"Cease and Resist." (reading time - your call)

**I had a lot of thank-full responses to my Tuesday column about taking the time to take the time for pause; to feel life for a change. So, relax. Here's another dose.

“Many writers who choose to be active in the world lose not virtue but time

and that stillness, without which literature cannot be made.”
Gore Vidal

Mahatma Ghandi got it right when he said, “God has no religion.” And getting it (those God moments that give you pause, take your breath away or increase your breathing and heartbeat) is what I have been reflecting on since my friend shared the theme of the women’s retreat she just attended; “Ceasing and Feasting.” Call it what you want, I do not call these moments of discovery a “religious” experience; I think it is something much more profound and healthy. There’s a lot (tons, actually) to be said about stopping to find, hear, feel, see and relish the gulps of every “God (like) moment.” Note: Contrary to (some) popular opinion, this is not a proprietary experience reserved only for Christians (pick your favorite denomination “flavor”)…nor for that matter exclusively for Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, Agnostics, Atheists (c’mon, you have to believe in something even if it is nothing), Plagiarists, Unitarians, Contrarians, Fruitarians, Scientologists, Astrologists or Paleontologists. It’s a bonus we humans seem to get; and I am not convinced, mind you, that other living things don’t get it, too. That’s ink mulch for another column.

So, in honor of the ladies from The Village Chapel (they rock) www.thevillagechapel.com here is what I offer for you today (do it right now) to consider in keeping with my column the other day about “Taking a walk” instead of taking another dose of A.D.D. (Always Doing Doing). It’s a syntax and language we might all benefit from adding to the vocabulary of our living words:

A Vocabulary of Non-Rest

1. Always: A statement of inflexibility
2. Anxious: Misspent energy
3. Bigger: A challenge to contentment
4. Control: A state of being the misses out on surprise
5. Faster: The speed of striving
6. Hurry: The pace of life that neglects wellness
7. Instant Gratification: The sacrifice of the valuable for the available
8. More: The place just past enough
9. Never: A barrier to dreaming
10. Worry: A chronic condition of needing to be in control
11. Yes: Sacrifice the important for the urgent

A Vocabulary of Rest

1. Balance: The right amount of this and that, of work and rest, of ceasing and feasting
2. Bounty: Seeing the most in what you already have
3. Enough: Choosing contentment
4. Invest: Spending time on what is important rather than what is urgent
5. Linger: Sitting in the moment
6. Nap: A shameless act of refreshmen
7. Pay Attention: Reveling in the in the mysteries of creation
8. Play: Activity that does not contribute to the gross national product
9. Quiet: Stilling the noises of life
10. Surrender: Trusting that if you slow down you won’’ miss anything important
11. Trust: Relinquishing control
12. No: A discerning refusal of busyness

Now, repeat after me: “Cease and Resist.”

For emphasis.

(b)

"Get over yourself! Take a walk!" (reading time: take your time)

There is a viral pandemic. We all have the early symptoms. We are carrying the germs in the workplace. The lifespace. Everyplace. Chemical treatments are becoming benign.

The strain: A.D.D. aka Always. Doing. Doing.

I tried an ancient remedy the other day; a walk around Radnor Lske in Nashville. Sixty-three minutes. The following pictures were taken (iPhones rock) during meandering.

Pause. Imagine. Consider. Walk.

"There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect." G.K. Chesterson

"Progress however, of the best kind, is comparatively slow. Great results cannot be achieved at once; and we must be satisfied to advance in life as we walk, step by step."
Samuel Smiles

"I walk slowly, but I never walk backward."
Abraham Lincoln

"Meandering leads to perfection."
Lao Tzu

“I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”
Robert Frost

"All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking."
Friedrich Nietzsche

"In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks."
John Muir

“All who wander are not lost.”
Life is Good.

For emphasis.
(b)

"Seniors '69. I finally lettered." Part 2 (reading time 1:57)

1969 Mustang. Cool!

I walked into the event with my best girlfriend in high school, Joyce Szor, who has aged like fine wine into a beautiful woman, along with her two daughters who were devastatingly gorgeous. If nothing else I knew I was fairly safe, given that the attention would be diverted from me to them. I immediately saw a male friend and connected; the rest of the night was an amazing patchwork quilt of memories, not the least of which was the shock on the faces when they realized who I was and how different (and better) I looked since we last crossed paths some forty years earlier.
Let me state right here and now the following disclaimer related to this last part of the story about my 40th High School Reunion in Dallas: I do not do well with complements. I have lived most of my life with a less than strong self image; truth is that I have always considered myself fat (I still look in store and car window reflections), never happy with my hair (I even did the perm phase and am now reverting back to my hippie days to try a pony tail), think my voice is too high (that shock you get when you play back a recording of your own voice and it reminds you of Alvin and the Chipmunks) and am never quite sure whether what I choose to wear really works together (why don’t they have Garanimals for adults). As you can likely discern for yourself from the pictures of me from that time in high school you would not attach descriptors like cool, stud, jock and cover potential for the next Nordstrom’s men’s catalog. Nope. Not me.

Here’s the deal: I really think I have weathered quite well and that the years have been, let’s just say kinder to me than many of my male classmates. Most of the jocks had bulked up (sans the muscles),
the band members seemed a bit out of tune and the studs appeared to be struggling with wood rot. As for the ladies (I tread carefully here), a number of the drill team and cheerleaders seemed to be carrying their pom-poms a bit lower,



some of the “Home Ec” devotees seemed to have spread out along with their Texas spreads and the flashy lookers were now radiating more with their sequins and baubles than their once natural good looks.

Now, hold on there. Stop your fuming about my seemingly prideful and conceited judgment. Granted, I come from a family whose genes favor youthful aging: My brother is 62 and looks…good. My mom is 86, pool exercises three days a week, has a vibrant sense of humor and energy that rivals most 40 year-olds I see…she is amazing. My sister is 49 and is…a babe. As for me, I do not think I am a first prize, and I confess that the glances, approaches, flirting and general attention I got was a huge boost to my ego. It felt great and I claim it…comma and here’s what realized when I was laying in bed reflecting on the reunion and…

“So what?”:

• We all wear different kinds of uniforms, costumes and masks;
• We have the tendency to hang out with the same people and cliques where we feel like we fit;
• We might graduate from one grade to another, but I am not sure how well we do moving from one class to another;
• Beneath the layers of clothes, baubles, makeup, back slapping, remember whens and passing comments about how good we look we are all simply yearning for ways to be seen, known and loved.

Forty years ago I was seen. Not known. Not loved.

Forty years later I was seen. Not known. Not loved.

Everything looked different. And nothing had changed.

For emphasis – (b)

“Bentley and me (are sharing cancer).” Part 2 (reading time 2:03)

The phone rang at 4:53 P.M. My legs began to shake.

“Mr. Kagan, this is Bentley’s doctor’s office calling. We got back all the remaining tests and it appears that the mass tumor on his nose is the only evidence of cancer in his body.”

I don’t know what you believe in, which God you acknowledge (if any) or where you turn when you feel helpless and need something to calm the quaking in your legs to keep you from collapsing like a rag doll to the floor. The news I got was the best result I could have gotten, and I looked up and simply said, “Thank You.”

Our doctor had given me five scenarios the day before when I picked up Bentley from the clinic here in Franklin, Tennessee. He had gone through a day full of “staging” to determine whether the tumor was localized to his nose, or if it had spread anywhere else in his body; the outcome would define severity, treatment, time. When I got there I could here his whimpering in the other room. I was told that it was caused by the meds used to relax him (yes, he was rightfully confused and stressed). When they brought him out and he saw me his tail wagged (albeit a bit more syrupy than his usual blurred tempo) and his eyes locked on mine. I took him, cradled him in my arms and set my breathing pace to match his; our breathing was like the murmured sighs of autumn’s breath that brings powerful oaks together, moaning tenderly as they move in each others arms.

“Thank you. That is very good news.” My legs were still shaking.

“Yes, it is good news. The doctor will meet you on Thursday to discuss the next steps and treatment alternatives.”

After a deep sigh I ended the call, “Thank you so much, and thank you for caring so much about Bentley.” Now, I know many of you are probably thinking that veterinarians treat every animal they care for the same. That would mean that doctors treat every human patient (regardless of their condition, demeanor, and attitude) exactly the same. That would mean that in this commerce of life in which we are all engaged we treat each other (regardless of condition, demeanor and attitude) exactly the same. Now that we have debunked these myths I will confess that remarkable things happen when people (and animals) interact with Bentley. He loves every life, unconditionally. He picks up the vibe of every situation and encounter and responds appropriately. It doesn’t matter if it is on a plane, in a store, in a business meeting, at my chiropractor or any of the “most everywhere” places I take him he adapts. He lives in and through each moment he is given, unconditionally.

So, as we are dealing with this mass tumor, this cancer that has precipitously positioned itself on the tip of his nose, he is clueless as to what is actually going on. He is adapting and being Bentley on this walk, unconditionally. His tail keeps wagging no matter where he goes and whomever he meets on this walk, unconditionally. He trusts me to guide all the steps of this walk, unconditionally. We love each other, unconditionally. Not a bad concept for us all to consider trying with and for each other, whatever the condition.

My legs are still shaking.

For emphasis, unconditionally.

(b&b)

"Seniors '69. I finally lettered." Part 1 (reading time 1:22)

I am a textbook introvert; there, it’s out there now. How do I know?

• I love facilitating catalytic vision casting with high impact leaders; it drains all my energy - I retreat to my sanctuary(ies) to recharge my batteries;
• I know how to work the room when I am in “the mode”; I resist parties, mix & mingles (what are those all about anyway? Sounds like a snack food.), casual get-togethers and such;
• I prefer walks with Bentley (THE dog) to most activities with people (the Saturday group of lake misfits are the exception – you know who you are);
• I cycle alone and love it;
• I don’t much pursue the “Hey, let’s do dinner or go to the sports bar while you’re in town” thing.

So, my decision to attend the Hillcrest High School (Go Panthers!) Seniors ’69 reunion in Dallas the other night took every bit of courage and an extra dose of meds. 178 people attending; people I had known since grade school; all the cool people, from jocks to drill team to Most Likely to This & That; most of the people who knew me (not always by name), knew me as the fat, funny guy who played clarinet in the marching and symphony band. My family moved me to New York City at the end of my sophomore year and I had almost entirely lost connection with the HHS chapter of my life. Having ignored the prior reunions I decided, “What the heck, I’ll give it a shot, if for no other reason than to see if anyone would even know who I was, considering I now looked NOTHING like the fat, funny guy who played clarinet in the marching and symphony band.

Some context is warranted here:

• I was fat (regardless of mom’s loving exhortations about my every increasing big bone mass metamorphosis);
• My brother (four years older) was Mr. Everything, basketball star, stud and generally-specifically-overall-amazingly-cool-gorgeous-popular guy. He was a tough act to follow;
• I was a clarinet player in the band, sweated profusely whenever I marched…well, I sweated most anytime;
• My band uniform pants were too tight, so I had to hold them together at the top with a safety pin;
• I was a comic, which made me feel like I was cool and that I had lots of friends. I didn’t;
• My best guy friend was Steve Weinstein. He was cool and we were tight pals (we called each other Podz, even though we had no idea what it meant);
• My best girl friend was Joyce Szor. We became best pals (my strategy for avoiding possible rejection, considering she was so beautiful) and spent countless hours on the phone talking late into the night);
• I was lonely a lot.

But, I was soon to find out that everything had changed in the last forty years; and that everything was still the same.

For emphasis.
(b)

“Bentley and Me (are sharing cancer).” Part 1 (reading time 1:18)

*Note to Grammar Police: I know that "Bentley and Me" is incorrect grammar. We watched Marley and Me the other night. Blame them.

It is six weeks now since I noticed a swelling on the right end tip of Bentley’s (my best friend and the coolest dapple Dachshund) nose. It is four weeks now since I found out that Bentley has a mast cancer tumor…three weeks now since I found out that Bentley’s tumor is a Class 2 (out of 3) malignancy and is located in a spot that makes surgery veritably an impossible alternative. It is two weeks now since Bentley’s veterinarian team here in Nashville (Dr. Bush and Charlie Beauchamp; world’s #1 vet and B’s doc since he was born 8 ½ years ago) told me about a new, experimental treatment for this exact type of mast tumor that is having breakthrough results. It is one week now from when Bentley and me will meet the cancer specialist that will trigger the start of the most important walk we’ve taken together.


The facts:

• I held it together for the first 48 hours, then I lost it in my hotel room while visiting my new grandson (Utah Cohen Sewing) in Medford, Oregon. I wept, and wept….
• We took a biopsy and the malignancy is (gratefully) at Grade 2, which means it is not in the most aggressive type of malignancy.
• It does not appear to his vets (gratefully) that it has affected his lymph nodes and spread to other areas of his body.
• The new experimental drug, Palladia, is seeing 60% positive results, Bentely seems to be a good candidate and there is a specialist here in Nashville that we are meeting on the 19th of October.
• His nose looks gross (from the biopsy, he keeps licking off the Polysporin (I tasted it and it tastes lousy and everything else about him is totally…Bentley “normal.”
• Bentley and me have been partners and have partnered with the roughest (and most rewarding, life giving, revealing and formative) events of our lives.
• Bentley and me will partner with his cancer.
• Bentley and me cannot lose.

So what?
• Life is on loan at every level - we have and own and possess nothing.
• Bentley has cancer – he is not cancer. We can choose to accept and partner (and struggle) with our affliction, limitation, weakness and other dis-ease…or we can choose to become our affliction, limitation, weakness and other dis-ease.
• We have a wonderful chance through all the moments we are given to be a lamp (without a lampshade) that showers the light of our experiences on the lives of others.
• There is humor to be found and shared through all life’s ambiguities (or should that read ambiGOOEYties).
• God loves dogs too.

There are treasures to be learned from our teachers; especially those who see life from 5 ¾ inches off the ground.

For emphasis.
(b&b)

“No monkeying around. No lion. The burden I am carrying is heavy.” (reading time 1:37)

It’s a zoo out there these days. And as cagey as I think I might be most of the time, it feels like I am deep in the jungle without a way out. The last three months have netted the following from all my efforts:

· My current clientele is less than it's been in a long time;

· My assets are drying up;

· Bentley and Me (I watched Marley and Me the other night, so easy on the grammar digs) are dealing with his Class 2 cancerous tumor;

· I am not seeing a clear path out of the woods, brier patch, maze, jungle;

· I'm finding more and more each day that most of the things I we seem to care about the most (money, security, etc.) aren't as important as we make them to be – this realization comes as a result of outwardly having them simultaneously removed from your life.

I am feeling the gravity of my accumulated burdens; lead weights dropped into the pockets of my already threadbare daypack. And, historically (this is the third time) I would have responded to such “heavy stuff” with guilt, anger, fear, victimization, futility and a dash of hopelessness.

But not this time. You see, the difference this time around has a lot to do with the 34- pound pack I lugged around on my shoulders for six hours the other day at the Nashville Zoo.

My 3 ½ year-old grandson, Kinley Corbin Collins, spent the day with his GranDude doing the zoo. We made believe we were fearless hunters protecting the animals (never too early to encourage social & environmental consciousness), explorers of new undiscovered worlds and the further exploits of the superhero Captain Bubblekiller. After getting over the “how the heck am I going fill up six hours with my grandson alone” jitters, I discovered that there is really no joy like that of sharing the heart, imagination and unconditional adoration of a young child. When he got tired, I carried him on my shoulders. When he got hungry we captured and devoured a cheese pizza (with a mustard-ketchup-salt-pepper concoction he mixed up for dipping). When he got hot we stood and drenched ourselves with the magic misting machine.

But the best part of the day was when we discovered the Jungle Gym.

Oh my gosh – it was huge, serendipitous, random and overall magical. After some momentary chasing each other rituals, we discovered the gargantuan, dangerous, child-eating beast: the corkscrew slide. Three-stories high. Enclosed slide. Expansion rope bridge entrance leading to a tall tower that led to the slide’s entry point.

“C’mon GranDude, let’s go up the tower to the slide.”

“Kinley, it looks like this is a ‘for kids only’ place. I think you are going to have to go do this alone.”

He hesitated, frowned momentarily considering the mammoth burden ahead of him and then blurted out, “I can do it GranDude.” And he did. He conquered crossing the swaying rope bridge, tackled the summit and finally reached the destination. It was his moment of truth. Standing, looking deep into the threatening jaws of the enclosed slide was something he had to confront; himself. He’d have to decide if he was going to step off the ledge. I waited below (it seemed like an hour) wondering what he was thinking and feeling, if he would take the plunge and step off into the unknowing darkness before him. I waited. Waited.

Kinley suddenly appeared, spilling his blonde radiance everywhere as he emerged from the green serpent’s mouth.

We high-fived, giggled and reveled in his conquest like drunken warriors.

“Again.” He defeated the monster eight more times .

So what? We all carry burdens, the heavy things of this world that can weigh us down and lead us to feeling like we cannot move another step; if we let them. We all face life’s scary beasts, the demons that can make us want to run, hide and cower in our hiding places until they go away; if we let them. We all have the chance to cross the shaky bridge, tackle the summit and consider stepping off and plunging into the jaws of our fears, the unknowing darkness before us; if we let them.

From watching and carrying my 34-pound grandson I learned that:

· The burdens of life’s things are only as heavy as you allow them be the things that burden your life;

· We stumble, fall and finally face the scary things we might be trying to run from, only to discover that, after going through the slide, there is sunlight and high-fives awaiting when you emerge;

· The greatest act of courage is not about whether you win or lose, fall or fly, succeed or fail; it’s all about stepping off the ledge.

Carry on.

For emphasis.

(b)

"Monty, I'll take what's behind door #3." (reading time 1:55)

I was on my flight traveling home after spending the most amazing seven days in Prague. "Contrary to what I have heard from others that Prague is the Paris of the East, I beg to differ; Paris is the Prague of the West." --- Brother Alan (remember, not to be confused with the Trappist monks who make such awesome beer), having travelled most of the world and who is a bit opinionated about…let’s say most things…stated this fact on our last night together. It is a city of cultural, artistic and historic splendor. Each and every turn reveals a tapestry of colors, architectural styles, sculptures, paintings and panoramas; all embroidered with the sounds, aromas and pulse of European culture.

And then there are the doors. I have experienced tremendous favor in being given the chance to travel to a number of foreign destinations over the last four years: China, Portugal, Amsterdam, Budapest, Egypt, Lebanon. In each country I was mesmerized by the art and expression of their doors. Comprehending the history and span of years etched into each surface is beyond anything we, in America, can grasp. And behind each lay ornamented metaphors, similes and images of life’s stories. Priceless.

Most any Baby Boomer will remember Monty Hall who hosted the game show, Let’s Make a Deal. It was spine tingling, nerve-racking fun watching just how greedy one person could be when given a chance to trade in what they had won, for the promise of a prize of even greater value. The basic premise was that Monty, the quintessential huckster would walk around with a wad of cash looking to pay money for oddball things; like a $2 bill, mustache wax, a picture from your high school yearbook and the like. Once he bought the item from you, that then triggered a swap fest of negotiations. It was a flurry of deals to trade your loot for a next secret item hidden under a box, in an envelope, behind a curtain or a door. What was inside could be anything with a value of a new toaster, a trip to Paris or a new car. That was the good news. The bad news was that you might make a deal and end up with a goat, a loaf of bread or a picture of Richard Nixon in his Speedos, racing Bob Haldeman (they deleted that from the recent Ron Howard film, Frost-Nixon).

The moment of high drama titillation came at the end of the show, when the contestant whose loot was of highest value gets one last chance to make a brain busting, ego egging, lust luring, greed grabbing Ginormous Deal. His and Hers convertibles. A 10-speed bicycle. A scooter. A donkey.

Monty, the quintessential master of the moment (OK, Bob Barker from the Price is Right could hold his own), works the person into frenzy: I remember scenes with tears, screams, profuse sweating, jumping, nail biting. The one I cannot get out of my head is the man who, after utilizing each of the gestures mentioned above, would finally say, “Ooooh…ohhhh….ummmm…oh Monty, Monty, Monty…I’ll take what’s behind door #3.” Monty would milk it for every last rating point: camera close-up on the guy hiding his face behind by his hands; his eyes barely discernible as they peered between the slits of his nail bitten fingers, now looking more like gnawed stubs of beef jerky than like fingers (OK, granted that might be a bit gross, but I got caught up in the suspense).

And behind door #3 was….

So what? As leaders, followers, seekers, learners and teachers we might stop to consider:

• Stop, look and find things that adore. Doors, in and of themselves, do not appear to be big deal. As with structures, you never know what you might find if you look closer at people and moments you are given to experience. Much richness of color and texture can be seen when you zoom in tight.

• Be open to openings. Sure, we are all familiar with the saying about the content you cannot judge by looking at a book’s cover; same goes for doors and people and....

• Are you in, or are you out? Yes.

For emphasis.
(b)

“This morning Solomon gave me the Byrd(s).” In Berlin, #4 (reading time 1:27)

Man, the 60’s was a great decade for music: Beatles, Rolling Stones, Cream (Clapton), Bob Dylan, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Who, Procol Harem, Jefferson Starship, etc. …and the Byrds. I was right in the middle of it (my Hippie season…actually I’m back again). It was a time of passionate outpourings for the causes of social justice, the environment, arts, peace and freedom of expression. It was time of revolution.

I was reading the first part of Ecclesiastes from the Old Testament this morning. Written by Solomon, this is his message analyzing the life’s experiences and a critical essay about its meaning. Are all of life’s experiences, pursuits and efforts meaningless, like “chasing the wind?” Then he zings (oft forgotten biblical term) you in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8…and that’s when my MP1 (Memory Player) kicked on:

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose, under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose, under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose, under heaven

A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose, under heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate
A time for peace, I swear its not too late.

A final reflection about my visit to Berlin: History records us. Its pages turn with narratives of exploration & discovery, dreams & pathways, anguish & victories, obstacles & light, expression & tyranny, wine & blood. History’s consistency is change. Turn, turn, turn. (To everything there is a season.) Turn, turn, turn. (And a time for every purpose under heaven.) Turn, turn, turn.

We can keep opening the doors.

I swear it's not too late.

I swear it's not too late.

I swear it is not too late.

The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind.

For emphasis.

(b)