I awakened in the middle of the night with a strange smell in my nose. Instantly, I knew what the pungent odor was, but it wasn't coming from my apartment. As best I can tell, it came in a dream. I don't recall any visual images or action from the dream, but I do remember the smell. I was warmed all over by the unpleasantness.
When I was in grade school and junior high, my father worked as a tool and die maker. He was highly skilled, and his company's customers sometimes flew him to their locations to solve problems. On one of those trips, he was recruited for a mid-management company for one of the Big Three American auto makers. But for all those years before he put on a dress shirt and tie, he would come home with the smell of grease on his clothes. Despite what might have otherwise been unpleasant, it was wonderful to me. My father and I were close, and he'd always scoop me up in a big bear hug. If love has a smell to me, it is the smell of grease from his machine shop.
As I've pondered, I cannot remember any details of the dream, but I've felt love all day. The consideration, however, has taken me in a different direction. We as humans have an incredible ability to transcend time and space--you might call us time travelers. A single thought, smell, picture, or even a phrase can transport us to another time. For me, it was the smell of grease that reminded me of the warmth of my father's love and hugs. The smell of fried chicken or a freshly baked pie sends me to my grandma's kitchen. The crunch of snow under my feet recalls building a snowman as a child.
We also have the ability to travel forward in time, and doing so is something that my coaching clients frequently do as they plan for their futures. Time travel, they find, is really the foundation of living with intention. Creating a vision of our future self, which we firmly connect into our being, produces a target of the future. Of course, then we have to act consistent with the vision to see it explode into our lives, but the time travel is the first step.
How does this work? Someone who has problems with a knee because she is over-weight envisions herself as healthy and mobile. Then working back in time she discovers how she needs to eat and exercise now to deliver that dream. Finally, the hard part, she needs to act on what she has come to know. What do you need to do right now to enable the vision, I ask? The vision of the future healthy her shows the way. (No matter how much of a picture she has, if she continues eating a pint of super-rich ice cream while she watches TV every evening, the vision will not find life.)
Similarly, a client who envisioned herself inspiring young women in her profession saw herself on stage giving funny speeches. What does she need to do right now to start bringing life to the intention, I ask? An artist who has a commission but has the artist equivalent of writer's block imagines a wonderful painting that touches the audience. What does she need to do right now to allow that painting to move through her? My desire to have a warm relationship with neighbors (12/9/13) started coming to life when I knocked on my neighbor's door last night with chocolate cake in hand.
Our ability to imagine something that hasn't yet existed is as powerful as our ability to time travel backward. The vision provides those in the invisible realm that assist us to live our dreams to know what we want. In many ways much of what I've written about in this blog has been about bringing intention to what we want to create in our lives--bringing to live what we know in our hearts. Just imagine what we dream to start it being so.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Monday, December 9, 2013
Being neighborly
Just before 1 a.m. this morning a very loud siren and voice went off in my apartment, informing me that there had been a fire emergency in the building and that I was to evacuate immediately. It repeated over and over again. I struggled to pull myself out of a deep sleep. Not likely that this was a fire drill at 1 a.m., so I'd better treat this seriously...as soon as I could wake up.
We were in the middle of a winter storm, so if I was going to be outside for a while, I should dress for it. Problem is that we haven't really had winter weather, and I moved last winter. I had to hunt for gloves and boots. I never found a hat, which I haven't worn since I moved. Purse and checkbook. As I was about to leave the apartment, I remembered the fire preparation information I received recently had informed me that I should close interior doors before leaving. (I forgot the part about leaving my apartment unlocked.)
After traipsing down several flights of stairs and a hall to the lobby, my neighbors and I were told we could stay inside. The source of the alarm couldn't be found. Shortly afterward, the fire truck and firemen arrived. We could stay inside, but we couldn't go back to bed until the building had been cleared.
There we stood and sat in the lobby. Very old people, babies, and almost every combination in between: a microcosm of the city under one roof. A few of the older residents chatted, but most of us didn't really know each other. While I would like to meet my neighbors, doing so in the middle of the night, when I am half asleep and in my pajamas wasn't exactly when I wanted to reach and touch someone. For almost an hour, we waited, and I pondered that I've lived here just over a year and could only spot four people that I vaguely knew.
I don't know if it has been the places I've lived over the last 20 years, or if times have been changing, but each place I've lived, I've usually known only one or two neighbors--very unlike when I'd been a child and young adult when we knew everyone in the neighborhood. There was a time in my twenties when all the couples in our neighborhood would gravitate to someone's front porch late Saturday afternoon for popcorn, chips, and libations.
In the lovely home and neighborhood in which I lived in North Carolina, I recalled reflecting that many of my neighbors had automatic garage door openers and managed to escape any contact with the rest of us by opening and closing the door without even getting out of the car.
So, today, I decided to be neighborly. I'd baked a cake yesterday. I cut portions and put on paper plates, covered with Saran Wrap, and rang door bells. Today I played The Grocery Store Game (12/1/13) with my neighbors. I had met them, but mostly just speaking in the hall or at the door. Today, I went in for brief visits and actually started to get to know them. There is something about crossing into someone's home that is intimate: there is a sense that you know something about them from the artwork and furniture that they've chosen. As I head to bed this evening, I feel the warmth of my neighbors in my heart as I go to bed.
We were in the middle of a winter storm, so if I was going to be outside for a while, I should dress for it. Problem is that we haven't really had winter weather, and I moved last winter. I had to hunt for gloves and boots. I never found a hat, which I haven't worn since I moved. Purse and checkbook. As I was about to leave the apartment, I remembered the fire preparation information I received recently had informed me that I should close interior doors before leaving. (I forgot the part about leaving my apartment unlocked.)
After traipsing down several flights of stairs and a hall to the lobby, my neighbors and I were told we could stay inside. The source of the alarm couldn't be found. Shortly afterward, the fire truck and firemen arrived. We could stay inside, but we couldn't go back to bed until the building had been cleared.
There we stood and sat in the lobby. Very old people, babies, and almost every combination in between: a microcosm of the city under one roof. A few of the older residents chatted, but most of us didn't really know each other. While I would like to meet my neighbors, doing so in the middle of the night, when I am half asleep and in my pajamas wasn't exactly when I wanted to reach and touch someone. For almost an hour, we waited, and I pondered that I've lived here just over a year and could only spot four people that I vaguely knew.
I don't know if it has been the places I've lived over the last 20 years, or if times have been changing, but each place I've lived, I've usually known only one or two neighbors--very unlike when I'd been a child and young adult when we knew everyone in the neighborhood. There was a time in my twenties when all the couples in our neighborhood would gravitate to someone's front porch late Saturday afternoon for popcorn, chips, and libations.
In the lovely home and neighborhood in which I lived in North Carolina, I recalled reflecting that many of my neighbors had automatic garage door openers and managed to escape any contact with the rest of us by opening and closing the door without even getting out of the car.
So, today, I decided to be neighborly. I'd baked a cake yesterday. I cut portions and put on paper plates, covered with Saran Wrap, and rang door bells. Today I played The Grocery Store Game (12/1/13) with my neighbors. I had met them, but mostly just speaking in the hall or at the door. Today, I went in for brief visits and actually started to get to know them. There is something about crossing into someone's home that is intimate: there is a sense that you know something about them from the artwork and furniture that they've chosen. As I head to bed this evening, I feel the warmth of my neighbors in my heart as I go to bed.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Like Water for Chocolate And Such Things
Twenty years ago, "Like Water for Chocolate" was a popular movie about a young woman--Tita--who was a wonderful cook, and she had the magical ability to infuse whatever she was cooking with the feelings she had when she was preparing the food. On days when she was sad, the sadness went into the food, and guests would cry when they ate. When she was joyful, they felt the joy in what she had cooked.
I love to cook. I had a lot of things to do on this afternoon of "winter mix"--snow and sleet. I did almost none of them and cooked instead. A friend, who has a wonderful Christmas party, has asked me to bring a cake. I set about to test recipes to find one suitable for the occasion and for my seriously chocoholic friend.
When I bake, I get lost in time. I am so connected to what I am doing that everything else drops away. The technical term for what happens is the "flow" state. Those who study such things say that a person in the flow state has developed enough competence that they don't really have to think about what they are doing. My term for it is passion: a deep connection between gift and a love of what I am doing. I think that is probably what happened to Tita, and why her feelings became part of what she cooked.
Being in the flow state is a gift, almost an out-of-body experience. I feel it most of the time when I write or dance with a great partner, as well as when I cook. I've even felt it when I was speaking. To use one's passions and gifts in this way is a responsibility. Surrender totally to a gift and passion transforms one to a truly heaven on earth. Over the last few months, writing this blog has transformed me in the same way, and I am keenly aware how critical being in flow is for my happiness and sense of purpose.
I hope that those, who partake of the fruits of my labor at my friend's party, will feel my passion in each bite. Sharing with them is my gift to her, them, and me.
I love to cook. I had a lot of things to do on this afternoon of "winter mix"--snow and sleet. I did almost none of them and cooked instead. A friend, who has a wonderful Christmas party, has asked me to bring a cake. I set about to test recipes to find one suitable for the occasion and for my seriously chocoholic friend.
When I bake, I get lost in time. I am so connected to what I am doing that everything else drops away. The technical term for what happens is the "flow" state. Those who study such things say that a person in the flow state has developed enough competence that they don't really have to think about what they are doing. My term for it is passion: a deep connection between gift and a love of what I am doing. I think that is probably what happened to Tita, and why her feelings became part of what she cooked.
Being in the flow state is a gift, almost an out-of-body experience. I feel it most of the time when I write or dance with a great partner, as well as when I cook. I've even felt it when I was speaking. To use one's passions and gifts in this way is a responsibility. Surrender totally to a gift and passion transforms one to a truly heaven on earth. Over the last few months, writing this blog has transformed me in the same way, and I am keenly aware how critical being in flow is for my happiness and sense of purpose.
I hope that those, who partake of the fruits of my labor at my friend's party, will feel my passion in each bite. Sharing with them is my gift to her, them, and me.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Winter Storms
Our first serious winter storm in several years is headed toward Washington. By early afternoon tomorrow, the snow should have started, and into Sunday night, sleet will fall. After volunteering at a local theatre this afternoon, I headed out, like many Washingtonians, to run errands and purchase provisions. By the time I dragged my parcels in a few hours later, I was hungry and tired, and my feet ached.
I am sure that there were preparatory activities of which I wasn't aware before the winter storms of my childhood, and I am also confident that, living in the Midwest where winter storms are inevitable, regular, and more significant, my family took the weather more in stride. Washington is winter weather skittish. (The story is that during their first winter in Washington the Obama daughters, accustomed to severe Midwestern weather, were incredulous the first time schools closed for a dusting of snow.)
Despite those realities, this afternoon, I reflected with reverie on the winter storms of my childhood. Weather was less predictable then (or at least, I didn't know the forecasts,) and winter storms sort of showed up as a surprise one morning without warning. I can remember my mother whispering in my ear as I slept, "It snowed last night."
Never a morning person, I would normally loll around as long as I possibly could, but those four magic words would send me bolting from bed to jump into snow clothes and head out to play. I confess that when I was over 50 that I can remember something similar when it snowed at my home in North Carolina. I was grateful for the 7-year-old next door who I could use as an excuse for taking a few hours off from work to play in the snow.
The best winter storms were the ones that were too severe for my dad to go to work, and he would play in the snow with us. The highlight was when he would make "snow cream," an ice cream-like concoction that he would whip up in the mixer with snow, sugar, milk, and vanilla. We loved it. The very best was just having down time with the family. All plans were cancelled. We couldn't go out except to play in the snow or shovel paths. There wasn't much to do except romp in the snow, play games, drink hot chocolate, eat snow cream, and make grilled cheese sandwiches. Quality family time.
As nostalgic as it was, sadly that time is passed. Today when I thought about this winter storm, I was glad that I had worked off-site on Friday and had my computer at home in case a storm kept us home on Monday. Now instead of an unplanned holiday of quality time with family, a storm simply means that I work from home instead of going to the office.
I am not sure that we can ever replace those spontaneous holidays, but when I came in this evening hungry, tired, and with aching feet, for an instant my mind time-traveled back decades and slipped into a hot-chocolate-snow-cream-and-snowmen moment. There were many things about that era that were no so nice, so I wouldn't say that I'd like to go back, but just for tomorrow afternoon, I'd like to slip back to a spontaneous holiday moment.
I am sure that there were preparatory activities of which I wasn't aware before the winter storms of my childhood, and I am also confident that, living in the Midwest where winter storms are inevitable, regular, and more significant, my family took the weather more in stride. Washington is winter weather skittish. (The story is that during their first winter in Washington the Obama daughters, accustomed to severe Midwestern weather, were incredulous the first time schools closed for a dusting of snow.)
Despite those realities, this afternoon, I reflected with reverie on the winter storms of my childhood. Weather was less predictable then (or at least, I didn't know the forecasts,) and winter storms sort of showed up as a surprise one morning without warning. I can remember my mother whispering in my ear as I slept, "It snowed last night."
Never a morning person, I would normally loll around as long as I possibly could, but those four magic words would send me bolting from bed to jump into snow clothes and head out to play. I confess that when I was over 50 that I can remember something similar when it snowed at my home in North Carolina. I was grateful for the 7-year-old next door who I could use as an excuse for taking a few hours off from work to play in the snow.
The best winter storms were the ones that were too severe for my dad to go to work, and he would play in the snow with us. The highlight was when he would make "snow cream," an ice cream-like concoction that he would whip up in the mixer with snow, sugar, milk, and vanilla. We loved it. The very best was just having down time with the family. All plans were cancelled. We couldn't go out except to play in the snow or shovel paths. There wasn't much to do except romp in the snow, play games, drink hot chocolate, eat snow cream, and make grilled cheese sandwiches. Quality family time.
As nostalgic as it was, sadly that time is passed. Today when I thought about this winter storm, I was glad that I had worked off-site on Friday and had my computer at home in case a storm kept us home on Monday. Now instead of an unplanned holiday of quality time with family, a storm simply means that I work from home instead of going to the office.
I am not sure that we can ever replace those spontaneous holidays, but when I came in this evening hungry, tired, and with aching feet, for an instant my mind time-traveled back decades and slipped into a hot-chocolate-snow-cream-and-snowmen moment. There were many things about that era that were no so nice, so I wouldn't say that I'd like to go back, but just for tomorrow afternoon, I'd like to slip back to a spontaneous holiday moment.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Reconciliation
Once or twice a century the world is blessed with a truly wise leader. Yesterday the world lost one of them when Nelson Mandela died.
Over 20 years after Mandela was released from 27 years in prison, I still find it mind-boggling that he was wise enough to respond to severe personal and societal repression by advocating a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC.) The purpose of the TRC was to give thousands of people the opportunity to face their oppressors, for the oppressors to tell their stories, and most of the time to forgive each other.
Back in the day when I spoke at a lot of conferences, John Dawson and I both addressed a number of the same conferences. Dawson founded the International Reconciliation Coalition in 1990. (http://reconciled1.com/international-reconciliation-coalition-overview/) His organization is founded on religious conviction, but the reconciliation ceremonies that he led around the world often addressed secular ills from mistreatment of Native Americans to abused women. The purpose of his work was to provide an opportunity to injured peoples to hear an apology for their pain, and by so doing, allowed the oppressed to move beyond their pain.
Reconciliation is a powerful concept: the end of a conflict between disputing people or groups without retaliation. In the Roman Catholic Church reconciliation is a sacrament whereby a person confesses his or her sins and offers penance to be absolve of misdeeds. Whether part of a church sacrament or a secular ritual like the TRC, reconciliation is God's opportunity for us to admit we could do better, to be sorry, and to be forgiven, and by so doing, we return to God.
Mandela provides me with a powerful example or forgiveness and reconciliation. If a man who was imprisoned for decades can forgive and reconcile, then most certainly I have nothing that should stand in my way of doing the same.
Over 20 years after Mandela was released from 27 years in prison, I still find it mind-boggling that he was wise enough to respond to severe personal and societal repression by advocating a Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC.) The purpose of the TRC was to give thousands of people the opportunity to face their oppressors, for the oppressors to tell their stories, and most of the time to forgive each other.
Back in the day when I spoke at a lot of conferences, John Dawson and I both addressed a number of the same conferences. Dawson founded the International Reconciliation Coalition in 1990. (http://reconciled1.com/international-reconciliation-coalition-overview/) His organization is founded on religious conviction, but the reconciliation ceremonies that he led around the world often addressed secular ills from mistreatment of Native Americans to abused women. The purpose of his work was to provide an opportunity to injured peoples to hear an apology for their pain, and by so doing, allowed the oppressed to move beyond their pain.
Reconciliation is a powerful concept: the end of a conflict between disputing people or groups without retaliation. In the Roman Catholic Church reconciliation is a sacrament whereby a person confesses his or her sins and offers penance to be absolve of misdeeds. Whether part of a church sacrament or a secular ritual like the TRC, reconciliation is God's opportunity for us to admit we could do better, to be sorry, and to be forgiven, and by so doing, we return to God.
Mandela provides me with a powerful example or forgiveness and reconciliation. If a man who was imprisoned for decades can forgive and reconcile, then most certainly I have nothing that should stand in my way of doing the same.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
The Forgiveness of All Humankind
Almost three months ago, I adopted a new set of eight spiritual statements upon which to focus my spiritual growth during this dark half of the year. At least several times a day, and sometimes many times a day, I say and reflect upon these affirmations. Something shifted yesterday. As I was saying them, suddenly one took on new meaning. I've had this happen before. My understanding has to get deep enough for me to truly "get it." I find it a bit like looking at something, which has been in the shadows, but which the sun has finally reached: wow! all the color, dimension and intricacies that I missed when it was in the semi-darkness.
Yesterday, the statement "My work is the forgiveness of all humankind" shifted. Since I write, speak, and coach, I have been thinking that I was supposed to encourage people with whom I come in contact to forgive people in their lives. The idea, I thought, was that if enough people forgave enough others that eventually all humankind would be forgiven.
As I've sunk more and more deeply into this spiritual learning, a different meaning has revealed itself to me. To paraphrase, sometimes it is all about me. Yesterday's revelation was that I am supposed to forgive everyone with whom I have ever come in contact, no matter how big or small their grievance. At first doing so didn't really seem like such a big deal. I regularly "purge" myself of grudges, resentments, and anger with forgiveness. I don't think that I harbor much. People in my life who have committed egregious offenses have not only be forgiven but forgotten as well. I even forgive myself from time to time, although I admit that I am not nearly as good about self-forgiveness.
Consequently, I am not sure why forgiving all humankind seems like such big deal, besides the fact that "all humankind" is a whole boat load of people. As I've meditated on this, the spheres of influence on forgiveness have broadened. Not just people who have done things to me, but resentments I may carry about violations of others are included. Then, there was the wave about people who have committed destructive acts to the planet and even crimes against humanity. Of course, with my personal interest in politics, there are plenty of politicians that could do with some forgiving. There are also the historical violations of our individual and collective ancestors, such as slavery, the treatment of Native Americans in the US, and the near extinction of many species. You get the idea. The more I sit with it, the more I am able to see just how much in the world is to be forgiven.
I am certain that this forgiveness of all humankind is the work of a lifetime. I expect that in the time during which I forgive one or two that a dozen more acts will have been committed to be forgiven. If I really think about it, I am overwhelmed, so I just don't think about it...at least not in a worrisome way. If I did, I'd have to forgive myself for worrying. I am still trying to just be with how this plays out, but I sense that at the end, I will be back in that most alluring spot: being present. With nothing to pull me into the past or the future, here I am...now...present.
I believe I've mentioned before that spiritual teacher Carolyn Myss has said our most important spiritual work is to be present. As I explore the many dimensions of spiritual growth and learning, all roads seem to lead back to being present. It makes sense that if we get to the place where we can truly be present in the present, we would have mastered many other spiritual lessons along the way.
For now, it seems to me that the dimension of being present with which I am currently engaged is to forgive...and forgive...and forgive some more.
Yesterday, the statement "My work is the forgiveness of all humankind" shifted. Since I write, speak, and coach, I have been thinking that I was supposed to encourage people with whom I come in contact to forgive people in their lives. The idea, I thought, was that if enough people forgave enough others that eventually all humankind would be forgiven.
As I've sunk more and more deeply into this spiritual learning, a different meaning has revealed itself to me. To paraphrase, sometimes it is all about me. Yesterday's revelation was that I am supposed to forgive everyone with whom I have ever come in contact, no matter how big or small their grievance. At first doing so didn't really seem like such a big deal. I regularly "purge" myself of grudges, resentments, and anger with forgiveness. I don't think that I harbor much. People in my life who have committed egregious offenses have not only be forgiven but forgotten as well. I even forgive myself from time to time, although I admit that I am not nearly as good about self-forgiveness.
Consequently, I am not sure why forgiving all humankind seems like such big deal, besides the fact that "all humankind" is a whole boat load of people. As I've meditated on this, the spheres of influence on forgiveness have broadened. Not just people who have done things to me, but resentments I may carry about violations of others are included. Then, there was the wave about people who have committed destructive acts to the planet and even crimes against humanity. Of course, with my personal interest in politics, there are plenty of politicians that could do with some forgiving. There are also the historical violations of our individual and collective ancestors, such as slavery, the treatment of Native Americans in the US, and the near extinction of many species. You get the idea. The more I sit with it, the more I am able to see just how much in the world is to be forgiven.
I am certain that this forgiveness of all humankind is the work of a lifetime. I expect that in the time during which I forgive one or two that a dozen more acts will have been committed to be forgiven. If I really think about it, I am overwhelmed, so I just don't think about it...at least not in a worrisome way. If I did, I'd have to forgive myself for worrying. I am still trying to just be with how this plays out, but I sense that at the end, I will be back in that most alluring spot: being present. With nothing to pull me into the past or the future, here I am...now...present.
I believe I've mentioned before that spiritual teacher Carolyn Myss has said our most important spiritual work is to be present. As I explore the many dimensions of spiritual growth and learning, all roads seem to lead back to being present. It makes sense that if we get to the place where we can truly be present in the present, we would have mastered many other spiritual lessons along the way.
For now, it seems to me that the dimension of being present with which I am currently engaged is to forgive...and forgive...and forgive some more.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Joy!
"Joy to the world
All the boys and girls now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me."
That earworm of the song, which was popularized in 1970 by the Three Dog Night, has been playing in my head since I sat quietly and asked for guidance on writing this blog post. Hmmm! What am I to say? The song just keeps playing.
I wonder if it relates at all to an article that I read earlier this evening about the level of trust in the United States being at an all-time low. A major survey, which has been repeated for 40 years, reported that just about a third of people in the country think that they can trust most people. The article related the diminishing level of trust to less involvement in community organizations and activities, increased isolated television viewing, decline of traditional values, and the 24/7 news cycle. Not much joy in any of that.
The last couple of times I've played the Grocery Store Game (12/1/13) I've found that it is harder to connect than it used to be. Our electronics have significantly changed our lives. Until 3-4 years ago, I often had a conversation on the train with a random person. While I have no way of actually knowing whether I can trust the person more after a conversation, somehow that familiarity makes me think I can trust that person.
However, most days now most people are hunkered over their smartphones, iPads, or laptops with ear buds in place--safely "protected" from either visual or auditory contact.I literally cannot remember when I've said anything to anyone on the train other than, "Excuse me: this is my stop.) Even walking down the street, people are looking at their devices and shutting out sound. Lest you think I am anti-technology, I fully confess that I have been guilty of the above activity. While our devices give us the illusion of being connected, they actually have the opposite effect. We have become a siloed world instead of a connected one, when connection is what it takes to build trust, and it certainly encourages joy.
As the song suggests, joy comes from connecting with people and nature around us. For those who have taken the Grocery Store Game challenge, this is the important work we are taking on: bringing the intention of connection to our encounters, building trust and creating joy. This is good work we are doing. Ah! Joy to the world!
All the boys and girls now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me."
That earworm of the song, which was popularized in 1970 by the Three Dog Night, has been playing in my head since I sat quietly and asked for guidance on writing this blog post. Hmmm! What am I to say? The song just keeps playing.
I wonder if it relates at all to an article that I read earlier this evening about the level of trust in the United States being at an all-time low. A major survey, which has been repeated for 40 years, reported that just about a third of people in the country think that they can trust most people. The article related the diminishing level of trust to less involvement in community organizations and activities, increased isolated television viewing, decline of traditional values, and the 24/7 news cycle. Not much joy in any of that.
The last couple of times I've played the Grocery Store Game (12/1/13) I've found that it is harder to connect than it used to be. Our electronics have significantly changed our lives. Until 3-4 years ago, I often had a conversation on the train with a random person. While I have no way of actually knowing whether I can trust the person more after a conversation, somehow that familiarity makes me think I can trust that person.
However, most days now most people are hunkered over their smartphones, iPads, or laptops with ear buds in place--safely "protected" from either visual or auditory contact.I literally cannot remember when I've said anything to anyone on the train other than, "Excuse me: this is my stop.) Even walking down the street, people are looking at their devices and shutting out sound. Lest you think I am anti-technology, I fully confess that I have been guilty of the above activity. While our devices give us the illusion of being connected, they actually have the opposite effect. We have become a siloed world instead of a connected one, when connection is what it takes to build trust, and it certainly encourages joy.
As the song suggests, joy comes from connecting with people and nature around us. For those who have taken the Grocery Store Game challenge, this is the important work we are taking on: bringing the intention of connection to our encounters, building trust and creating joy. This is good work we are doing. Ah! Joy to the world!
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