Auld Lang Syne

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

-The Serenity Prayer

Grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change,

the courage to change the people I can,

and the wisdom to know it's me.

-The Serenity Prayer Revised

Ken likes to say that the work we do on ourselves,

whether it's psychological or spiritual, is not

meant to get rid of the waves in the ocean of life

but for us to learn how to surf.

-Treya Wilber, quoted in "Grace and Grit" by Ken Wilber

The New Year looms, and a multitude of irritable, recently declared non-smokers are about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.

I too, thrill to the siren's call of new beginnings. There is the temptation to create a program of self-improvement for 2006. But...

In the past I have initiated numerous 'regimes,' all of which shared a pathetically short life span. Some focused on the physical, some on the mental, but each one was ultimately an attempt to jumpstart and expand my spirit. Again, but...

Perhaps I should begin with the spirit and let the regimes follow (or not) of their own accord. This approach begs the question, how does one 'begin with spirit?'

What comes to mind, somewhat arbitrarily, is the cultivation of awareness, acceptance and creativity.

I would like to give myself an ongoing wake-up call, and I use the term 'awake' in a Gurdjieffian sense. A sustained effort not to fall into the slumbers of automatic responses, and the clarity of will to avoid tranquilization by the superficial. Pervasive in my daily life I want to remember what it is I'm doing here, even if what I'm doing is simply trying to figure out what I'm doing.

Then, as a complementary process, comes acceptance. I believe it is most rewarding (and certainly most real) to accept myself as I am. I want to look carefully at those things which bother or hinder me, but do not want to sweep them quickly under the carpet or avoid them completely. Then, if desired, I can act either to change those things or to alter the way in which I percieve them. If I attempt change without first having a centered awareness and acceptance, I run the risk of reacting instead of acting. This avoidance-based response often leads deeper into the mire.

Awake. Aware. Accepting. My personal Triple-A-Club. I could do worse in the selection of a mantra and a reminder. It is a touchstone to use as a foundation amidst the abstractions of intellect, habitual reality-tunnels, and the pain/risk/uncertainties that often accompany soul-level change.

Creation. Within the admitted limitations of my knowledge, I have found paradigms to be arbitrary and subject to change. Given this, I would hope to create an optimum world-view for myself. I am not trying to construct a vision of absolutes. It is too common to become trapped in perspectives which should have been temporary explorations or reactions.

Perhaps what I wish to do is create a lifeboat perspective: An RV paradigm. Something which I can climb into when I leave where I've been, but haven't yet arrived at where I'm going. This had better be a comfortable RV, because I spend considerable time in this space.

Bottom-line though, I believe that if I do not consciously and ongoingly create my own vision, then the world will assign me one by default.

So for now: Slow down enough in my interactions with others and with life itself so that I can take stock of what is occurring. Accept that which is not in my power or place to alter; death, aging, external events and the choices of others. At the same time, call forth the courage and perseverence to create the life I would choose for myself. Use humour. Use love. Be open to guidance in whatever form it presents itself.

These concepts are not new to me, nor are they undeveloped. However, as is often the case with core truths, there are limits to be passed beyond and deeper levels to be experienced. I frequently feel as though I am at a crossroads, with the path of personal growth and spiritual evolution as a choice to be made. But maybe this threshold of transformation is continually present, needing only my own consciousness to percieve it. The former Brittish Prime Minister, Harold MacMillan, said, "It is of course a trite observation to say that we live in a 'period of transition.' Many people have said this at many times. Adam may well have made the remark to Eve on leaving the Garden of Eden."

Awake, aware and accepting... I shall see where it goes, and where I take it, from here.

Happy New Year, all.

Namaste,

Greg

P.S. For a (what I found) interesting translation of the word 'Bangkok,' click on to www.coolworks.com/blog/greg.

Chaoyang Christmas

This year will be my first Christmas that I am not celebrating with my parents at their home. It will also be the first Christmas that I am celebrating on the other side of the globe. The last few years I haven't been all that enthusiastic about the holidays. I became disillusioned that Christmas was solely for shopping and that the true meaning of Christmas was lost around the time I turned nine.

If you would have asked me in June if I would be celebrating Christmas this year I probably would have shrugged 'don't know'. I would have asked myself, "Do I really want to teach my daughter at the tender young age of ten months about the commercialism that is Christmas?" In North America it seems that traditions fall to the wayside and the true meaning of Christmas gets lost somewhere between the shiny paper and the colored lights. I thought that being in China would be a wonderful excuse to have nothing to do with the holidays.

I was wrong.

It's not that Christmas doesn't exist in Beijing, but strangely enough the Holiday is celebrated without mentioning Jesus (religion is not encouraged in China). Since Beijing has many foreigners there is a Christmas rush, but it consists of cheap lights, tacky cardboard Santa faces and creepy ornaments that look like Santa is half melted. I'll admit I was surprised to be greeted by 'Merry Christmas' signs here and there around the city that reminded me of the holiday so far away and even more pleasant was that no one was bombarding me with advertisements to get my Christmas shopping done or informing me how to avoid holiday stress. HOLIDAY-STRESS, isn't that an awful oxymoron?

So where did I find the true meaning of Christmas in Beijing? In the children of course. Teaching at an International school means that we have to teach the children about Christmas. It means that there are Christmas parties and Christmas crafts. It means that there are Christmas carols and visits from Santa Claus. This year alone I have told the story of St. Nicolas to my class, dressed up as an elf and danced on stage, made countless Holiday crafts and sang Jingle Bells about fifty times while the children in my class ring bells. At home, my husband and I decided to get a little tree and we decorated it with cheap 'Made in China' lights (they broke the second time we used them) and little melting Santa ornaments. The look on my daughter's face the one and only time we lit the Christmas tree made my heart jump and giggle. So there it... the children. They seem to love all that is red, white and snow and between my own daughter and my little two year old students, I have found that Christmas is just really about sharing joy.
And so, I suppose that Christmas is a holiday that my daughter will learn about and celebrate. I will do my best to teach her about the beauty of Christmas and I hope that she will love Christmas for what it means and not what she gets. For now, I am going to make my daughter her first Christmas stocking and Santa and I will fill it with joy. Merry Christmas!

To the Lighthouse

A sudden sound from the corner of Hagrid's cabin made Harry, Ron, and Hermione whip around. Buckbeak the hippogriff was lying in the corner, chomping on something that was oozing blood all over the floor.

"I couldn' leave him tied up out there in the snow!" choked Hagrid. "All on his own! At Christmas."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another. They had never seen eye to eye with Hagrid about what he called "interesting creatures" and other people called "terrifying monsters." On the other hand, there didn't seem to be any particular harm in Buckbeak. In fact, by Hagrid's usual standards, he was positively cute.

--J.K. Rowling


Working in Yellowstone, I used to dread the winter. I could live with the change in the weather, although, having grown up in a near-desert, that alone was a horrible shock. Worse, much worse, was this business of getting laid off and essentially evicted from the area, since I never did find the winter employment I was always looking for up there. I came to associate cold weather with unemployment checks and living out of the car. I'm always happy to find places that upset my expectations for this time of year--including, lately, a part of California that looks as if it is about to break off and head out to sea.

I refer to Point Reyes National Seashore, on the Marin coast north of San Francisco. I found myself there a few weeks ago, during a break from work, and made it a point to spend as much time as I could walking up and down its beaches, drawing a long zigzag between the water and the seaside cliffs, looking and watching. Pelicans cruised above the furthest line of breakers, exhibiting as much grace in the air as they do goofiness when seen up close on the ground. Little Vs turned up in the wet sand when the water rolled back, then quickly disappeared: sand crabs burrowing back under the surface (harmless and free of claws, sand crabs are the delight of West Coast children, who take them home in buckets and find them dead on arrival; by the millions, in suburban Southern California backyards, sand crabs lie in unmarked graves, over by the cat and the guinea pig). Further out in the water, I saw a flash of black flipping upward and submerging without becoming quite airborne: a sea lion, maybe. Further up in the air, a circle of vultures spun. The circle was getting narrower. Something dead in the coastal scrub on the high ground above.

Something dead lay in every direction I looked, as I drew that zigzag between dry land and water, the latter now at low tide (it's good, by the way, to check the tide tables: people get pinned against the cliff by high tides, which is--exciting). Clumps of mussels had washed up. Torn from the rocks that had held them by a storm the previous week, they lay like bunches of rotten bananas along the high tide line, some of the individual mussels bigger than any I'd ever seen, eight inches or more (it's good to check to make sure mussels are in season before eating them; when they aren't, they harbor a toxin that can kill, and with some dramatic flair). Sea birds lay sprawled on the sand between the hills of kelp, the birds more or less skeletonized. So did fish, some of hallucinatory make and model, and size. There had been no catastrophe; all this death was the normal result of life in the sea.

Among the biological wreckage lay wreckage of a human source, also normal, if sometimes more irritating. Crews of container ships at sea tend to heave anything they don't want overboard, so this part of the Northern California littoral is home to, among other things, a whole population of wrecked wooden pallets. Commercial fishing gear turned up--floats with Japanese characters on them, and nylon line and netting twisted into briny, synthetic dreadlocks. An expensive saltwater fishing rod, lost overboard and treated very rudely by the waves, rolled in. I picked it up and used it as a walking stick.

I walked like this for hours, over several days and on several beaches, including both the relatively sheltered beaches that hide behind Pt. Reyes itself, and those to the north that take the full force of the weather blowing off the Pacific. I could have done it for hours more. Here is a place where the sun comes out more often in the cold months; during the summer, fog is a daily presence. It is a cold sunlight, but enticing, and a perfect match (opposites attract) for the harsh nature of everything else about this place. The wind routinely gets up over forty miles an hour, blowing bits of sand deep enough into bodily recesses that they don't turn up for a week. When the wind doesn't blow, the fog descends, a one-two punch that makes the lighthouse at Pt. Reyes--finished originally in 1870--a necessity to this day. I could see it flashing as I walked, and could sometimes hear the foghorn. I don't see many surfers along these beaches, although it can be done; without a wetsuit, though, hypothermia is a going proposition.

Of course, just strolling along, this place is not physically threatening. But that harshness often takes forms more subtle, slow, pervasive. The salt, for instance. Brine is in every breath of air and coats every surface, leaving a sticky film that makes sand cling to anything it touches. Bedspreads and tabletops are always damp, and one almost expects banana slugs under the hotel bed (there are, however, precious few hotels in this rustic part of the state, mostly just bed and breakfasts with names like The Enchanted Crustacean). Salt air rots anything made of steel; barn roofs, though laboriously painted, are all measeled, and even mailboxes decay and cave in. Steel doors and fixtures on the older National Park Service restrooms look like they have been blasted by shotguns. Scattered all up and down the seashore, I found wreckage from a big pier, blown to bits by a storm, and obviously weakened by the decay of its steel parts from the salt.

I walked on, combing the beach, wondering what else the sea might disgorge, and how far that thing might have come. Just past another heap of wrecked pier, I was startled by a row of white objects that had a symmetry to them, a human symmetry, I thought. A ribcage. It was, I finally saw, a skeletal porpoise. I looked off toward the Farallon Islands, a row of rocky bulges along the horizon, aligned like the back of the Loch Ness Monster. In the water around those islands were great white sharks the size of the one in the movie. They spend part of the year dining on sea mammals out there. The Farallones, in the shimmering distance, were very beautiful indeed. The skeleton at my feet showed no sign of violence. I was still pleased with myself.

Why? Why would I--why would anyone--enjoy a place like this? Because these creatures are, as Hagrid says, "interesting" (the quote at the start comes from a Harry Potter book, of course, Prisoner of Azkaban specifically): the great white sharks off the Farallones, the line of expiring jellyfish I'd just noticed here on the beach, the really strikingly ugly vultures overhead, all are interesting. The human mind is built to be curious; we want something new all the time. Really, we want everything new all the time, a new universe every day. This desire is not a weakness created by Madison Avenue advertisers. This is how the mind works, and probably always has. After some weeks spent locked up indoors with Microsoft Word, I was ready for something--anything--messy, unusual, interesting.

I'll have to continue this topic next time. We had actually come to Point Reyes to see the 19th century lighthouse, a perfectly touristy thing to do, I thought. We were delayed by, to our surprise, dangerous conditions. Interesting.

Confessions of a Mall Moose . . .

During this time of year I always like to reflect back upon my many holiday jobs. You always get to see the best and the worst of people during the holidays. Some past holiday jobs include a cashier at a clothing store, a waitress in a restaurant, a manager in a bookstore, a receptionist for a tour bus company, and perhaps the oddest position of all: Chris Moose, Resident Animated Ungulate at a suburban Pennsylvania mall. Knowing that most malls do not employ ungulates, Christmas season or not, I am sure you are filled with questions. Let me give you the highlights . . .

What is Chris Moose?
Aside from a poor pun on the word, Christmas, Chris Moose first and foremost, is not a reindeer, particularly he is not Rudolph. His nose does not light up. He is not in with the big guy in red. Santa and Chris were not close at all in fact. But I digress, Chris Moose, basically was a large animated Moose who talked to little kids while their parents perused their beef stick and smoked Gouda options at the nearby Hickory Farms stand at my local mall.

Chris could not walk. Chris was only a Moose head and two big arms sticking out of a giant Christmas bag (from the bag base to the tip of the golden antlers was an impressive 12 feet that demanded all little kiddies tilt their heads and look up at the Moose).

Chris could blink his eyes, turn his head, and through the miracles of modern technology, whenever Chris spoke into the mike, his mouth opened in unison. Mostly. When I would sing it got a little off somehow.

Wait a minute, were you sitting in the Moose?
Oddly no. The Moose Bag held a bunch of wires. My studio was right next door in a second wrapped package that held a generator, a chair, a lamp, headphones, a mic and my control panel.

How could you see the kids?
Through a tiny little hole in my package. And if I did not see them, often times the kids would get my attention by screaming Hey Rudolph! Hey, Rudolph! This in spite of the large sign in my snow pen that said CHRIS MOOSE. Really, when you can hear kids, you do not always need to see them.

Before you hinted at some friction between you and Santa, what gives?
Well, see Santa liked to ignore the Moose, like you could ignore the Moose. And whenever he walked by (seemingly about every 30 minutes. Our Santa had a great union rep) all the little kids would leave Chris Moose and run to Santa. So I would try and chat with Santa to show that we were all on the same team. But Santa would snub the Moose and walk on by; ruining any street cred I earned promising all the little 3-footers I would tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas. Why, Santa, Why? I mean did Jerry Lewis interrupt Dean Martin and then ignore him? No, there was some play there. That is what made that relationship solid gold.


How long were typical shifts in the Chris Moose studio?
Well, having the Mon. to Fri. slot, I was live 11 am to 8 pm. The coveted weekend slot went to Butch I was a high school mascot Smith. Incidentally, I was not chosen as our high school mascot when I tried out, but that is a whole other blog (Damn you, Butch!). Yes I have changed his last name, not to protect him, but because I do not remember it. A trivial thing really. Why get bogged down in minutiae?

Wow. Nine hour shifts seem long. Did you have a hard time being on for such long stretches?
A huge fan of method acting, I did a lot of research. A huge fan of artificial stimulation, I drank a lot of caffeine. Truly, I never left character.

What was your motivation?
There was a real gritty honesty about my Moose. Now Iam not saying that my character is the ideal Moose. But he is real. Butch was not real. Think Papa Smurf meets Barney. For me, think Bill Murray meets Jean-Paul Sartre. You never know what you are going to get, and while it might be a little manic, it will be REAL. Besides why dumb it down for the kids?

How much does a Mall Moose get paid?
Really I should not brag.

Oh, Come on, how much?
Actually I can not brag, because it was not much and if you would think that seeing the smiling faces of hundreds upon hundreds of little kids would be payment enough, you would be really, really wrong. Instead, I did it to work on my Craft. Well, and to buy meaningless tchotchke, also known as Christmas gifts.

When did you know the roller coaster was going to end?
Well, like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I really hit my stride during the third season. I had the adoration of my fans: countless males and females walked by begging for my digits. Some would wait to see me emerge from my studio at the end of the day. I have a policy against autographs: I will not cheapen what I do, so really they were a little crestfallen, but the professional needs her space. Also, I had received some critical acclaim in the local newspaper. Next to my hours, the advertisement listed me as Entertaining. Hey, you can not buy that kind of advertising. Well you can, and the mall did, but it was well-founded.

Then, in my fourth season, I faced the challenge of a career change. I found out the Moose got traded to another network, er, mall. Turns out our mall thought the Moose was a little stale and wanted to replace Chris Moose with Jingle Bear. Naturally they wanted the best to take on the persona of Ursula major, so after some tough negotiations I was in. It was a tough season, make it or break it, I mean think, replacing The Simpsons with Futurama. You still have the creator of the same art, but really it is never the same again, and always feels a little tainted . . .

Is that when you gave it all up?
I could see the writing on the wall. And who likes to be the last one to leave the party?

Have you thought of a reunion tour with the other moose?
Just because Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles got back together does not mean it is right for me. I have some other projects in the work right now, so short term I say no. But under the right circumstances and top billing of course . . .

Back East, Honey Buckets & Cockroaches

On a recent trip back east, I have to say I had a huge growing experience that I want to share.

Have you ever noticed that when you are traveling to a new place, the experience of opening up every sensory perception overrides any inconvenience? I describe this as living like a sea anemone. You have your feelers out and absorb and interact with everything floating by. It's thrilling and exciting and a valuable learning experience.

I can recall living in Tahiti and not being phased by the size of the flying cockroaches in my bedroom. Hey! I was living in Paradise!!! Same was true using a honey bucket in parts of Alaska where I lived. There is something about letting the entire experience swallow you. Your hearing, eyes, and sense of smell are more acute. In order to fit in to this new culture, you listen very carefully and observe with great attention. It's critical for survival and oh so important to experience this part of your life. There is a need to belong and thrive.

Then there is the return "home" and - culture shock. The feelers are slammed with our return to our familiar environments and we are forced to turn down those heightened senses and adapt to our day-to-day lives. Why is that? Is it really healthy?

Our recent holiday trip had us on a red-eye flight leaving Seattle for Boston at 1am. It was only $79 one-way - you can't beat the price. (Thank you Jet Blue) It wasn't easy to sleep on the plane this time and reminded me of other long flights. I hate "being in the moment", but sure look forward to what's on the other side of the arrival gate. This trip was no exception.

We took a bus to Portland, Maine, (visited family), rented a car and then drove through New England with time spent with family and friends along the way.

Thus continued my learning curveâ?¦ I realize I hold stereotypical views and I'm not proud of them. To me friendly customer service and the east coast aren't always synonymous. However, we were pleasantly surprised and wrong about so many people we encountered in our drive from Maine, through Boston and into New York. I found my perceptions about my friends and family were no longer valid. They had changed and so had I. This is one important reason I travel - to learn about new places and cultures, but I also to learn a lot about myself.

We're home now, and I appreciate living in Seattle all that much more. Though I miss the extreme cultural diversity of Manhattan, I appreciate all my encounters with everyone I meet on a daily basis. I've sent some goalsâ?¦ I will try to think more about letting my senses roam and not sheltering them in. I will walk new and existing neighborhoods in Seattle now and really try to listen and observe more with an open mind. I will try to learn more about my friends and trust they will do the same for me. I'm not the same person returning here after 5 years away and you knowâ?¦ they probably aren't either. It's going to be like taking a new vacation.