How We Get Here Part 2: The Identity Project

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To continue with my exploration (see this and this), I’m posting some thoughts from Singh’s book. I’m not certain I have the energy to do more than quote her, as I’m emotionally buffeted by some personal family issues lately (on both sides of our family).

So, we are born and we grow. We encounter “splits” in our being as we develop and the ego grows. Who we are narrows into mostly mind. We focus on developing language, rationality, competency within our world. Language is so powerful, so immersive, that we tend to forget we are in it. We mistake it, and thought, for reality. Our culture, the biosocial band, is a filter of myths, stories, and worldview that we are born into. We have not only a self, but a self-image. The ego is “an identity that conceives of itself as a separate and inner entity, existing inside the body somewhere in the region of the head, and assumes it is commanding the body from on high.” Singh continues:

We all believe and act as if our identity were something with substance, with reality, and with enduring characteristics. In point of fact, however, our identity is nothing more than who we think we are at any moment in time, a compendium of inner desires, aversions, memories, and tightly interwoven beliefs. Identity is something that exists only in being conceived.

We talk to ourselves incessantly to establish a sense of our existence. We narrate our lives, issue judgments, articulate opinions, engage fantasies, and chatter to ourselves constantly in our heads. We believe our identity is our name, occupation, relationships, diplomas, biography, etc. We are capable of introspection and self-reflection.

When the adolescent ego begins to look at itself, it encounters an existential abyss of fundamental dimension. When it begins to look inside, it knows that it is, but hard as it tries, it can never quite grasp what exactly it is. In some vague and slightly nauseating, slightly terrifying way, the mental ego senses its incompleteness, the flimsiness of illusion upon which it is constructed. The abyss is quickly side-stepped.

And where do we go as we dodge away? We embark upon the identity project.

The identity project, which arises at first out of defensiveness against terror, becomes a lifelong endeavor. We choose a persona (or several over time) and focus on becoming that. It might arise from our profession or relationships. For example, I was a a perpetual student and later a therapist. I was a single woman and am now a wife and mother. We work to solidify and secure these concepts of ourselves. And you know what? We achieve great things in this.

The level of ego is an elevated and encompassing level of consciousness — quite an achievement for our evolving and beloved species. Certainly, hosannas can be shouted for what we have achieved in our identity projects wiht the use of our faculties and talents. We have become capable, technological selves, acting upon the world in ways that further our own evolution. We have quintessentially lifted ourselves by our bootstraps.

And yet, we also create our own dramas, our own suffering. We are embroiled in the soap opera, forgetting that we are not the show. We are more than that, but we have forgotten.

Most of us plateau here, until we are informed that we are terminal and have a short time to live. Then we face the fact that we (as defined by our ego) are not in control. Nor are we complete or whole. While this terrifies us, it is actually good news. We’ll get to go home. And for some of us, we find a way to go home before we leave our bodies, through a dedication to meditation over many many years.

This is an extremely simplified synopsis of the journey into ego in Singh’s book. As I read it, I had an understanding that exploded between my eyes (in my third eye?). I get what Jesus meant. He was trying to enlighten people, to help them understand that this is not all that is, but that as long as we cling to our “treasures on earth,” we’ll not see this. His death was a way of showing what the ego must endure — its annihilation — which is required before we can transcend to unity with the Ground of Being. And I knew this, growing up I understood this, but it was laden with fear and ideas of hell and punishment and worthlessness. Later on it was tarnished by the stupidity of the simplistic “born again” prayers/positions espoused by the churches I was in. It was like buying eternal life insurance. Say these words and all is forgiven, but the focus on “being saved” from my sins and from damnation was misleading and eventually rang hollow for me.

The mental ego must die before true life, whole life, heaven, nirvana is found. And everybody will enter whole life, find unity, because every body dies. Buddha said it. Jesus said it. Many prior and subsequent mystics and philosophers have said it. The message is we each will get there, and we don’t have to wait until we are dying to do so (or to try). We can arrive at enlightenment; we can be born again. What does that really mean? What is that really like? What is transpersonal consciousness? What is connection with the Ground of Being/God/Unity? The ego, the identity we cling to, is deeply established. It must actually confront its fear of death (which pretty much qualifies as hell for me) as we travel the path of return. We will only know as we go.

I don’t even know if I should be writing all this here. It’s not polished. I’m tired and have little time for finesse. But that’s what I’ve got, folks.

New Version

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If you were raised in the Christian tradition, read this prayer below and see if it rings true for you, and if it seems familiar.

Radiant One, You shine within us, outside us —
even darkness shines when we remember.

Focus your light within us — make it useful!

Create your reign of unity now!

Create in me a divine cooperation: from
many selves, one voice, one action.

Help us fulfill what lies within the circle
of our lives; each day we ask no more, no less.

Loose the cords of mistakes binding us as we
release the strands we hold of others’ guilt.

Don’t let us enter forgetfulness,
the temptation of false appearances.

Truly — power to these statements —
may they be the ground from which
all my actions grow.

The above is a translation of the Lord’s Prayer from the original Aramaic. I find it liberating, and fascinating to see a greater truth in this version than in the stilted (though much simpler to memorize) version I grew up with. This was synthesized from a book of various interpretations entitled Prayers of the Cosmos: Reflections on the Original Meaning of Jesus’s Words, by Neil Douglas-Klotz. For a line-by-line comparison, see below. Continue reading →

How We Get Here Part 1

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This is a rough and unrefined condensation of some of what I’m reading. I don’t claim to have answers but I will write without tenuousness. I’m not entirely sure of all the concepts and am not seeking debate. I’m just looking to sort it out for myself here.
———
I am going to die someday. Sooner or later, fast or slow, it will happen. I was raised in a religion that depicted heaven, purgatory, and hell, and I felt fear. I left that religion and in my early 30s was bound up in it again, until the absolutism of the dogma and some epiphanies in graduate school prompted me to part ways entirely. I’ve been inarticulate about dying and what happens since then.

I used to wonder what I was before I was born. An atheist will simply say that we just did not exist, and after we die, we just won’t exist. Aside from the terror my ego feels (how can I not exist? what happens to me?), I know there is something else beyond this life. But before I can get to that understanding for myself, I need to understand how I came to be where, what, and who I am now.

We start out within the Ground of Being. We are part of it. The Ground of Being is life, and it is non-life. It is consciousness and not-consciousness. It is energy, it is matter. As Douglas Adams titled his book, it is Life, the Universe, and Everything. Before we are born we are part of it. This is a pre-ego state, a state of preconsciousness, a state of undifferentiation and no individuation. We are raw material.

So how to we get to where we are, with identities and attachments and all that this life entails?

In Singh’s book, she writes:

As we emerge out of the Ground of Being and into the physical world as a separate life-in-form, “trailing clouds of glory,” we are in a preegoic, prepersonal state. At birth we are only minimally differentiated from the Ground of Being. Inner and outer realities remain somewhat fused initially, and all awareness lies inarticulate, still partially embedded in the Ground of Being.

We start out this way, and at first we are all body: hunger, fatigue, touch, instinct. If you’ve ever been with an infant you know this. Then the remarkable changes happen as the infant’s brain grows, as concept and words develop. We develop a sense of self: me, mine, and of other, not-me. Babies start out unaware of separation and then become a aware. The First Dualism emerges on the journey to the ego.

We develop a sense of space and what is and is not ours. We realize where we end and another begins, the gap between subject and object. Then the Second Dualism develops: the sense of time, an awareness of past, present, and future, life and death.

The First Dualism, the first boundary, separates us from the experience of wholeness. Anxiety appears, as does repression and defensiveness.

Primal repression is a psychological as well as physical posture that, inwardly, begins to seal off or repress pure, inpouring Energy, the animating power of the Ground of Being. The Ground of Being, with its enchantment and ability to engulf, begins to be perceived as threatening.

Thus in our early childhood we close off our connection to the Source from which we came. We continue to split ourselves in early to middle childhood by forging a distinction between mind and body, the Third Dualism. “We lose our deep integrity, the unity of body and mind, which is the unity of feeling and attention — the ability to be present.” Our mind is given more authority as a judge or filter of reality. And then the Fourth Dualism arises: The split between persona and shadow, that is, between the person we believe we are, that we accept, that we show the world, and all the other parts of us that we disown, dislike, judge, fear, and hide from ourselves and others.

And this, according to the Christian theology I grew up with, completes our ejection from the Garden of Eden. We are part of the garden (Ground of Being), we are born, then we taste knowledge (the Dualisms, development of ego), which separates us from unity with the Ground of Being. I just don’t buy the crap about Eve (woman) being the one who fell to the temptation first (does it really matter?), and I don’t think of the “fall” as really All That Bad. It is just what is, and it is part of our evolution, our journey, through the experience we are having in this form and function, in this physical world.

And now my child is calling from her nap, and I must dash.

Never A Dull Blade Moment

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A little drama today. I was cutting veggies for stew. The last veggies were onions, and they were eye-searingly potent. I’m also really sensitive to onions, and I usually ask someone else to cut them. Today it was just me. Husband had just sharpened the knives, and they were slicing nicely. Except I could hardly see. Bean was standing on the chair next to me watching. Then I did a really dumb thing.

I lifted my left hand while holding the knife to wipe my eye with the back of my hand. I lifted my right hand without thinking to wipe my right eye, and I managed to drive my hand into the blade. The pain was immediate and surprisingly strong. I cried out and rushed to the sink, but it didn’t really bleed. I knew then it would need stitches (it’s about an inch deep and nearly and inch long). And I don’t have a strong stomach for my own gaping flesh or blood, so immediately I began to feel faint. Meanwhile, Bean is asking what’s wrong, what’s wrong?

I sat on the floor and called Husband’s cell phone. It went to voicemail. We have a system. If he doesn’t answer and it’s an emergency, I’m to call immediately again. I did, and he answered. I began to cry and talk and tell him what happened. He asked if I was okay, and I said I didn’t need 911 but I’d need stitches, please please come home. Then I burst into huge sobs. Bean has never seen me cry like this before.

Husband left work. And here’s where moving to south San Jose has not served us: it’s a 24 mile drive. Had it been rush hour, it would have taken him at least an hour to get home. It was noon, so I was lucky in that. I lay on the floor, pulling myself together. Bean kept patting me on the arm and face and saying, “Oh, it’s okay Mommy. You’ll be okay. I love you, Mommy. I love you very very much.” I went into the living room and lay down. She said, “Read me a book.” I said I wasn’t up to it. She replied, “No! Read me a book! It might make you feel better to read me a book.” So I did.

Meanwhile, I called my neighbor to see if she could watch Bean. My good neighbor said yes, and proceeded to come get Bean and walk with her to school to watch her sons in the Halloween parade. Bean was anxious about leaving me, but she had a great time.

So we drove all the way back up to Mountain View, where our medical practice has an urgent care facility. We arrived at a good time; no one was waiting. And yep, I needed three stitches. We returned home about 3 p.m. and I went to pick up Bean. She proceeded to put “band-aids” all over my hands to make them better. Later on at dinner she took them off and declared my boo-boos were all healed. Then she wanted to see the stitches, so I showed her. I said it would take awhile for it to heal. She said, “But then it will really really really really be all better!”

It was quite shocking for her to see me hurt and crying. I think she’ll be digesting the whole incident for awhile. And it probably goes without saying that I don’t plan to carve a pumpkin for Halloween tomorrow…

three stitches and a bunch of "bandages"

Spirit

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Back in 2004, when my father-in-law was gravely ill, I happened across a book that I was compelled to buy: The Grace in Dying: How We Are Transformed Spiritually as We Die, by Kathleen D. Singh. I began to read it, and in the introduction the author suggested that if the reader was in the process of dying or reading this because a loved one is dying, to do the following: know that you are safe, all is well, and put the book down.

I took her advice. Four months later my father-in-law died, and I was with him for his last week nearly 24/7. It was a daunting, draining experience. I watched him take his last breath. In the process of his dying, it occurred to me that it seemed much like a labor. And having had a child since, I know it is indeed labor. But what, I wonder, is in the process of happening? Is dying just dying? The lights simply go out? What happens to the entity called “me, myself, or I”; is it really annihilated?

Or is it a transition, a birthing into something else?

I was raised religiously and have traversed a varied spiritual path. In recent years I’ve applied the term “atheist” to myself, though “agnostic” is probably more accurate. I do not need “god” as humans are able to articulate the term; I believe the universe is marvelous, and science is a way to explore it all, and isn’t that miracle enough? I am drawn to Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism, although I have not become a practitioner yet.

However, I did have a remarkable experience back in 1996 that at the time, I believed (as much as I could believe, which was really a process of trying to convince myself to believe) was the Holy Spirit. When I left the Christian religion (for the second time in my life), I categorized the experience as an anomaly, as an experience of self-hypnosis or psychological wish fulfillment.

I was a member of a conservative, bible-based, fundamental Christian church. The story behind the path that led me to that after years of atheism can be read here. Anyhow, one Saturday evening I remained after service. It was common for members to remain and pray with each other. This was a church where people sometimes experienced the “baptism of the Holy Spirit,” evidenced sometimes by people speaking in tongues (seeming to babble) and being filled with the Spirit, evidenced by joyous, continuous laughter. Not hysterics, not banshee laughing, just a robust laugh as one would do watching a funny show.

One evening a woman sat on the floor experiencing this laughter. I observed awhile, curious. Another woman came over and asked, “Would you like to join and be filled with the Holy Spirit?” I answered yes, but expressed a worry that it wouldn’t “take.” She said, “Just trust. Let thoughts and worries go and just be with whatever is.”

I sat next to the spirit-filled woman, put my hand on her arm, closed my eyes, and waited. To my wonder, I felt a tingling warmth from her enter my hand and flow up my right arm into my body. Whatever words I summon to describe the experience won’t do it justice, but here goes: As I was filled with this feeling, I felt light, both weightless and incandescent. I began to feel a laugh bubbling up in me. I allowed it to come forth. I sat for however long, bathed in this energy, laughing gently, feeling joy. At the same time, I also felt a part of me was still there, observing. I was not generating or creating this. Nothing was forced by me. At the same time, I did not feel “possessed” or taken over; I still felt I had agency. It was an experience unlike anything I’ve known before or since.

At some point I felt satiated, full, and decided I was done. I removed my hand from the woman’s arm and opened my eyes. I felt new. I felt connected, united with myself and with everything. As I walked, my feet connected in a way that felt like I was the earth and the earth was me. I had a feeling of well-being, life, and love. This feeling remained with me for many hours. After the night’s sleep, it had dissipated. I did not seek this encounter again, and one year later I came to terms that I did not agree with aspects of this church’s dogma and no longer wanted to pretend I did. But I remembered this experience and cherished it awhile.

Then life happened, and the incident faded. Whenever I thought about it, I lumped it in the “I’m not certain what that was but it probably wasn’t real” category. Except… it felt real, and it still resonates like an authentic experience, an encounter with the energy that makes up the universe. While I don’t believe in an anthropomorphic god, I do believe there is something that makes the universe go, something science does not explain completely yet, that it is real, we are made of it, and that we can access a connection with it. (As Carl Sagan said, “We are star stuff.”)

And now I have reopened Kathleen Singh’s book to face the question of dying, of what it’s about and what might follow. The experience I had in 1996 was a glimpse. My hunch is that this connection is possible, is accessible via meditation practice over many years, and that it is our destination at the moment the body dies. As I read her book I will process some of my reactions here.

Time For Change

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I was sick of my hair. Long (for me), hot, shaggy, all over the place, drab. So I changed it. Presto! New me, at least externally and above the neck.

kathryn 10/14/10 (no flash)

I also dragged out the sewing machine finally, and figured out how to thread it. Bean says she wants to be a ghost for Halloween, so I made her a costume. Unfortunately, she won’t actually keep it on. It’s not that she doesn’t like it; she plays a came of “on and off.” But I did it. I’m so proud of myself. Do you know how hard it is to sew a curve, or a 60-inch circle?

ghost costume

Because I’m not sure she’ll wear the costume, I also bought her a witch had and black tutu, and I made her a little cape. So as a backup she can be a witch if she wants. And all this will go in the dress-up basket too.

witch cape

Labor Day Anthem

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This song gives me chills every time I hear it. Before I met my husband, I lived on the edge this song describes. (We are incredibly fortunate and grateful for that.) I also used to work with (i.e., provide social services to) people whose lives were rife with the challenges that he sings about. And there is a blogger I know and admire who works and serves people in the situations he sings about and somehow keeps her sanity. This is for all of them and for her. (If the video doesn’t show and play for you, click this link to see it.) Turn up the volume, close your eyes, and really listen. Then, if you can, do something to help somebody, somewhere. Here are a couple of places to start:

Modest Needs
Feeding America

Preparation

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The house is clean, presents wrapped, backyard almost set up (Husband’s job), balloons bought, rooms decorated, pizza ordered, appetizers prepped, ice purchased for the cooler, and most importantly, cakes baked and decorated! Bean asked for chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and cupcakes. (Cake decorating is not going to be my next profession, but it’s made with love and it’s colorful, so it’s perfect, right?) I made the cupcakes chocolate with tinted vanilla frosting. I’m a big believer in frosting. A piece of cake can almost never have too much.

chocolate cake with chocolate frosting
cupcakes too!

The party starts at 3:30, and Bean can barely contain her desire for cake. It’s a great day!

Another Trip Around the Sun

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Although Bean’s birthday is actually the 8th, we are having a party tomorrow with friends. (And later this week the preschool class will sing happy birthday to her, and at the end of the week she will have another party with her grandparents and aunt in NY!)

My baby is no more. She adamantly rejects that term.

Mornings have changed. I used to get her out of the crib and cuddle and rock with her a good 15-30 minutes in the morning. She’d wrap her arms around me. Even after she got the toddler bed, she stayed in it. I’d hear her call for me, go in and scoop her up, and have our cuddle. (This would also happen after her nap.) In the past ten days Bean has taken to getting out of bed, knocking on her bedroom door (she likes it closed but hasn’t figured how to open it yet), calling for me: “Mommy?! It’s the morning of a new day! Come get me!” I open the door and barely get a hug before she charges out; or, if the cat scoots into her room when I do, she launches herself at Stella to give her hugs and kisses before announcing it’s time to feed Stella and offer treats.

As of Monday, she has dropped her daily nap. I miss rocking and singing to her. I tried to encourage her to just rock with me, not to nap, but she refused — vociferously. I also miss the break for myself. Not being a child who takes well to being confined, she will not have quiet time in her room. Well, she will play there of her own volition, but I haven’t managed to convince her that she should be in there alone for an hour at the former nap time. We are working out how to shift gears and give her some down time after lunch (and me too). By late afternoon she is slightly off-kilter, a little clumsy, rubbing her eyes, clearly tired, prone to crankiness, a bit hyper, but she is done with naps.

Since Husband’s commute is now so bad that he doesn’t get home until about 7 p.m., I’d been worried about what would happen to our family time once she dropped naps. We also haven’t been able to eat many evening meals together anymore, because she just can’t wait much beyond 6 p.m. for dinner. So Bean and I eat together, then I steer her toward a bath. Husband gets home and eats dinner while I bathe her, and then he has about half an hour to read her a book and play a little before rocking her down for the night. She conks out suddenly at about 8 or 8:15 p.m. and sleeps through until 7 a.m. Then we do it all again!

My beautiful girl is nearly three. Can it be?

little a