{sincerely, L. Cohen}

In mid-October,  I had the same dream twice in one night. 

In the dream, I hit another car, head-on, and then, instead of stopping and being injured, I kept moving forward, like I was being pulled through a completely dark tunnel. In the dream, I was wondering how I was still moving forward and how I was not feeling any pain,  if I was still moving. I kept trying to feel my body, but I could not feel it, a strange and upsetting experience. I had that sensation, where you know something is serious, but you almost want to giggle – like when a person says something so offensive that you can't even believe it has been said and the shock makes your reaction an unexpected one. You don't know why, but you are stifling a strange, uncomfortable desire to laugh at something not laughable – a sort of jumble of too many emotions. 

I could not hear or see anything. And there was another sensation. It was something close, so physical and personal it was almost sexual, but also upsetting. Did you ever read The Golden Compass? When the children's daemon's get cut away and it is tantamount to loss of the soul – violent cutting away of the soul, molestation of the natural order of things? I felt that. Something spiritually and psychologically violent and gruesome and inexplicable. But without any accompanying physical pain. 

The second time I had the dream, I woke myself and got up to clean the kitchen. I've always heard that if you dream of dying three times, you die in real life. I didn't want to chance dreaming it again. 

All day,  I could not shake the dream. As I became more and more awake, I realized that what I experienced in the dream paralleled what the Tibetan Book of the Dead describes happening when you die. I once saw the most beautiful, illuminating documentary on the post-death process according to Tibetan Buddhism. Several pieces have become a permanent part of how I think about the world. First, the knowledge that hearing is the last sense to go. Also, that when we die, we must make a choice about which new body our soul will inhabit and that if we enter death fearfully, the chance that we will make a good choice is reduced.  I realized that I had felt death and that I had not experienced it fearfully. I was confused, and my conscious mind was having trouble processing, but there was no terror. Apart from my consciousness, the rest of "me" seemed to know just what to do. 

After the dream, I thought about death constantly. I could not quite figure out what I was supposed to learn from it, but I felt a sense of well-being and certainty that death isn't frightening,  just different. I also completely stopped texting while driving. I became much more careful and aware, much more present in my life. 

Two weeks later, on the highway, there was a rapid and unexpected stop and I was unable to brake fast enough. I hit another car head-on, exactly as I had in both dreams. 

I didn't die. No one died, or even got hurt. 

So far in my life, there have been a number of situations in which I think I was supposed to die or had the option of exiting and did not. It's a strange feeling, to escape death over-and-over. My go-to explanation is that in pre-birth planning, one writes a number of exits into their story. Somehow, I am able to see my exits and decide a little more consciously whether or not to use them or whether to stay and try to do more here. 

A couple weeks after the incident, Leonard Cohen died. Now, for the last year or so, it has become apparent to me that many of the famous folks that helped form my young mind are going to be leaving this planet – I've been preparing myself for it. His passing was one I knew would be tremendous. Though I never knew him, somehow, he always hit a place somewhere near my core, or maybe soul. He always had words of solace and inspiration when they were most needed. He was a kindred spirit and he was my companion through many otherwise lonesome hours. A modern, bohemian bodhisattva, providing the artistically inclined a small reprieve from the quotidian suffering. A light in the murky world.

Over this last year, we have experienced something that I think of as a dimming of the lights. One by one, bright lights dying out all over the globe. It is a strange thing the painful loss of someone you never met, yet whose mere existence in the world gave great comfort. 

I have this sense that many of us embedded exits for ourselves in the last year – knowing that what was coming was to be difficult. Some of us, either foolish or feeling strong enough to continue shedding some light in the dark times to come, have let the opportunities to exit pass. Only time will tell if we've been foolish to stay.

A final synchronicity – I began thinking incessantly about the film I loved so much about the Tibetan Book of the Dead, so I looked it up the weekend we got the final Leonard Cohen album and I had been listening to the songs alone in the darkness. I found the video and began watching. I had completely forgotten until I heard that singular,  golden voice, that Mr. Cohen had narrated the film. 

{germain topics}

Monday night the Metropolis bike group ended up at Belle Isle, as usual. I had to go to the bathroom, so I broke off from the group and rode through the center of the island, back to the Tim Horton's where everyone regroups after riding around the island. There were a few riders there already. None that I knew well. I asked if anyone would watch my bike because I really had to use the bathroom and a guy I had not met before offered. I ran to the door, only to find it locked. My new friend, Mark suggested the gas station nearby, but I looked in the other direction, finding the Big Boy a finer option. I was going to leave the bike and run over, but he said he'd ride over with me. 

I walked through the glass doors of the restaurant, ant it was like entering the 70s. It really felt as if those doors were a portal to another time. The light was dim, there was some unrecognizable smooth jazz sounding muzak, I had the impression that the walls were wood paneled, though I can't say whether they really were. An older woman saw me scanning the place and pointed to a dim hall, "right there, ma'am." I thanked her and made my way to the restroom, where I found an abnormal amount of glitter and sparkle on the floor. 

On my way out, I noted that she had her hands on a very well loved bible and was drinking coffee. A man had joined her and it appeared that she was reading to him. I said good night and re-entered my own time. As Mark and I were leaving, we were approached by a man who had a big shopping cart full of a bike. He began talking fast to us. telling us an extremely dramatic tale of being nearly sandwiched between two cars on the Slow Roll ride earlier that evening. He started to ask us for money, and Mark said we had no change, I almost agreed, but something told me to give the guy something. I reached into my pocket and gave him what I grabbed. He thanked me and then began telling us a more animated story about a lawsuit and a house - his mother's house and how she died because she was supposed to have a surgery to have a growth removed from her fallopian tube but the doctor accidentally cut out her liver instead, killing her. He was going to meet with a lawyer the following day. He was going to get the deed to  his mother's house back and we could come stay there and there would be food so that we could eat until we were full, eat for days. He was going to sue the doctor who birthed him, too - he pointed out a number of scars on his face and underside if his chin and told us the doctor made big mistakes. This seemed unlikely, it all seemed highly unlikely, because he looked like he was in his 40s and if the doctor who did all the damage, and whose name he could not quite recall,  was still alive, he was definitely old. We asked his name,  "Jermaine," he told us.

He gave me this feeling I first experienced in childhood. My dad had a good friend named Doug. Doug lived in California and was very cool, earrings and a motorcycle and a youthful enthusiasm. One time when he was home visiting, he started telling me about some plan he had, to become a famous singer. He played me a recording of himself singing along with Spandau Ballet. I was young. Maybe 12 and distinctly recall feeling sad for him. Feeling disbelief that he'd ever achieve his unrealistic dream. He had other plans too, I can't recall them anymore, but even as a kid, I knew he was not going to get rich from any of them. Even though he wholeheartedly believed them. I later came to think of people with these kinds of improbable dreams and schemes as grifter types. These grifters might have varying levels of sinister-ness, but they all made me equally sad. 

Jermaine hugged Mark and we told him we had to go. He wanted to pray for us first. 

He said a long convoluted prayer that was mostly the Lord's Prayer but contained a long tangent about how Satan was trying to own the world for 100 years and we must fight against his darkness. He began to tell us all the people he'd lost in recent months. Aunts and cousins. Many losses. After saying the prayer he told us to be safe. He hugged Mark again and we rode away to rejoining the group. 

As we ride away, Mark noted that is was odd. I told him it was not especially odd for me. "Oh, you are one of those people," he said. 

Yes. I am one of those people. 

{the should/could balance}

Make a list of 10 things you should do right now. 

Read the list and decide whether any of these items feels expansive and inspiring. 

Now write a list of the things you could do right now. If you had more money, more time, more energy, whatever. 

Read the list and decide if any of these items feel expansive and inspiring.

I am not going to tell you what you think I am. I am not going to say to throw away the shoulds and focus on the coulds. That would be awesome, but, it is not realistic and most of all, it would probably make you feel bad about yourself and your life. It would make you feel like you should forget about the shoulds and focus on the coulds. It would turn potential into drudgery. That is not our goal.  That kind of thinking turns possibility into pressure. We want to allow each their space. 

Instead, I propose a 50/50 split. 

For every should, you get a could. Kind of like a reward, but more like checks and balances. We have taste buds for savory and sweet foods. Our bodies are designed for participation in both the waking world and the rejuvenation of sleep.

In time and with practice, you can probably work this system so that you have 60% could-time and 40% should-time. You never know.

Start with balance.

This is a lesson in self-care.

{interior landscapes}

Curiosity is everything. 

Literally.

Whether or not you are a believer in the law of attraction, you can't deny that thoughts do, in fact, become things. Before the shoes on your feet were shoes, they were a thought in a designer's mind. The designer put the thought onto paper or into digital form. This was scrutinized by a creative director, approved by a brand, and then manufactured in a factory in a country you've probably never visited. This whole complex, physical manufacturing process began with imagination which is fueled by curiosity. The factory began as a thought or plan, as did the supply chain, and the companies that designed and distributed the shoes. Everything in our modern world has a common origin. 

Everything begins as thought. 

Before there were trains, cars, phones,  or computers, there were thoughts that went something like this, "What if a machine could...."  Curiosity leads to progress, growth, innovation, and change. Curiosity propels us to shift our lives, over and over again. 

As a society, if not individually, we routinely apply curiosity to the exterior world, but what about our inner, emotional and spiritual landscape? How is it that for most people, curiosity is only ever projected outward? Why aren't the inner depths a source of equal wonder? 

Much of our society has not yet learned to value this kind of curiosity. It's a shame because the more we explore our deepest and most personal thoughts and gain emotional intelligence, the more expansive our curiosity can grow.  

I knew a man many years ago who was extremely intelligent, likely a genius on a number of fronts. But, as with so many brilliant people, he was an underachiever.  Instead of making huge contributions to society, he taught everyone he encountered, usually something unexpected. 

One night we played a game. We only played this game once, because it is the kind of game that can only be played once. And though I have not seen or spoken to him in years, I still vividly remember the game and the way my answers illuminated things about myself which I was not concretely or consciously aware of. This game was called The Cube and was not really a game, but rather, a Japanese personality test. It is one of the most amazing and revealing tools for diving into the subconscious.

You can find the instructions online.

It takes about 10 minutes and I bet you will be intrigued by what you learn.

I suspect that the primary reason that curiosity about the self is such a rarity, is that people feel that they already know what they will find if they explore themselves.  Still. I suggest that being as curious about your own psychology as you are about Mars or WWII history or quantum physics may lead you down some interesting rabbit holes and it will make you a more insightful person in the process.  You never know what's lurking below the surface, trust me when I say that it's more than you anticipate and what you find will surprise you.

{feast or famine}

I used to work for a company that wrote and published military manuals. There would be periods of time when we were so busy that we'd be in the office until 11pm and other times when we sat at our desks and read novels- waiting for the next project to come in. People were fond of saying that it was either feast or famine. I am thinking of this today because it seems that this if also true in life,  we tend to be, either in a place of growth and expansion or survival and contraction. These feast or famine feelings, or more appropriately the sense of abundance or scarcity, impacts and sometimes competes with intuition. We really have to pay attention to know when our inner voice is being crowded out by fear of scarcity or famine feelings. 

I've got a feeling

Instinct and intuition often get used interchangeably but they are not the same thing. Instinct is an innate, often fixed, biological  response to stimuli. This does not need to be learned, it is a natural, inherent response. Think of the way a kitten knows how to clean itself or a duckling knows to swim.  

Intuition is similar, in that it is something that is known without any kind of conscious thought or logical reasoning, an unconscious response or immediate understanding. It is a little different because it is derived from internalized experiences and learned information, things like memories and physical responses.  It is often called a gut reaction or feeling because it is deeply felt and understood at a level more embedded in our bodies than our minds. Intuition is also commonly referred to as a little voice that one hears but doesn't hear, it's a mysterious knowing. We are given intuitive nudges each day, most are extremely subtle, perhaps a passing thought that you should take one route over another or call someone you have not thought about in awhile. The more we listen to these, the stronger they become, and the reverse it true as well, if we ignore our intuition, it becomes less perceptible. 

This weekend my 10-year-old nephew and I were listening to true scary stories together while driving. These were not horror tales, just scary recollections of situations that could have been deadly had the young people recalling them not listened to their instincts. Stories of kids who saw a stranger and had the inexplicable urge to run or were offered a ride by a stranger and knew that something off about the person driving. In each of the stories, the feelings the kids had were proven to be correct and the stories were powerful demonstrations of why learning to listen to these hunches is a fundamental and critical tool for navigating the world. 

Intuition is one of the best skills you can help cultivate in a young person. A child who trusts their own judgment is going to be much safer. Trusting one's gut also leads to greater self-assurance and self-confidence. Learning to work with our inner guidance system is one of the most powerful ways of becoming more autonomous and fearless.  

Practice makes perfect

Learning to listen to intuition can take a lot of practice if you start as an older person. distinguishing between intuition and fear takes more practice still. But honing one's intuition is beneficial both professionally and personally. It can be hard to justify taking the time to practice a skill that we can't exactly explain. However, the ability to distinguish between intuition and fear can save your life and help you make better choices. 

It may be easier to learn to listen to intuition by  considering your hunches or nudges in hindsight. As you begin your journey, use a notebook to collect a list of the inexplicable feelings or urges you experience. Write down feelings like when I thought you should stop and grab a loaf of bread, but ignored the thought because you were tired only to find that you had unexpected guests for dinner. Or the urge to get gas at a station you don't usually use, only to discover that your regular station has a mysterious power outage. The more you pay attention, the more you will be able to tell which are important and which are not. 

Another key consideration is whether a response to something is a fear response or intuition. For example, you may logically believe that taking a class on app coding is a great idea for your career, but you may also be intimidated by the thought of taking the class. In situations like this, you will have to learn to listen to yourself. When you think  about the prospect, get a real sense of whether you feel yourself expanding or contracting. If there is a subtle sense of  excitement and feeling of expansion, then what you feel is just fear of the unknown and you should probably sigh up for that class. If, however, what you feel is a clenching or dread, your body  may be telling you that you don't really want to move in that direction. I that case the class may not be for you and may ultimately end up to be a big waste of money and energy.  

Intuition is a skill that you'll never regret cultivating. It can benefit you in every part of your life, from romance to career to fitness, it can also keep you out of harmful situations that your rational mind misses. 

Basically, we know more than we know we know. You know?

{mean old world}

Can we agree that the media puts a higher premium on stories that get ratings? 

Yes? Okay. Great. 

Can we also agree that shocking, upsetting, and tragic stories often score higher ratings than cheerful stories about neighborhoods coming together to care for the elderly or board up dangerous abandoned buildings? 

Excellent, we're still on the same page.

Finally, can we agree that a majority of shows on television (in all its various modern incarnations) rely on violence, murder, cheating, and other generally bad behavior to drive plotlines?

Yes? Awesome. That's settled. Now let's talk about why this is a concrete (not theoretical) problem in our current society. 

Baby, it's a mean, mean world

Yesterday I learned about the social psychology principle termed mean world syndrome by George Gerbner.  It explains what we are currently seeing in the United States, in terms of peoples' incorrect belief that things are more violent and dangerous in our country than they were a year or ten years ago. This term was used to encapsulate Gerbner's research demonstrating a direct correlation between how fearful people feel about the world around them and the amount of television watched. What people see on television, even though much of it is fictional, has an enormous impact on worldview. 

This is a problem because by the time children have reached maturity, they have seen hundreds of thousands of violent acts on television. In spite of the fact that crime rates have declined steadily and dramatically in the United States over the last decade, the images promoted by the media are consistently the most violent. Furthermore, I have read different statistics that state that anywhere from a third to 75% of people committing criminal acts on television go unpunished. This skewed anti-reality is informing reality for many people. 

I looked up the numbers to see if the U.S. was really experiencing more violence, as is pretty commonly accepted anecdotally. (I don't even watch tv, and I often feel that things are falling apart after listening to NPR on my commute to work).  Turns out the numbers clearly show the opposite is true. If you don't believe me, check them out. You can find the FBI Crime data from 1960 here.  

Truth and Fiction

So how can we hold the kind of complexity necessary to successfully navigate reality, in our media scrambled brains? How can we embrace the truth, which is that life is awfully complex and two things that appear to be opposite can sometimes both be true? How can we separate our emotional reactions from the ones grounded in reality? How can we teach our brains to discriminate between the fiction we feed it and the reality required to sustain us? 

Quite simple, we think! We reason! We use the big, beautiful, massively powerful brains we have been given and start actively questioning reality. We ask ourselves why we hold the beliefs we hold. We challenge ourselves to be better and more aware. 

Disclaimer: I do not love television. I think it's dangerous and depressing. This has been my position for many years.

Shout out to Snopes to making so many of us better, more inquisitive, analytical people!

{nothing lasts forever}

This weekend, as a preparation for seeing Star Trek Beyond, we decided to watch the last few Star Trek films. We began with the 2009 Star Trek. Inside on a sunny day, a setting inherently fertile for depression, we hit play. 

I grew up watching Star Trek each week. That quavery space theme song reminds me of the smell of dinner on Sunday evenings. It reminds me of the feeling of the weekend being over and the school week about to start. The feeling of losing something and getting something far less appealing in its place. Gloom and disappointment. I know, it was a great show. Absolutely. Just an unfortunate time-slot. So, all this to say, I was primed for overcast feelings. I just didn't realize how intense they would be. 

Spoiler here, for anyone who has not seen the film – but if you haven't it clearly isn't  important to you, as it's been years since it came out. There's a parallel universe / time travel situation which allows old Spock to meet his younger self. I can't tell you if it was just seeing Leonard Nimoy so old, or if it was something about the juxtaposition of the old and young that turned a dial in my brain, but something clicked, loudly. I became clearly aware that I was going to die. That the world would go on after I was long gone, in much the same manner as it aways had. It was not a theoretical knowing, it was different. I felt the world without me in it. And it was a profoundly strange feeling. 

There are three other experiences in my life that have ever caused me to feel similarly lonely feelings.

First, there is this scene from 1954's Gojira is one of the most crushingly sad things I have ever seen. There is something about being abandoned underwater or in outer space that is suffocatingly sad. The loneliest possible fate.

Next, a dream I once had left me with the same feeling. My father's mother and my mother's mother died months apart. I was living in New Orleans at the time.  I had gone home for my father's mother's funeral and was unable to go home for a second funeral so soon after. The day I heard the news, I called in sick to work and laid in bed. After a time, I fell asleep and dreamed a dream of rare intensity. I was underwater, in an old submarine. I went out into the water in an old suit and somehow, my tank and I got disconnected from the main ship. I floated at the bottom of the dark ocean, knowing I would soon be without air and there was no possibility of making it to the surface or finding the ship. Again the solitary, suffocating sadness, and although it seems literal is a figurative expression.  

Finally, I remember learning about Ishi, last of the Yahi tribe in college. In 1911, he came out of the wilderness in Northern California and was taken by anthropologists to UC Berkley. Ishi, a word that simply means "man,"  lived out his remaining 5 years in a San Francisco university building. He told anthropologists about the last survivors of his tribe; his uncle, mother, sister, and himself describing the events that caused him to seek the company of others. After a traumatic series of events that amounted to the decimation of the tribe. Surveyors found their camp and ransacked it. In the scuffle, he lost his uncle and sister forever. His ailing mother passed away shortly after. From about 1908, he lived alone in the wilderness before finally emerging into modern Western society on the 29th of August, 1911. Ishi quickly captured the cultural imagination of the time, a culture so riveted by tales of the capture of European settlers by "savages" they gave birth to a literary genre.  

Ishi spent his first 50 years in the California wilderness, he had no immunity to the diseases of the city. He died of Tuberculosis in 1916.

I could never tell which part of his story made my heart ache more. The fact that he had to live for years knowing there were probably no others members of his tribe left – that he was likely the last. The fact that he shared no history or traditions with anyone and not one person shared his language or remembered when he was a child. Or the simple fact that he was the last of his people to breathe and wake and feel the sun in his face in the world and after him was extinction.