Who Dad?!

Alter Ego

I've inherited cold-weather genes from my birth mother's Northern Sweden ancestors. Are they the ones who close the shades, prefer the quiet, can even be patient with long nights and slow change?

How did I wind up under the Arizona sun? Was that an urge from my birth father's blood?

We carry 5,000 generations of mothers and fathers within our skin. No wonder I often cannot make up my mind.

Don't ask me why, but that got me thinking about voting, choosing sides, the various ways allegiance is identified and remembering an event I once participated in.

I was working with my father in Chicago, but living in Evanston near the lake for refuge. It was a time when I was committed to attaining a deeper understanding of myself and my patterns. I was in therapy, went to 12-step groups, and attended various North Shore seminars promoting the vague target of personal growth.

I was often the lone, diehard hippie among immaculately groomed yuppies. Not only was my hair long, but I wore items like Mexican ponchos and handmade moccasins. I struggled with the restrictions and complying to the regimens of these trainings, but sensed there might be something of value in such an effort and stretch.

Much to my surprise, an enormous life changing light bulb did come on during one particular exercise at a three-day program. It happened on the second day, when we were each to dress as our own alter ego.

All the participants were lodged on the premises. I had a roommate, John, who was about as opposite from me as another human could be. He dressed immaculately, his hair was short, styled, and unmoving. He was all in for the corporate life, and had no patience nor interest for those who were not.

However, it turned out we needed each other's wardrobe to get ready for this, and, oddly, bonded with laughter helping each other dress. It was a genuine bi-partisan moment.

When everybody started to gather, it was a hoot! The room was full of bums, harlots, and cross-dressers. Men with make-up; women without it. Butch, flaming, or hobo, yet all making noise. And so many disheveled and unkempt, except for one: me. I was in a three-piece suit, hair slicked back, wearing a gold watch, carrying a briefcase, quietly impatient with the whole tardy, slothful lot of them! Me, the only one dressed up and acting like an adult! Imagine that!

Everything was suddenly inside-out and topsy-turvy, reversed like Bizarro world. As a result, playful understanding and joyful compassion flowed through the room. Prior to this, we couldn't really connect, not to each other's crafted image, no matter how attractive, but now with our quirks, flaws, and secrets on display, a conspiratorial, revelatory togetherness was fashioned.

I felt empathy for the daily effort others needed to contain these aspects of themselves. So much private weirdness unrestrained also gave me a glimpse of how others saw me and my more externalized freedom. And then, with my inner rigidity brought to the surface, I became less alien, more relatable.

It was a remarkable moment. Today, I'm fantasizing about how we could arrange something like that on a larger scale. Perhaps encourage it to become a between Halloween and Election Day tradition. Imagine if we dressed as those we vilified instead of campaigning against them. How would such understanding change both the quality of candidates and the political discourse itself? What might we learn and how might we act if we walked around in each other's moccasins (or toupees) for just a bit?

After the world ended, and before we rebuilt it in our cautious image of what was, people spoke with eyes and words clear and open.

Shock, even more than fear, jolts us awake, surprises us into telling the truth with the candidness of dreams. 

From this I learned to say what would often remain unsaid: to shock myself into the moment by imagining the person in front of me suddenly gone. 

Then I began to know how to truly speak.

With a world in turmoil, I notice how little is asked of me, how small my voice, how uncertain my choices. A woman whispers words passed around the world: "In times such as these, one must cling to the divine." Her words expose something child-like in me. For a moment, my Self becomes all fingers, hands, arms reaching, grasping, and hugging, nothing, everything.

Years ago, in the mountains, out of drinking water, I turned to a stagnant pool, imagined myself  an alchemist and drank. From this I learned to take in everything --good and bad-- without distinction or fear, to let it all be changed in me. 

When I remind myself to breathe, it is the exhale that matters. Inhale everything; exhale peace.

Still, my mind is often restless. Images of who I was and what I might become shout and point directions. All That Must Be Done clamors as well from on top of Could Have and Should Have Mountains. Lost, I seek the wisdom of those who have gone before. With different words they all seem to say, "Take the path marked by joy."

But how to remember all this in the midst of relentless life? 

Perhaps wait for the butterfly in the alley. Watch for a flower's first bloom, a glimpse of moonlight on a mud puddle. Listen for leaves rustling in empty spaces, babies laughing in crowded places. In short, look for beauty -- unexpected, unintentional, unnecessary beauty -- to stop the world. And from within its shimmering cloak of silence, love it.

Love beauty, exhale peace, and trust the divine to reveal itself as joy. 

Then, if there is anything left that still needs words -- speak them.