Old Men and the Sea

It’s been eight weeks since my wife Linda died after a long illness. We were married twenty years and barely spent more than a few days apart. Our love was—and still is— as vast as the sky and deep as the ocean. Although I’m doing well and stepping out into my new life, every so often I feel overwhelmed and a little sorry for myself. Nothing helps like exercise.

I decide to join Tom Sewell and his friends for a swim at Baldwin Beach on Maui, a few miles from where I live. Every day of the week, Tom and a few others swim from the cove down to what is known as Baby Beach, a distance of about a mile. I’ve swum with them a few times before, sure that I’d have a heart attack, drown, be swept out to sea, or get smashed on a reef, (all of which nearly happened), but somehow I survived, and can’t wait to do it again.

Tom, a celebrated artist and photographer, is usually joined by Skeeter Tichnor, a stunningly beautiful wold class Anusara yoga teacher, and Barry Sultanoff, a psychiatrist and author. A fourth person who shows up for the daily swim is Max. Max only has one arm.

Tom filled me in on Max’s story a few weeks ago. Swiss born Max de Rham is a renowned geophysicist and treasure hunter. In 1985 he and his partner Mike Hatcher found the famous Nanking Cargo, hundreds of feet beneath the ocean in the South China Sea. It sold at Christies for over ten million pounds. In 2008, while cruising the Mediterranean on his catamaran the Kanaloa, Max was enjoying a swim when a twin-engine powerboat came roaring by and accidentally ran over him. It severed his right arm, leaving propeller marks down his back, and damaging his brain. After the accident, Max fell into a deep depression. The healing power of the ocean, along with the love of family and friends, rekindled his joy for living.

“I’m glad you could join us,” Tom says, when I meet up with him and Max at the cove. “Today it’s just the three of us. Peter, this is Max.” I reach out to shake Max’s hand, remembering at the last moment that he has no right arm. He gives me a big smile and reaches out his other hand. Together we “suit up,” getting our gear ready for the swim. Tom, who is tall, thin, and always has a twinkle in his eye, wears a full wetsuit, diver’s cap, and mask; Max and I wear board shirts to protect us from the sun. Max is 6'3" and solidly built, with a weather-worn face from years on the sea. Next to them, with my slight build, freckles and beard, I look like the runt of the litter. Tom picks three leaves off a nearby hao bush to appease the spirits of the ocean, giving one to Max, one to me, and keeping one for himself, which he tucks into his headband.

Before entering the water, we stand side by side on the beach and offer up a prayer. We bow to the ocean, shouting out ahh-hoo together. We then raise our fins over our heads and cry, ahh-hoo, ahh-hoo! We all have big smiles on our faces as we bow to the other three directions: ahh-hoo, ahh-hoo, ahh-hoo! Then, with a rousing cheer to Kanaloa, the Hawaiian God of the Sea, we head down to the water.

Here we are, about to do a one mile swim in rough, open water, which has recently been whipped up by a winter storm. The Tradewinds are still blowing at over 20 mph. Tom and I help Max get his fins on and guide him backwards into the water. We then head out beyond the protection of the cove into the open sea, carried up and down like bobbing corks. I love the wildness of it all and feel totally at home. It’s a leisurely cruise, rather than a race to the finish line. Max constantly gets off course because of his one arm. I turn to look for him, and to my concern, see that he’s heading out towards the horizon. He corrects course and heads back towards us. “You’ll have to get a GPS!” Tom shouts out over the wind and waves. All three of us laugh merrily.

We’re swimming parallel to the beach, being gently helped along by the current. I push back my mask so I can see more clearly. I can make out people walking along the beach about two hundred yards away. In the distance I can make out the towering West Maui mountains and the island of Molokai. What a majestic sight. I can taste the salt water in my mouth and feel the wind on my face. How amazing, I think, the air I’m breathing has blown across thousand miles of ocean. It’s so fresh and sweet! A big wave crests, and saltwater splashes over me with a big roar.

Suddenly I realize Tom and Max are fifty yards ahead. I put my mask back on and swim towards them, looking down into the emerald green depths of the ocean below. The water sparkles and glistens in silver bubbles as my arms rhythmically stroke through the water. My breath makes a hollow-sounding hoo-hah, hoo-hah, as I breathe in and out through the snorkel; the water gurgles as it flows by my ears. I feel as if I’m in another world, floating free, rocked in the arms of mother nature. Where are my problems now? This is pure joy.

Thirty minutes later we approach the end of our swim. I can see the waves crashing on shore. We’re aiming for a narrow channel that will take us to safety behind a reef. If we overshoot, we’ll be smashed up on the reef. It’s difficult to see where the channel is, as waves throw us up and down, breaking over our heads.

I follow Tom towards the shore. He finds the channel, which has a powerful rip current flowing out of it. It’s almost impossible to swim against the fierce current. Even Tom can’t make it, and heads towards shore. It’s my turn, and I head in, watching the surf crashing on the beach, trying to find the opening. On my left I can see the dark shapes of rocks under water; on my right the waves are crashing on the reef. The water is churned up into a froth of light turquoise, vivid blue and foamy white as the water rushes out from the channel. The current and the ebb of the waves keeps pushing me back out. I swim towards the shore, pushing hard with my flippers, but then get pulled out by the next wave receding. Finally I find purchase on the rock-strewn bottom and struggle to get my fins off and out of the water, panting and gasping for air from the effort.

Behind me, Max is struggling to come ashore. The surf tosses him around. Because he only has one good arm, it’s hard for him to remove his fins and stay afloat. I go back in the water and help him get them off. Tom comes in too. We're waist deep in water when I hear Tom say, "Oh no!" I turn and see a huge set of waves rolling in. We duck under the first wave, but the second one throws us head over heels in towards the shore. Laughing hysterically, Tom and I grab Max by the arm and guide him out of the water.

“You did it Max!” Tom cries out as we come onshore. There are smiles and claps on the back. Three guys in their seventies out having some fun! 

Max waves goodbye with his good arm as he walks back to his house near the beach; Tom and I start our walk back along the sand to where we started.

All of a sudden, my problems seem very small.

A Visit from the Other Side

Dragonflies were Linda’s totem animal. They would often fly up to her and hover in front of her, or land on her hand and remain still while she spoke softly to them. Linda could sit by the pond for hours watching a new dragonfly hatch on a water lily. Dragonflies, those ancient creatures of the wind, were a symbol of love and freedom for her.

Today I was walking across the living room when I noticed something on the floor. To my surprise, I saw that it was a large dragonfly and it was injured. Its abdomen (the elongated part of its body) had been crushed and it couldn’t fly. As I gently picked it up, I noticed that it was lying just a few feet away from the exact point where Linda left her body. To my shock, I realized that it was six weeks ago today that Linda died.

I carried it out to the pond and placed it in a spot where I hoped it would heal and fly off. As I looked at it more closely, I was stunning by its beauty. It had two sets of transparent wings at least five inches across. The central part of its thorax was a rich emerald green, tapering off to a luminescent metallic blue tip. It moved about on its three pairs of legs, but was clearly too weak to fly. I prayed for its healing and left it in its natural setting.

When I checked on it a few hours later, it was dead. It was 2:00 PM, almost exactly the time of Linda’s death.

Of course, it could have been a random dragonfly that just happened to fly into the living room and land on the floor injured, but what are the chances of that? I feel that it was Linda letting me know that she is watching out over me, and that she is always and ever present for me.

I’m sure she’s happy to know how well I’m doing, even though I miss her terribly. On Saturday mornings I’ve been swimming a mile down Baldwin Beach with my swimming buddies. Last Sunday I did stand-up paddling for the first time and loved it. I joined Upcountry Fitness, a local gym in Haiku, where I’ve been doing yoga and Qi Gong. I also spend time with friends, go for hikes with the boys, and write every day. Most importantly, I make sure to have quiet time alone every day. It feels like my life is rich and full.

Every so often I get hit by something out of the blue, like finding a blond hair stuck to a clothespin when I’m hanging out the laundry. Yesterday I was balancing the checkbook and came across a check Linda had written on the last day she was alive. Today I found a birthday card that I had written on August 3: To my dearest love, A celebration of another year together and the magical angels that brought you into my life. I hold the vision of us sitting on the lanai, both in indescribable peace. What joy and love you have brought into my life. I’ll love you forever . . 

.

I let the feelings move through, and then I remember that Linda is free of her form, just like the dragonfly, soaring through the air, sending me love and joy from the formless.

  

Linda's Gift

They say that I am dying but I am not going away. Where could I go? I am here.

                                                                                                            Ramana Maharshi

It’s a beautiful Maui day. I’m near the end of a long hike in Makawao Forest with my two dogs, enjoying the sweet smell of the eucalyptus trees, the soft air, and the distant view of the ocean. I’m relaxed and at peace. Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks, hit by a stunning realization. A few hours earlier I was weeping uncontrollably as I wrote about the death of my wife Linda. What’s the difference between then and now?

As I wrote about the trauma of her sudden death just three weeks ago, my emotions were raw. I had lost my love of twenty years. We had spent almost every hour of every day together and couldn’t bear to be apart from each other. Even through her long illness, our love was fresh in every moment. Now there would be no more times of sitting on the couch, laughing over some TV program we were watching, no more hugs when she got up in the morning, no more happy times of petting the dogs together. I cry my heart out, wailing, sobbing, and soaking up a dozen Kleenexes. I feel like I am being torn to shreds. Her physical form is gone forever, and an enormous chasm separates us. This is the story I tell myself, and I realize, this is suffering.

And now, walking in the woods with the dogs, I am totally joyous. My mind is quiet and free of thoughts. All there is is pure awareness, and in that place Linda is right here with me. How could she not be? It’s as if she is seeing through my eyes, hearing through my ears, smelling through my nose. There is no separation between us, because who “Linda” is (and who all of us are), is Spirit, Source, or God.   

This morning, writing about Linda, I was totally identified with the story of her being dead and that I’ll never see her again, which on one level is true. But it is also a “story” created by my thoughts. Do I want to stay in that story and go on suffering, or do I choose to bring my attention to this moment right here, right now? Breath in, breath out. This is all there is. This is it.   

There’s nothing wrong with having a “story” about Linda dying; in fact I celebrate letting the grief come up and move through. I only have a problem if I cling on to the story or indulge in it. That’s when there is unnecessary suffering. I have a choice—I can continue to feel abandoned and alone, or I can relax into unconditional awareness, knowing that this “Linda” is right here. All that keeps me from this joy is my thoughts. As Byron Katie so wisely says, “I am the cause of my own suffering—but only all of it.”

Wow. After the terrible trauma of abandonment when my mother died when I was twelve, and then my first wife Fran dying twenty years ago—and now once again experiencing loss—I’m finally seeing that the end of the physical body does not mean annihilation and separation. In fact, Linda is more present to me now then she was during the many days she was in terrible pain. And so is my mother, Fran . . . and everyone else I have ever loved.

What stopped me in the forest was the stunning recognition that I have been given an incredible gift. I know that what I came into this life to work out is my core issue of abandonment—and until this very moment, it had eluded me. 

This is Linda’s gift to me. What a gift.

Imagine Peace

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not so sure about the former. Albert Einstein

Sebastian Junger’s new book entitled War, tells of his experience embedded with troops in a remote part of Afghanistan for 14 months. Junger, who wrote The Perfect Storm, presents a vivid picture of how today’s combat soldiers see the world. He writes about the “high” of combat and how 19 to 24 year-old soldiers become hooked on it (anyone over 27 is an old geezer). After a time, they don’t want to come back to the “real” world. Maybe it’s war fever or the times we live in, but there are a slew of new movies (The Hurt Locker), television series (The Pacific), and books (War and Matterhorn) portraying men’s lust for combat.

Never having been in a war (hey, I’m a Canadian!), I have a fascination for all things about war, whether it’s old films on the Battle of Britain (I’m sure I had a past life as a pilot in the RAF), espionage stories by Kenn Follett, or books about The One Hundred Year’s War (Sharpe’s War), the Saxon Wars (Bernard Cornwall’s many books) or the American Revolutionary War. Maybe it’s some sublimated desire for violence and excitement in my life. Or it could be that I feel like a combat veteran myself, having dealt with having cancer four times, having been through my first wife dying, and being a caregiver for Linda, who is in almost constant pain.

When it comes to war, what strikes me is how little has changed over the centuries. There has always been “war” going on somewhere in the planet, whether it’s between two nations, two tribes, two rival gangs, or two neighbors fighting each other. People have been killing each other since the beginning of (so-called) civilization and it’s not about to end anytime soon. Men charge up hills on suicide missions and get blown up; others maim and torture each other; lowly foot soldiers take orders from politically driven generals. There is little difference between war 2000 years ago and war today—except that we have the dubious distinction of being able to save those who have their legs and arms blown off, rather than letting them die in battle.

Last week I saw a bumper sticker on a car saying IMAGINE PEACE. I love the idea of “imagining peace.” I love the idea of a world without war. But the inescapable truth is that there will always be war. 

Why? Because “war” and “peace” exist in this apparent world of duality. In duality, if we want peace, we must also expect war; if we want love, we must also expect hate. That is the nature of duality. There is no escaping it.

Is there a way out? Fortunately, yes. By turning inward to that which is beyond peace and war, by opening to the “peace that surpasseth understanding” that lies within each of us. As the great sage Ramana Maharshi says, “Realize the real Self. That is all that is necessary.” The world outside us is an illusion, and all our suffering, and the suffering of the world, is a result of believing it to be real. Once we discover who we truly are—beyond opposites—all there is is peace. War happens, peace happens, and we understand that it is all part of the play of life, with everyone playing their role with divine perfection. 

The Monster

Linda and I go back for a therapy session with our two therapists David and Tom after a 3-month recess. Wow, do we need it. After two months of non-stop guests in our cottage on Maui, and all kinds of emotional dramas, Linda and I are both fried.

During the session , Linda goes through the weary litany of endless guests coming and going. Our two Australian shepherds (who always reflect our feelings), lie on the floor in front of us, more agitated than usual. 

Tom asks us, “What was the fantasy you had in inviting them all come?”

I jump in. “My fantasy was being with friends I’ve known for years and all of us having fun together—one big happy family.”

“And did it work?”

“No, I somehow fell into being the martyr, thinking I had to feed them, take care of them, show them the sights, entertain them, cater to their needs. I totally imploded.”    

David says, “Peter, it seems like there’s a little narcissism and grandiosity here. You’re the one who thinks he has to ‘take care of’ all these guests. Why do you feel that you have to feed them, coddle them, and respond to their every need?”

“I want them to be happy. I want to be everything to everybody. If I’m not the perfect host they won’t like me.”

“Why can’t you let them take care of themselves? They’re responsible adults.”

“Yes,” Linda cries out. “You ran me under the bus just to make them happy . . .”

Tom adds, “You also made them dependent on you, like they were little children.”

“He just couldn’t stop,” Linda says, shaking her head in amazement. “He tied himself in pretzels to make everyone happy—and he totally abandoned me.”

“I didn’t,” I cry out, shaking my head in wonder at my own stupidity. “I almost killed myself trying to keep you happy too!”

David says, “Peter, I don’t think you’re quite the ‘nice Peter’ you portray yourself to be. It seems to me like you’re the ‘master controller’ who wants to be totally in charge. It almost seems like you’re a Vince Vaughan.”

“Oh no,” I groan in mock horror. “That’s my worst nightmare!” Vince Vaughan, with his deep voice, high testosterone, and gross insensitivity, is my worst nightmare.

Suddenly it hits me. I have these two separate parts of myself that I don’t even recognize—the bossy guy in charge, and the sweet, thoughtful Peter who is always trying to please everyone. What a shock. Emotions start swirling around. I can’t even talk. I suddenly see that I’m not the sweet, kind, considerate, loving, gentle, “spiritual” person I imagined myself to be. I’m the person I loathe— bossy, judgmental, assertive, anti-intellectual, bigoted, and superior!   

Where’s the “real” Peter?

Whac-a-Mole

If we look deeply, we see that fear is the linchpin that holds our emotional sense of self intact. Adyashanti

Most of us have at least one core issue that we have not fully “seen through.” Our core issues have a way of catching us when we least expect it. We think we’ve dealt with them, fixed them, and gotten rid of them forever, when they suddenly pop up in a new and unexpected way. Mine is the fear of abandonment and loss. No wonder it’s a big one. My mother died when I was twelve and was never spoken of again in my family. Over a year passed before my younger brother, who was six at the time, found out that she had died (a friend told him). So my huge fear about loss keeps showing up in new ways, especially when I feel that I’m letting others down. I’m sure that I will lose their love and be left isolated and alone. In order to stay “safe” I’ll do anything to please everyone around me, forgetting my own needs. It’s like an addictive behavior. I can’t control it.

Holidays and big family events are always a good test to see how far I’ve come in letting go of these fears.
“Peter, we’ve saved a seat at the family table,” my sister says. “We so want you to come—it won’t be the same without you!”

Previously I would instinctively say, “Yes, yes, of course I’ll come!”—even it means flying 5,000 miles across the world to Canada in the middle of winter.

But for the first time ever I say no.

“I love you,” I say, “would really like to come, but this time I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Miraculously, lightning doesn’t come out of the sky and strike me down. I don’t shrivel up into a sniveling little blob. But I do have to sit with the discomfort of taking a new stance in my life.

To my surprise, my response has a totally differently effect than I imagined it would. Instead of rejecting me, my family starts to respect me. Instead of being “invisible,” they now notice me. They see that I’m (finally) standing up for myself. What a relief it must be for them!

After this event, my “addiction” to approval doesn’t suddenly disappear. Once the family is taken care of, then I want to get love and approval from everyone else I’ve felt “abandoned” by. What about John and Sandy? What about Bill? Maybe I should reach out to them? The list goes on and on. But now I see that it’s my “addiction” popping up again and again. Once I’m willing to go through feeling the sense of discomfort, knowing I don’t need to change anything from what’s happening right now, the fear abates.

“We all want two things,” a dear friend says. “We either don’t want to lose what we have, or we want to be sure to get what we want.”

I start to see that my addictive tendencies are not just limited to people. Come to think of it, I’m addicted to just about everything—love, work, wine, sex, people, you name it! I’m glad I don’t have an iPhone, because I’d be addicted to that too.

“It’s like whac-a-mole,” my wife Linda laughs. “You no sooner have gotten rid of one of them and the next one pops up.”

“What am I going to do?” I ask, in mock desperation. The image of hitting one mole and having another one pop up is hysterical.

“Well, you have to go to the source of the addiction itself,” Linda says. She always has a way of seeing the things that I can’t see. That’s what makes our relationship such a good one.

“The source?”

“Yes, it’s based on the false belief that you are separate from God. You see yourself as someone who can be hurt, when in truth you can’t be. Your sense of separation is an illusion. It’s not true.”

“Ahh,” I say, stunned by the realization. “All this addictive behavior is based on my wanting to overcome my sense of separateness. If I was willing to “be” with what is happening right here, right now—including the pain—I wouldn’t need to run from it.”

“Like everyone else, you’re trying to seek pleasure and avoid pain. But after a while avoiding the pain has a way of kicking back on you.”

“But it’s fun,” I protest. “I love my wine, I love having everyone happy, I love working all day!”

“Well, you have two choices: sit with the discomfort and watch the part of you that wants to escape into the addiction, or go on playing whac-a-mole forever!”

“Whac-a-mole! Whac-a-mole!” I laugh. But I know she’s right.

A Life without Plans

Last night I watched a captivating1958 film called Inn of the Sixth Happiness, based on the true story of a British maid named Gladys Aylward (played by Ingrid Bergman), who sets off alone for China in the 1930's to become a missionary. When the Japanese invade in 1937, she bravely leads 100 children over the mountains to safety.

Colonel Lin Nan, a Chinese officer who is part Dutch (played by Curt Jurgens), falls in love with Gladys, the willful, single-minded British spinster. He has to make a choice between what his heart tells him and his sense of duty.

When the old Mandarin asks Colonel Lin Nan why he chose in favor of duty, the Colonel resignedly says, "My life is planned."

The Mandarin responds, "A life that is planned is a closed life, my friend. It can be endured perhaps. But it cannot be lived."

It makes me think of how often I limit myself by planning. At this time of year I often set out a list of intentions for the New Year—all with a view towards having an “ideal life” where everything is perfect. What could be wrong with that? Why wouldn’t anyone want to set goals to have their life more happy, more healthy, more meaningful? I've been well acculturated by society to do better, be a good person, and be productive.

In terms of this "apparent" world, planning is necessary. I, like everyone else, need to make a budget plan, to plan ahead for a trip, to plan for different contingencies. But what I often overlook is that by setting out goals and objectives I am sometimes putting unseen limitations on my life. How do I know that "my" plan is God's plan? As the mandarin says, a planned life is a “closed life,” where there is very little room for life to happen, for life to surprise me, for my heart to open.

If I really want to be honest with myself, most of my plans are because I don't feel OK with my life just as it is. I plan so that I will feel safe in a world that is not safe. I plan in the hope of finding some future happiness once I have reached my goals.

The problem is that all these plans are made by the egoic mind, whose only concern is to avoid find pleasure and avoid pain. The human ego sees the world from the perspective of separation, and is incapable of seeing the bigger picture. It is notoriously unreliable when it comes to making choices that will benefit our awakening to greater peace and happiness.

All our resolutions and goals -- as well-intended as they may be -- are based on faulty perception. Although we may get what we want from our goals (or what our ego wants), we probably won't be any closer to finding what we really want--true happiness. What if we were able to see the underlying perfection of our life right here, right now in this moment? What if we could see that nothing needs to be changed or improved? Once we're content to greet life exactly as it is, especially the things we didn't plan for, then we can truly relax and be at peace.

At the beginning of the year I posted a blog that began with a quote by the Jesuit priest Anthony de Mello. This year I’ll end with the same quote and “plan” to understand it more fully in 2010:

“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.”