Living for Vision

I first met Adam on the baseball field during my lunch break. Someone was playing catch with their dog and he jumped in like one of the pack, bobbing and weaving like a willow in the wind – him crouched at one end of a stout stick at eye level with the dog on the other. And all the while he was narrating everything that was happening between them – the give and take of force, the playfully feigned aggression, the embodied fluidity of movement. Those of us who had been solo on-lookers found ourselves engaging with the scene through remarks of wonder and curiosity. And when I addressed Adam directly, he moved closer and I saw the words on his faded grey t-shirt: “Adultish”.

I’ve always had a soft spot for big kids in grown-up bodies. At nearly 50, Adam’s casual dress and the twinkle in his demeanor thwart the age shown in the crinkle of his eye and salt and pepper of his beard. He has had the privilege of spending his days exploring the mechanics of how things fit together – from cosmic rhythms to human anatomy, from his own consciousness to camper vans. A hip injury led him to martial arts and an apprenticeship with a young man fluent in somatics, giving him the flexibility and mobility to move more like an extension of the elements than your run of the mill human being. Watching him, I could feel the flow of his movement. My body hungers for that freedom, and my mind withdraws. If I could move in the world so grounded and responsive, what other limitations would I be invited to confront? I wouldn’t be able to hide, or blame, or protect myself in the same way I do now. I would have to welcome, expand, and release.

Adam’s world has different rules than mine, and a different rhythm – one that helps me stay in touch with my deeper values – and over the weeks, we have found our lunchtime conversations meandering from raising kids to right livelihood to the rise of machines to the search for meaning. Today, he let me flip through his notebooks of doodles, and I enjoyed the feel of the moleskin between my fingers, the vibration of his voice traveling through the back of the wooden bench to resonate in my ribcage. I perused page after page of 3D geometric shapes super-imposed on camper vans and detailed sketches of human legs, hips, and spines, interspersed with cartoons of bunnies he did for his niece.

“Look at this one,” he pointed, excitedly. It looked like a dog bone wrapped in a meaty treat. “Bones lock into one another to absorb force, but they are also wrapped in a spiral sheath of muscle and sinew like a Chinese finger trap. If you pull the joint apart, they tighten to keep it together. And if you push the bones together, they loosen.” He went on to explain about a German inventor who designed a model out of squares and triangles that expanding and contacts into different shapes, replicating the geometry found in organisms. It’s the way our lungs work, and the way we shift in and out of stable positions as we walk. He jumped up to demonstrate.

What flooded me in that moment were memories overlapping from all of the happiest times of my life, the times I was in-between obligations – summer break or the end of a job before I needed to start looking for the next one or the deep breath before taking a long trip. In those brief periods of no more than a few months, I was free to explore whatever I wanted and devoured books, had deep conversations, dated with casual curiosity and wrote about the images and connections that danced through my mind, interlacing fingers with the words written and spoken by those around me and becoming magical tendrils of never-ending nourishment. I shared with Adam my resonance with this simple pleasure of having a human mind with space to play and dream, and he shared about how decades ago it was predicted that technology would free people up for more leisure time.

“Except then comes capitalism,” I introjected cynically. “The moment someone realizes they can make twice as much money as the other guy if they fill those extra hours with work, we all end up caught in endless busyness just to keep up, just trying to survive.” The silence that followed had an uncomfortably sinking quality. And so we dabbled a bit in economics and politics, until I realized it was time to head inside between the cold walls and punch out some numbers. The sadness lay heavy on me. I wanted nothing more than to lounge in the sun, dreaming. But Adam doesn’t really have it any easier. He’s longing just like me for a way to put his insights into service to our world without even really understanding much of anything at all. He just has more time to think about it, more time to ponder the responsibility of his privilege, more time to feel guilty for what he has done and what he fails to do.

I’m gradually coming to realize there is a gravity in my life that is not shifting no matter what I do. It is as though everything I accomplish seems irrelevant, every new strategy I conjure up is pointless. Good connections leave me feeling relieved for only an hour or two. Catching up on sleep simply makes the pain feel sharper. Letting myself go in dance, shouting to the hills, having a good sob with a friend only feels like a distraction. And the idea that it’s as simple as changing my thought patterns, perspective, or attitude feels offensive – like a criticism of my failures or a way of implying there isn’t something wise and life-serving about feeling sad for not feeling alive. I met with a woman last night to talk about a coaching program I’m considering and she kept asking me what it is I want. The fact that I don’t know made me feel so defensive, ashamed, and utterly helpless. All I want to do is rest, and yet I am filled with the agitating sense that I have to keep moving because I don’t belong.

After coming inside from lunch with Adam, I felt that heaviness, like grief hanging on my limbs, gathered in my belly. I pushed myself to focus on my tasks and I felt gentle moments of relief chatting with patients, but I was mostly aware of the constant monologue telling me this work isn’t mine to do, that won’t feel relief until I choose and commit to a profession, that I won’t find my tribe unless I keep putting myself out there. As I was gathering up the office trash, the thought came to me that I am without the comfort those at Ananda had, without the sense that some guru is holding and guiding me, and I can simply pray to them for clarity and support. What do I pray to? What holds and guides my life? I have no peers to connect with in person, no elders, and no sense of ancestors. Even the hills and woods have stopped speaking to me.

In an instant, the words of that great poem came to me, “Anything that doesn’t make you feel alive is too small for you.” This job is too small for me. The professions I am considering feel arduous not because I’m not strong enough to face them, but because they are too small for me. The weight of feeling lost has a new edge after beginning my apprenticeship because I realize that it, too, despite all I have sacrificed to get here, is too small for me. Even being in the wilderness now has a blandness to it. That is a crucial part of what nourishes me, but it is not the end point. I remembered a woman at the speed coaching workshop I went to telling me that when I sat down in front of her she felt like my energy was 10 times the size of my body. What was I carrying with me in that moment that I don’t have today?

Vision. My life is big enough when I have an inspiring vision and I know it’s possible. Explosive energy comes through me in service of that and people stop to listen, and often join in, and feel themselves come alive, and our vision grows and we all bask in the bonfire of life force coming through us to hold each other and live in service. Last night I wrote about wanting to make a bonfire of my life, to burn it all down, and today I realize that is what I am here to create. Key Club service projects, boy’s home kitchen inventory, my wedding, world tours, volunteer programs, residential internships, moving to a new city. My mind gets a spark – sometimes for my own life and sometimes for my community – and I move, and all I want is for others to stop and listen and join in. And when they do there is magic.

No wonder I feel so dead inside. My vision for VOA died. And my vision for a life in Portland. Laurelwood died, too. I dragged myself to a new life with the vision of this apprenticeship and now it is withering along with my vision of teaching. And a new romance I was kindling with poetry and trees and feathered things flamed out in the reality of insurmountable distance. I am searching hungrily for some new vision to latch onto, but not any vision will do. It has to fit the contours of my heart. My mind has to turn it over and over and decide until it knows it is possible and that hasn’t happened, yet. I have always thought I live for connection, but there’s something deeper than that. When I have a vision, I will face any adversity, especially when it is shared, and the journey itself – regardless of whether we arrive – is all I need.

When the gift of this insight came to me, something deep inside me relaxed, and there was a spark of hope that scattered the fatigue and grief like a drop of pure oil in muddy water. I don’t need to have it all figured out. I just need to know what I’m looking for. I’m not looking for a job or a community or income or a lover or my next meal. I’m not looking for a place to soothe and comfort me. I’m looking for a vision, my vision – for something I can put the full force of my fire into and watch it ignite. What new idea is coming to inspire me? What project already in motion will I join to enliven and deepen and carry? With vision, I can endure. With vision, everything has meaning. Knowing what it is I seek makes the longing almost sweet, and infuses tedious times with meaning. Does this thing or person or activity bring me alive in this moment? What choice is mine to make in service of that?

Nancy