there is absolutely nothing missing in your life?

The mind will immediately say, “No, no that’s not possible! I need to be a better husband, I need to be more surrendered, I need to inspire others.” But what if there was absolutely nothing missing in your life right now? Where would that leave you? You’d have to let go of all your dreams about the future and realize that right now is all there is.

As Alan Cohen says, “You are not a black hole that needs to be filled; you are a light that needs to be shined. The days of self-improvement are gone, and the era of self-affirmation is upon us. It is time to quit improving yourself and start living.”

3) No matter how many action steps you take, no matter how many goals you set, how many values you identify, you’re still trying to patch up the ego—and the ego, by its very nature, is unfixable. It’s the job of the ego to be dissatisfied and always want more. Trying to fix the ego is like trying to plug the holes in a sinking ship. The boat is eventually going to sink. The question is—are you willing to jump off the boat and be free?

If you were “enough,” if you had no fear, and you were living in the fullness of who you are, would you need an action plan? Does someone like Eckhart Tolle live his life from an action plan? I doubt it. From that place of being fully present, you would know that in every moment you were doing exactly what you needed to be doing, that your life was being revealed in exquisite perfection from moment to moment.

What if your 2009 action plan was not to have a plan—other than to offer love now—and trust that your life is unfolding perfectly just as it is?

David Deida speaks to this when he says, “Enlightenment is the capacity to open and be lived by the love that is already, miraculously, living your life, despite all your current torment and refusal. Instant enlightenment is to offer love now—whatever the circumstance—without waiting for things to get better.”

Setting goals can be helpful in this difficult world, even if it is rearranging the furniture on the deck of the Titanic as it sinks slowly into the silent sea. We might as well enjoy the ride. Action plans, workshops and self-help books help us to feel good about ourselves. But they will never bring us the happiness we are looking for. That’s because we are creating our goals using the conditioned mind—the mind that feels it needs to find solutions and come up with strategies to solve its problems. It asks all the wrong questions, based on likes and dislikes, the past and the future, and avoidance of pain.

To go beyond conditioned mind to clear mind, it helps to enter into a process of self inquiry, asking the question, “Who is it that wants to make goals?” or “What is it that needs to be renewed”? Until we are willing to drop into that place of “not-knowing” that these questions lead to, achieving every goal on our list will not bring us inner peace. That can only come through unconditional awareness, where we don’t need anything and there’s nowhere further to go. That doesn’t mean we don’t do anything with our lives, it just means that there is no longer anyone there “doing” it.

Having said all this, I'm still having fun setting intentions for the New Year—though I'm less attached to the results.

When Bodies Break Down

To identify oneself with the body and yet to seek happiness is like attempting to cross a river on the back of an alligator. Ramana Maharshi

After a week-long trip to Washington, DC, I come back to Hawaii with a cold, a nagging cough, and a body that feels like it’s been run over by a truck. My eyes are burning, my brain is in a fog, and all I want to do is climb into bed and sleep. When I finally do sleep, I wake up just as tired as before.

This fatigue is nothing new. Recently I found out that I have parasites, and may have been carrying them for twenty years. I did one of those unpleasant treatments, which is worse than the disease. Just yesterday I found out that the treatment didn’t work, and not only that, the parasites are even more active! No wonder I’m so tired all the time. Together with a minor squamous cell surgery that is not healing, and the continuing existence of prostate cancer cells in my body, I feel like one of those old rust-bucket cars, where the muffler falls off, and as soon as you fix that, then the transmission goes.

One of the side effects of getting older is that the body seems to break down with alarming frequency.

I love what Robert Adams, a spiritual teacher, said. This was when he was ill with Parkinson’s disease, and shortly before his death in 2004: “I want to let you in on a little secret. There are no problems. There never were any problems, there are no problems today, and there never will be any problems. Problems just mean the world isn’t turning out the way you want it to.”

The challenge, as always, is how to be OK when things are not going the way you’d like them to.

What can we do?

1. Accept that this is what is happening. We’ll find ourselves a lot more peaceful if we can say, “OK, this is what is happening. If I fight it or struggle against it, it will only create more suffering.

2. We can also say, “I have a preference that things would be different, but this is what is. Right here, right now, in this moment, all is well. Behind my discomfort there is a peace that is unchanging. If I can be still for an instant, it is there.”

3. We can take whatever steps are necessary to take care of things. I can see my doctor about another way of getting rid of the parasites; I can work more on an anti-cancer diet; I can be grateful for the love that is present in my life in every moment.

Pema Chodron

Sometimes I have trouble with the Buddhist teachings, especially when they get into the Eight Worldly Dharmas, the Six Kinds of Loneliness, the Six Paramitas and all that stuff. But, after some resistance, I became totally absorbed in Pema Chodron's book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times. Here are a few quotes that lit me up.

To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh.

The process of becoming unstuck quires tremendous bravery, because basically we are completely changing our way of perceiving reality, like changing our DNA.

Without giving up hope—that there’s somewhere better to be, that there’s someone better to be—we will never relax with where we are or who we are.

We can’t attain enlightenment, let alone feel contentment and joy, without seeing who we are and what we do, without seeing our patterns and our habits . . . it’s a process by which self-deception becomes so skillfully and compassionately exposed that there’s no mask that can hide us anymore.

The middle way is wide open, but it's tough going, because it goes against the grain of an ancient neurotic pattern that we all share. When we feel lonely, when we feel hopeless, what we want to do is move to the right or left. We don't want to sit and feel what we feel. We don't want to go through the detox. Yet the middle way encourages us to do just that. It encourages us to awaken the bravery that exists in everyone without exception, including you and me.

New Beginnings

Day 27
I’m not prepared for what I see when Linda walks into the terminal. She looks young, radiant, and glowing. We hug each other passionately. “You’re not going to believe it,” she says, looking at me with eyes of love. “I’m a different person. I've been reborn.”

"I can see that," I say, placing a sweet-smelling lei around her neck. "It's so clear."

This marks the beginning of a new life for both of us.

And it all started with a simple intention of doing a month-long retreat.

Doing the Work

There comes a time in the affairs of man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation. W.C. Fields

Day 26
When Linda calls, I can’t believe she's the same person who left a few days ago. There’s a new aliveness and strength coming through her voice, like someone who has woken up from a long nightmare to finds themselves fully and joyfully alive. What a courageous journey she's been on. She'll be home in less than twenty-four hours.

Without my usual social interactions during the retreat, I’m noticing that when I talk to people, that I smile a lot. Nothing wrong with that, but at some point the smile becomes forced. I can even feel the muscles of my face tighten when it happens. I remember David Deida, an old friend, saying, “Peter, I often see you smile when you’re not feeling like smiling. It’s not authentic. What is it that you’re hiding?”

I have a session with David and Tom, my two therapists, and tell them about my compulsive need to smile. “It’s your way of coping.” Tom says. “You try and please everyone by being nice.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Smiling is my way of keeping everything on the surface, so I don’t have to show any emotions. I can keep everyone at a distance. It’s like skippping a stone across the surface of a pond."

David says, “So, this is a chance for you to be more serious than you take yourself to be.”

“That’s so true. If I was serious, friends would see who I really am - a frightened little child that feels completely worthless, I'm terrified that they'd abandon me.”

Tom hands out one of his helpful little lifelines: “Be gentle with yourself. Your friends clearly see who you are—a kind, loving person."

I love these guys.

A thought pops to mind. “I also smile so that I can avoid confrontation of any kind. I’m terrified of strong, aggressive men. I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with someone like Donald Trump or Vince Vaughan.” Heat courses through my belly. “Wow, there’s so much rage in there!”

“What would it be like to let that masculine side out more?” David asks. “What if you could let more feelings come through—anger when you’re angry, sadness when you’re sad, without being afraid it will overwhelm you?”

“That would feel so good.”

“And you can be the curious observer, watching it all,” Tom adds.

It’s hard to believe that I’m still dealing with the “wounded child” at my age. But if it helps me open my heart and be authentic, I don’t care if I’m a hundred years old and still doing this stuff. It’s not done until it’s done. Ya gotta do the work, baby.

Renewal

Day 21
Clare calls from the Ibogaine Clinic to tell me that Linda has gotten through her first treatment with an A+. There were two doctors with her the whole time. A number of people have died while taking ibogaine and they take every precaution.

I’ve had my phone on “silent” for the retreat, but recently turned it on to make sure I didn’t miss a call from Linda if she needed me. The phone rings and it's my dear friend Christine calling from New Mexico, saying that she and Kenn will be visiting Maui in November. What wonderful news. Once I feel complete in myself, the people I love most in my life seem to be miraculously showing up all around me.

Linda calls. It's like talking to a completely different person - clear, strong, and at peace with herself. What a huge step this is. Of all things, she met with a naturopath today and enjoyed it. She’s even eating real food (instead of caffeine and sugar). She's tired after the treatment, but tells me that she went to a place where constellations of stars rearranged themselves into form. "I came away with a deep acceptance of what is," she says. "It was like my brain was reset to the clarity and innocence of a six-year-old. And I don't have any craving for the pain meds." It's almost too much to believe.

The Core of Life

Let’s remember why we’re here at retreat: for the amazing opportunity to really look into the core of our existence, the core of life itself that is so easy to overlook. It’s not easy to pay attention to it, because it’s not noisy and it’s not clamoring for attention like all other aspects of the human mind. Adyashanti

Day 20

With Linda gone, I'm sure that my fear of abandonment will show itself. I've been haunted by this fear ever since my mother died when I was twelve. The frightened child in me believes that if someone is not physically present, they might just as well be dead. That was my experience as a boy when I was told to “get over it” after my mother disappeared off the face of the earth. No one in the family ever spoke of her again; photos were hidden away; any sign of her was eradicated. In my twenties, this fear left me suicidal when I went to live alone in Paris, leaving behind friends and family. Unable to make friends and not knowing the language, I spiraled into depression. Since then I‘ve been afraid that if I was left alone again, the depression would come back to devour me.

Now I have the chance to sit with my aloneness. Since I'm on retreat, I don't want to take any easy outs - calling a friend or distracting myself on the computer. I sit quietly on the lanai, watching the thoughts float up to the surface. How interesting, there's the thought, "Where is Linda now? I'm on my own. No one even knows I'm here. Maybe I should call someone . . ." Much to my surprise, the thoughts come up and drift away; they no longer have any charge. Inside of experiencing emptiness, I'm experiencing fullness. What was once an “empty hole” needing to be constantly filled is now whole and complete. It is my own Self . . . the gift of retreat.

Ibogaine

Day 20

As soon as I start to slow my life down, Linda begins to undergo a major shift around her health. For 12 years she has lived with Behcets Disease, an auto-immune illness similar to Lupus or MS. It leaves her in a state of almost constant pain. To help relieve that pain her doctors give her pain meds, gradually having to increase her dosage as her tolerance to the meds goes up. Now she needs enough medication to kill an elephant to keep the pain tolerable. Even with the meds (and partly because of them), her quality of life becomes barely tolerable. For days on end, she barely gets off the couch. She often longs for life to be over, so that she can escape from the constant pain. It is a nightmare of waking up every day with what feels like the flu, along with mouth sores, painful rashes, aching joints, and a swollen belly.

While searching on the internet, Linda comes across a treatment for chronic pain called ibogaine. Ibogaine is a natural substance made from the bark of the iboga tree in West Africa. It has been used for centuries by the pygmies in Africa for its healing properties. When taken, it provides a psychedelic experience, where many go through a “life review.” Only recently scientists have found out that it also is a highly effective drug for treating addiction of all kinds, from heroine, to cocaine, to alcohol, to pain meds, to gambling. It seems to “reset” the brain, taking away the cravings that drugs create.

Linda gets so fed up with her twelve-year dependency on pain meds that she calls the Ibogaine Clinic in Rosita, Mexico and decides to go next week for treatment. For Linda to make this choice, and get on a plane by herself, is huge. Believe it or not, she leaves tomorrow. It’s the first time we’ve been apart in six months, and the first time she’s gone anywhere on her own in the seventeen years we’ve been married.

I get to spend the week alone.

Being

Day 15 The idea of just stopping—nowhere to go, nothing to do—becomes more and more familiar. I always had a fear that if I stopped, I’d be like an old person in a nursing home, staring vacantly out into space. So far I’m not drooling—not yet anyway.

Practice Run

Day 13

This retreat is just a practice run—a taste. I’m being pulled to do it longer, deeper.

The real challenge for me is with people. I’m so happy to be in silence. Whenever I do talk, I find myself incredibly impatient. Ninety-nine percent of what I talk about seems totally unnecessary, totally unimportant, totally preprogrammed, and endlessly repetitive. At times I feel I could just put in a tape, play my past conversation, and go to sleep.

Until I can remain in that place of unconditioned awareness without being shaken from it, there is no way out. Who would guess that I’d be happy saying to people, “I’ll see you in a month.”

I have blissful evenings sitting on the lanai reading, watching it get dark, hearing the mynahs fly down to their nests for the night, smelling the sweet, fragrant night-blooming jasmine. I’m in heaven.

One of my most treasured books is The Heart of Awareness, a beautiful and moving translation of the Ashtavakra Gita, one of India's most sacred texts:

What is yesterday,
Tomorrow,
Or today?
What is space,
or eternity?
I sit in my own radiance.

Why talk of wisdom,
The three ends of life,
Or oneness?
Why talk of these!
Now I live in my heart.

Growing Up

Day 12 Our puppy Kamalani is finally growing up. No more nipping, yelping, chewing, crying, biting, whining, tugging, jumping in the morning. I’m sitting in my chair with Kamalani lying quietly at my feet. Is he just picking up on my calm energy? Change yourself and the whole world changes around you.

Hibernation

Day 11
All I can hear is the creaking and cracking of the bamboo swaying in the wind, the cooing of the doves, and the distant sound of someone working on their house. An airplane flies by. I'm sitting on the lanai with the laptop on my lap, feeling I should be writing something, yet there is nothing to say. The retreat has been a soothing balm to my brain. I seem to have dropped all anxiety about having to “produce” every moment of my life. It’s finally time to put the computer—and my mind—on “hibernate” for a while.

It amazes me to see how wrapped up I’ve been with writing for the past ten years, day after day, thinking I have some important message to share with the world. In the last six months, three books have come out with the same message I thought was so important—and doing it better than I could have done. So, where does that leave me? Free! I no longer have to save the world!

Elizer Sobel out-wrote, out-experienced, out-humored me in his book The 99th Monkey; Mark Matousek out-researched, out-performed, out-slicked me in When You’re Falling, Dive. James Swartz out-memoired, out-sexed, out-nondualed me in his online memoir. The funny part is that I can barely remember the names of their books and none of them have stuck with me. The stuff I wrote is just as forgettable. Even funnier, any idea of getting rich off a book went out the window. I doubt any of them made more than a few pennies. So, what was I was trying to prove?

In retrospect the book was an attempt to win the “next race,” to be recognized, to be better than, to give the finger to just about everyone. Now I have no idea where the writing will go—if it goes anywhere—and it no longer matters.

Adyashanti talks about the idea of “striving” (coming from the mind), versus “allowing” (coming from a place of not-knowing). True creativity is like an artesian well, naturally bubbling up from the earth. Ego-creativity is like using a high-pressure pump to force it up from the depths.

Coming Down

Day 10

So much for all the highfalutin stuff. Most mornings I just want to sleep. Afternoons I usually have to run off to a doctor’s appointment or make calls about selling the Roadtrek . Who cares? Retreat is still happening—sitting in the dentist’s chair, on the phone, walking on the beach, taking a nap.

My life is beginning to slow down. Any activity becomes all the more pronounced. I’m detoxing from my frenetic life. Right now my mind feels fuzzier than when I began the retreat. Maybe it’s from slowing down; maybe it’s the toxic rubber smell from our “organic” mattress after putting it out in the sun. Who knows? Even a toxic mattress is part of the plan.

Let the Happiness Begin

Day 5
What amazes me is how the very intention of retreat sets events in motion that are beyond anything I could ever have imagined—finding true peace for the first time in my life; Linda making shifts with her health; both of us opening to an entirely new paradigm for being in the world. These shifts have nothing to do with anything external--it comes from the pure and simple intention of opening the space for “retreat.”

Still, it's very easy to get caught. When I look at the calendar, I’m surprised to find that I’ve set up appointments for every day of the week—doctors, dentists, acupuncturists, massage. Surely this couldn’t relate to my being on a silent retreat? The mind is so tricky. I cancel every appointment I can and breathe a sigh of relief.

Linda and I fall in love again--not that we ever fell out of love, but there is a deep renewal of gratitude and appreciation for each other.

We walk on Thomson Road with the dogs.It is one of those magical spots on Maui--a narrow, winding road on the slopes of Haleakala that leads to Oprah's ranch and a few other houses. Far below us we can see the ocean and the island of Lanai; to our left pasture and ranch land rise up into the clouds, looking like the moors of Scotland.

“Let the happiness begin,” Linda says, looking into my eyes with love. These are the words that came to her in a dream before we even met. In the dream she had a vision of us both facing each other, with sparks of light flying between us. Linda has had profound mystical experiences since she was a child. The first time she attended a spiritual retreat she went into a state of bliss where she could barely feed herself for days. Although she never joined a spiritual group, had a teacher, or did formal practices, she is able to effortlessly slip into that place of unity consciousness where the whole universe can appear in a dewdrop.

Doing Nothing

Day 4
As “serious” spiritual retreats go, this is a joke. I think of Tenzin Palmo, an Englishwoman who spent 12 years alone in a remote Himalayan Cave at 13,200 feet. Every night she sat upright in a tiny 2’6” X 2’6” meditation box, having trained herself to do without sleep (sleeping is for wimps). I have my nice king-size bed with Linda at my side and two dogs at my feet. Is this any “less” spiritual?

Linda and I go into a deep place of joy every morning as we listen to Peter Fenner’s CD course on Radiant Mind. Where it hits home is when he speaks about our habitual need to be doing something.

Can I really give myself permission to do nothing? What an outrageous idea! My whole life has been defined by how much I achieve and how busy and active I am—sitting at the computer, writing the book, doing errands, getting exercise, seeing friends. Deep down I have this fear that if I was to stop I'd become one of those old geysers in a nursing home, with drool running down the side of my mouth! When I was at the dentist the other day, getting two new crowns, the drool did start running down the side of my mouth. And it wasn’t so bad.

Peter Fenner offers a beautiful practice called “Just Sitting.” It involves little more than sitting still for twenty minutes a day, either on a chair or lying down, observing whatever comes up—thoughts, sensations, feelings. No need to change anything. No need to do anything. By just sitting, with no need to effort or force anything, we naturally open to unconditional awareness. Everything we could ever need is present right here, right now. There is nowhere to go. This is it.

I start to slow down—even though I’m still making calls about selling the Roadtrek and responding to a few e-mails. Linda and I talk, but remain mostly in conversational silence. Our dogs Luke and Kamalani love it when we’re quiet. The four of us open up a whole other level of communication—a simple level of “beingness.” Since I started the retreat three weeks ago, our puppy Kamalani has dramatically calmed down, no doubt reflecting my inner state of being.

Colors are heightened. Sounds are intensified. I see trees and sky and things around me that I have been oblivious to. I even start to walk differently, my shoulders relaxed and arms hanging loosely by my sides, instead of being all tensed up and leaning forward, as if I’m in a desperate hurry to get somewhere (which I usually am). I feel like Yogi Amrit Desai (my former guru), who looked like liquid velvet when he walked. At least that’s one thing he did right.

I become aware of when my mind is racing. I begin to access quiet mind.

David and Tom, my newfound counselors and “life coaches,” support me on the journey. “Be gentle with yourself,” Tom says. I explore the role that comforts play in my life (sex,wine, and chocolate). For years these have been my “friends,” and have served a purpose. Now it’s time for a change. Instead of relying on these comforts to "fill me up," I am filled by the richness of silence. Still, a little spoonful of ice cream every night couldn’t be that harmful!

As Richard Dreyfus used to say, (playing the psychiatrist in What About Bob) used to say, “Baby steps. Take small baby steps.”

I see my urologist (who has a “God bless America” sign on his office door) and find out that the cancer is still active in my body (though my PSA has stayed relatively stable since the radiation). I’m happy as a clam to find out that I don't have to do any further treatment for at least six months.

Linda and I fall in love again. We go for walks on Thomson Road with the dogs (where Oprah has her ranch). We sit in silence together. As soon as I start to slow down, Linda begins to undergo a major shift around her health. After 12 years of pain and suffering she is opening to a new way of being. We begin to see that she doesn’t have to be down for me to be up, and vice-versa.

Hedonist's Retreat

Retreat is for those who desire to deeply realize the truth of their being and the essence of existence. Retreat offers time to step back from the course of daily life and enter into the Unknown. Adyashanti

Day 1

Today is the first day of a month-long retreat—Peter style, with wine, good food, talking when needed, reading what I want to, and The Daily Show. “You call this a retreat?” you may ask. Yes, because it's about doing nothing; it's about stepping out from the thinking mind; it's about stopping long enough to be quiet. I spend most of my time in silence, but talk when practicalities need taking care of. Linda and I talk from time to time—but for the most part we are just as happy in silence. What I enjoy most is giving her a warm hug in the morning and looking directly in her eyes, all without words. What a difference from, “How did you sleep last night, honey?” as I glance up from the newspaper.

This is no Vipassana retreat—no getting up at 4:00 AM, meditating until your knees and whole body aches, eating watery soup and tea, not even looking at other people. Leave that for seekers who believe that deprivation and hard work is the way to enlightenment. Who said that we had to torture ourselves to find God? Yes, we need to drop old beliefs and move beyond attachment and aversion, but who says we have to flagellate ourselves in the process? Even the Buddha got that one.

The big difference is that I’m not doing this retreat in order to get anywhere. There is nowhere to go, no place to get to. I know that I’m already here/there. I know that all it takes is slowing down enough to see what has always been there—spacious presence. Personally, I can drop in to that awakened awareness a lot more easily if I’m not in pain and major discomfort.

My morning “practice” on the first day of retreat is draining the pond, a physically demanding job, using the sump pump, squeegees, and a bucket to get all the sludge out. At 10:00 I take a break so that Linda and I can listen to Peter Fenner’s CD course on Radiant Mind. In no time we are both blissfully resting in unconditioned awareness. It’s not that difficult, not that dramatic. It’s right here, right now.

Peter Fenner, a spiritual teacher from Australia, has a beautiful approach to awakening, using the mind to transcend the mind. He begins by exploring the obstacles to awakening, naming five main ways we keep ourselves from bliss:

1. Through our attachment to suffering.
2. Through our habitual need to be doing something.
3. Through our need to know.
4. Through our need to create meaning.
5. Through our projections about what unconditional awareness is or isn’t.

Remove the obstacles and what has been there all along is finally revealed.

“What are the main areas in life where you suffer?” Peter asks on the CD.
I start jotting down the first thoughts that come to mind: expectations about being successful, being recognized being accepted. What suffering I create for myself through wanting any of them, because, no matter how successful I am, how recognized I am, or how accepted I am, it will never be enough.

“Why do you think that it’s happening?” he asks.

Because I don’t accept myself as I am, because I’m terrified that I will fall into a dark, black hole if I stop struggling and achieving.

He then asks, “How do you feel about your suffering right now?”

Fine, I realize. There’s nothing wrong with the suffering being there. Who said that identification with form didn’t bring suffering along with it?

Then it’s time for lunch and a nap. No need to answer the phone, no need to respond to e-mails. What a delight. Although I love my friends, it’s refreshing not to have to talk to them—especially since most of what we talk about is the same stuff we’ve talked about for thirty years. (Only later do I realize that it's me who is keeping things from going deeper).

The minute my poor, wretched, exhausted mind starts to unwind and slow down, a sense of spaciousness begins to open up. It feels like my brain has been in a death spin for the past few months, constantly going over scenarios, trying to figure out what to do with the book, worrying about this and that.

Now it’s time for “no thinking.”

One Breath at a Time

Anything unmet or unseen will be like a little button with a 'push-me’ sticker on in—and it attracts fingers.
Adyashanti

It’s all very easy to talk about spirituality in the comfort of our living room or at a retreat where everyone is in bliss and enjoying three meals a day. But life usually isn’t so benign.

This thought comes to me as I lean my head against the curve of the fuselage, while peeing 37,000’ above the ocean. Whether you're traveling first class or coach, airplane lavatories are all the same - the same chemical smell, the same horrible sucking sound when you flush, the same tiny sink that you can barely get your hands in, and the not-so-nice signs of previous occupants.

Suddenly the floor bounces underneath me. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats . . .” I zip up and wash my hands, still feeling like I need to pee. The face in the mirror looks bleary and red-eyed. I open the flimsy bi-fold doors and make my way back down the narrow aisle like a sailor in a rough sea.

As I fasten my seatbelt, my whole body resists being crammed into the narrow, hard seat. My tailbone hurts, my eyes burn, my belly is distended, my feet are swollen, my mind is in a fog — so much for the romantic image of flying “the friendly skies.”

I don't know how the Dalai Lama does it - traveling around the globe, dictating a new book, conferring with staff, writing correspondence, meditating for hours on end, preparing to meet with heads of state.

Not by having two glasses of wine as I just did.

It’s been a rough trip. I'm on the last leg back to Hawaii from a trip to the East coast, where I went from healthy to being sick in 24 hours.

Life has a way of throwing things at us when we least expect it. And wow, did I get caught. I watched it happen, like sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. The more I struggled to get free, the deeper I sank. All the prayers, all the affirmations, all the self-awareness could not get me out.

At first I tried to relax and watch the thoughts come and go without resisting them. I stayed with the discomfort, then stayed with it some more.

Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.

I told myself, "These thoughts are not real; these feelings are not real. Who is it that is having the thoughts?" For a few moments that helps.

All I can do is take one breath at a time. Breath comes, breath goes; joy comes, joy goes; suffering comes, suffering goes. What is it that doesn’t come and go?

None of this makes my sore behind, burning eyes, or bloated belly any better, but it does give me some peace of mind.

One breath at a time. Whenever I start to latch on to a thought . . . breath in, breath out. On and on and on. One breath at a time.

The moment I'm willing to accept all of it - pain or pleasure - a voice comes over the intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing in Maui in approximately twenty minutes . . .”

Radiant Joy

Your head is already in the tiger’s mouth. There is no escape.
Ramana Maharshi
A few months ago I found out that I had advanced prostate cancer. That’s the name they give to cancer that comes back after a radical prostatectomy. At first I thought I would die in a year and go out in a blaze off glory. I was almost disappointed when I found out that the prognosis is around ten or so years. The treatment options were confusing and a little scary, with possible side effects ranging from impotence, to incontinence, and serious bowel problems. I opted for radiation, which means receiving forty treatments over a period of two months.
Every day, except weekends and holidays, I climb into the car to make the forty-minute drive to the hospital in Kahului, Maui; I bring the dogs along for company, a book on tape for entertainment, and enough water so that I can fill up my bladder before each treatment. I drive past some of the most beautiful sights in the world—the famous windsurfing beach called Hookipa, the West Maui mountains in the distance, and the massive 10,000 foot Haleakala mountain—House of the Sun—on my left. It’s not exactly a chore. I park my car in the specially assigned spaces for cancer patients (the best perk of all) and walk across the road to the Pacific Cancer Clinic.

“Peter, how are you?” Jeannie asks from behind the front desk. Energetic, petite, and always cheerful, she greets each cancer patient personally as they come in for chemotherapy or radiation. She is one of those extraordinary angels that lights everyone up with her warmth and caring.
“I’m great Jeannie. How’s your son doing?”
“He’s good,” she says cheerily. Her son Brock was severely injured in a motorcycle accident two months ago and lost his left foot.
“You’re amazing Jeannie. I don’t know how you do it.” She not only takes care of everyone who comes to the Cancer Clinic, but her son, her daughter, and husband.
Nerissa appears at the double doors with her wonderful smile and signals that it’s time for my treatment.
“Got to go.”
“Bye . . .”
On the way to the x-ray room, I wave to Janice at her desk, then say hello to Tim and Steve, the two radiology technicians—those unsung heroes who spend all day treating folks with every form of cancer imaginable—brain cancer, stomach cancer, prostate cancer, breast cancer—some of them so sick they can’t even walk. Yet somehow they remain cheery and upbeat. They lead me into a room with an enormous machine that looks like something out of Star Wars. The body cast for my legs is already waiting for me on the narrow metal platform. I take off my shoes, and feeling like a fighter pilot fitting into his flight suit, I put my legs into the cast and lie back down. The cast ensures that my legs are in the same position for each treatment.
Whether out of laziness or because it’s sunny and warm most days in Hawaii, I normally wear a T-shirt and shorts—and nothing else. I slip down my shorts so they can see the tattoos on my hips and pubic area.
“Hope you don’t mind,” I say, “I’m going commando again.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve seen it all,” Tim says.
“You’re just an old hippie,” Steve laughs.
Meanwhile Tim moves the table into position with a remote so that I am in the exact spot for the radiation beams to reach my prostate bed. Even a millimeter off and the radiation will hit other parts of my body.
“Did you get up to Baldwin beach on the weekend?” I ask Steve, as he moves my body slightly on the table so that my tattoos line up with the infrared beams coming from either side of the room.
“Oh yeah, what a scene— families, boogie-boarders, tourists, guys drinking in the back of their pick-ups, another selling grass to the tourists—I had a ball.”
“Not to mention the babes,” I laugh.

“Here comes the goop,” Steve says, as he slides the sonogram reader over my lower abdomen. It feels cool and not unpleasant. Then he presses down on my bladder to get a reading. The pressure is intense. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem. Have you ever had one burst?”
“Not that I know of,” he laughs.
He and Tim watch on the TV monitor as the different overlays from the sonogram and the IGRT match up.
“Nice full bladder,” Tim says. “It looks like a Beefeater’s hat.”
“To me it feels like a big water balloon.”
“Almost there . . .” They make their final adjustments. “OK, you’re set.”
“Fire away!” I say, as they leave the room, electronically closing the foot-thick door behind them. The stereo in the corner plays Hawaiian music from the local radio station. A camera on the ceiling monitors me lying on the table. I lie with my eyes closed, alone in the room, as modern science does whatever it’s meant to do.
Soon there is a whirring sound as the machine starts to circle around my body on the table. Tim and Steve operate the machine remotely from another room. After rotating 45-degrees the machine stops and its bulbous head makes a clicking noise like a camera. Then there is a loud sustained beeeeeep that seems to go on forever as it shoots invisible rays down into the core of my body. Warning lights flash over the door: “CAUTION – BEAM IN USE.” The beep lasts for twenty seconds, and then the machine whirs to a different angle. More clicking, more beeps, as the machine moves around me, stopping at seven different angles to shoot 70 centigray of radiation into my body.
I know that some of these rays are damaging my bowel and my bladder, and that they may leave me impotent, but what could I possibly worry about? I lie on the table in total joy, a half smile on my face, distantly hearing all the noises going on around me—music drifting out of the radio, the machine whirring, the machine clicking, the hum of ventilation fans. I am the still center in the midst of all this activity. I could be worrying about what might happen in the future—will the cancer metastasize, will I die in pain and suffering?—but right now I feel fine, apart from a full bladder. All worry is nothing more than a projection of what may or may not happen in the future. In truth, there is no other moment other than lying here on this table right here, right now. Cancer, or no cancer. What do I care? This body will someday fall away. Whenever it does, I get to go home. The tiger has my head in its mouth, and I’m totally surrendered to whatever happens. There is no escape.