A LITTLE BIT OF LIGHT

A gentle rain has begun to fall, its light rhythm tapping the overhead awning of the dondolo where I have come to write. Now a strong breeze arrives, stirring the garden to dance. It’s 3p.m., here in Tuscany; 9 a.m., in New York. This time 15 years ago on that blue September morn’, an act of terrorism forever changed the world.

It is hard not to assume, that much of the negativity and hatred that is seething to the surface now, was sown on that day. Do you remember the fear? And do you remember the compassion? Especially in New York. How for a month everyone loved everyone? How the country as a whole was taking a look in the mirror, amazingly willing to discover whatever responsibility we bore in such in attracting such hatred?

For a moment there, much like children, we were chastened. Unfortunately, also like children, we wanted to pin the blame elsewhere and have someone else take responsibility for fixing it. And from that immature need we let “W” become Daddy and we condoned his decision that first Afghanistan and then Iraq should be tagged the enemy and subsequently invaded. That worked well, eh?

As I’ve said before, when I sit down to write for this blog I never know what’s going to present itself. I certainly didn’t intend to be writing about 9/11, mass consciousness and politics. Like many of you, I’m sure, I’m truly sickened and exhausted by this election cycle, not to mention Brexit. And again, it’s easy to point the finger elsewhere; the candidates, the media, corporate power…all of which bear their share of blame. But we, the people, must own our share. When was the last time any of us participated in local politics? When was the last time we threw money at our candidate instead of directly helping those less fortunate than us?

And in the end, isn’t that really where it all starts; being of service to others instead of always wanting more for ourselves: another pair of shoes, a bigger house, another car, more tax breaks, more followers, more likes, more power…

Before we moved to Europe, I had a separate career from writing. For several years I had a therapy practice. Three or four days a week I had the privilege of listening to people who wanted to transcend their painful stories; people who wanted to grow beyond their history and re-educate themselves in terms of distinguishing between the reality of today as opposed to indulging in emotional reactions that belong in the past. I was always inspired and humbled to witness their courage, for it does indeed take courage to become fully responsible for your own life.

I am grateful to have been a vehicle for change in a few lives, as much as I am grateful for how much those people changed mine. For you cannot really be of help to others if you are not willing to continually take a look at your own unswept corners. To listen deeply to another human being, to hear, and help them articulate their misconceptions, denials and judgments, is to simultaneously hear your own. I miss that interaction. When we decided to move here I spent the prior year preparing my clients and myself for the end of this intimate relationship. Most of them where able to “graduate” having developed the consciousness to accept the imperfection of being merely human, as well as having assembled the necessary tools to assist in the ongoing fine-tuning of spiritual evolution. Those who weren’t quite there I referred on.

In the meantime, I had decided to take full responsibility for my life as a writer and artist, craving “more” time to myself. And I justified this letting go of the practice by telling myself that in any case the 6 hour time difference would make it hard to schedule Skype sessions, even though I was also working with people in London and Paris. I don’t regret the decision. Since then I’ve revised one novel, written and published another, posted regularly for this blog, as well as starting on a new body of drawings which I am about to start translating to canvas.

But lately I’ve been feeling the need to be of service again. It turns out that it is a part of who I am, as much as is being a writer/artist. Perhaps the helplessness I feel in the face of all the dreadful news this year is its own gift. A reminder, that being of service to anyone in need who comes across my path is an essential part of my nature and therefore a necessary part of my evolution. And here is an example of how these small acts ripple out into the world:

Last Friday, Joel and I had to go to the hospital in Siena. In order to enter the parking lot one much push a button and retrieve a ticket at which point the barrier rises and allows you to enter. In order to exit the lot one must insert the ticket into a machine and then insert the amount of money indicated. There is a woman to be found sitting on the ground next to this machine, with her beggar’s cup. Always the same woman. On this day when Joel searched his pockets he found he had no change for the machine, never mind for giving to her. Neither did I. Seeing this, the woman took money from her cup and gave it Joel.

Now, you know this woman is the target of judgment everyday. Every day, without knowing the slightest thing about her, people decide she’s a cunning thief, positioning herself next to the money machine. But being of service is not about giving to those we judge worth of our ‘generosity’…that is a form of prejudice. And prejudice is capable of bring about an event like 9/11...