Seems like just weeks ago, in regards to everyday life, there was the promise of a return to something akin to normalcy. We would dine out with friends—without masks—and have the luxury of complaining that the fish was on the dry side, for example. Oh wait. At the hyper-ventilating rate at which time flies for aging Boomers, that really was just weeks ago.
When I wax nostalgic about just yesterday’s episodic approximation of returning to life as we once knew it, even so my definition of normal had already factored in less the likelihood of peace on earth, settling more for staying at least a few feet ahead of the apocalypse. Then Omicron descended like a bat out of hell. Alas, my joy ride barely made it back to the garage before hermetically sealing ourselves in, just in time to dodge multiple tornado scares and the biggest snow storm in a decade.
This is a case of déjà vu gone rogue—strangely familiar, and yet even if the circumstances reek equally, I am not the same. I wouldn’t call these past two years a gift from God (and if it were, do you know anybody who takes returns?) But I will say that if I were to view my soul under a microscope, I’d see that the extremes we’ve endured have split me into two distinct parts, an amoeba undergoing binary fission. If this isn’t a good thing, it’s at least greatly entertaining, which, by the way, is completely consistent with what I have adopted as my primary New Year’s Resolution: To do interesting things for the rest of my life.
Over the past two years, I’ve lived on the outer edges of two extremes. In sequester, I was largely the world’s most serene monk, as long as I kept the television off. I spent a lot of time writing a book that I hoped would make some kind of difference, I got on a first name basis with every tree in the yard and I spent a lot of time practicing breathing from my belly. Then when we got our second doses, so much for the serene monk. I turned into Mr. Toad behind the wheel of his roadster. Let’s call this phase mitosis—when the nucleus split in two and I could be heard saying things like “What is all this soul work for if not to take full advantage of the present moment”, which now suddenly consisted primarily of going shopping and trying out new ethnic joints. Having fun was suddenly not a line item on my schedule, but the point of everything. I learned to play. I neglected my responsibilities, resigned everything and had a ball. In the words of my friend Edgar, who long ago mastered the art of retirement, why do today what you could do tomorrow?
And so it is, the fission complete. Back into sequester, no less than the prodigal son—my wheels locked but my head still spinning. Which am I then? The answer, at least at this early stage of inquiry, is neither. Having been pried loose from one persona or another, one reality or another, one illusion or another one time too many has left me exhausted, but in a good way. Today, I’m stripped into a vulnerable state of bemusement, the only remnant of a through-line to keep me sinking into the quagmire of oblivion that I now realize has been the real truth of things all along, is love. I feel very tender towards both the monk and the reckless driver, all of those who have walked with me through every patch of life, and even the quagmire holds some kind of odd appeal, although I’m in no hurry in that particular regard.
This is a long way of inviting you to the last two engagements on my calendar before with the exception of this blog, I leave the public arena. I’ll return when I know something for sure again, and meanwhile there’s no telling what will come out of my mouth at either of these upcoming events, or in future blogs. I promise you, if I’m doing it, it’s because it promises to be interesting.
YOU ARE INVITED TO:
THE MEASURE OF MY DAYS (4-5 pm, EST, Jan. 19, 2022). Book club discussion of the book by Flora Scott-Maxwell, facilitated by Carol Orsborn, Ph.D. and Jerome Kerner, CSL Sponsored by Sage-ing International. Details HERE
“Nothing less than bearing it all will do, for it is the creation of a change of consciousness. Nothing less, and no words are needed. It is the mystery that is done to us; as though love and pain and emergence are all intensified energy by which one is fired, ordered and perhaps annealed. The purpose of life may be to clarify our essence, and everything else is the rich, dull, hard, absorbing chaos that allows the central transmutation.”—Florida Scott-Maxwell
CONSCIOUS AGING (1-2 pm, EST, Jan. 17, 2022). Positive Aging Zoom event featuring David Chernikoff (Life, Part Two) and Carol Orsborn (The Making of an Old Soul), in discussion, moderated by H.R. Moody. No registration needed. Zoom access HERE
“It’s become clear to us that life is an adventure to be savored, celebrated and surrendered to rather than an endless jigsaw puzzle with too little time to complete. Now we’re free to explore our inner lives and the external world with loving curiosity and heartfelt compassion.”—David Chernikoff
“What the world needs now, more than ever, is more love and more consciousness—of large things previously denied and small things previously unnoticed. We can hold onto our old, habitual ways of seeing ourselves and the world, or allow both the pathos and beauty of life, in all its vulnerability, to break us open.”—Carol Orsborn
“Ram Dass was echoing the words of Emily Dickinson when she wrote: ‘I’m nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?’ The paradox is that it is in this very recognition of our nobody-ness that we have the potential to experience something even greater than the success for which we strived.”—H.R. Moody
Feel free to share this providing proper credit to Carol Orsborn
and a link to CarolOrsborn.com.
