The Nature of Judgment 3/28/11

The Nature of Judgment

I have an intimate relationship with an apricot tree. I’ve known this tree since 1995, when it was the deciding factor in my buying the house where it lives. The previous owner had “pruned” it by whacking off the two main trunks three feet from the ground and a couple of years brought a riot of branches out of the stumps. Since then I have pruned, fertilized, mulched and loved this tree, watching it grow to a sturdy beauty in front of my house. In the few years that it bears fruit in July, I’m convinced they are the best apricots in town, small, golden bursts of apricot essence. And yearly, in March as the sun climbs higher in the sky, I watch as apricot trees all over town explode in pink/white blossoms, the first to grace spring with their flowers. For a week or so, they are vulnerable to cold, after that the tiny green almonds of fruit can take a light frost. But more often than not, a late freeze nips the blossoms and litters the ground with brown wilted petals, ending my hopes for fruit that year. So I watch and pray and check weather reports as if I had a million dollars at risk on Wall Street.

            When I step back in reflection—rarely—I find that all my hopes for the abundance of Spring and all my fears of the deprivations of unstable climate are wrapped up in my prayers for my apricot tree. So when it keeps blossoms and sets fruit, I think the world may just make it through another year. And when flowers freeze, wilt and drop, I feel my shoulders sag with the weight of impending doom.

            Interestingly though, I don’t think the tree shares either my elation or despair. In years that it bears fruit, it feeds me, my neighbors, the birds, the dog and the worms, and propagates more trees. In years that little or no apricots mature, the tree grows full and green, funneling its life force into longer and stronger branches. Eventually it will slow down, dry up and die, leaving room for some other plant to turn water and sunlight into chlorophyll, fruit and seed.

            I think my dog shares this same non-attachment to the outcomes of life. The exuberant profusion of blossoms may be likened to the dog's joyful racing around the yard when we prepare to go out for a walk. And the dog may experience sadness when left at home alone, as the tree may be stressed in a dry year when the snow fails to pile up. But neither of them is capable of making judgments about their condition. They would not blame me for neglect. Most of Earth’s creatures live in acceptance of their situations. Prayer for anything else is not an option. What would they pray to or for? They appear to be unconsciously part of it all.

            A wise story comes to mind; If you want to know who loves you, lock your husband and your dog in the trunk of the car for an hour. Which one is happy to see you when you open the trunk? We humans seem to be unique in our ability to make judgments about the circumstances of our lives. The husband most likely has feelings about being locked in the trunk. He may need an explanation, a drink of water, and have a clear request about the use of the trunk of the car in the future. But all of his “should’s” and “ought to’s,” shame and blame, emerge from his judgment and will mask his ability to listen, understand and accept the fact that you had to hide him while Godzilla waltzed down the street.        

I expect that the earth experiences pain in some form when covered with concrete, drilled, bulldozed, trees cut and rivers plugged. And I trust that it will come into balance eventually. But it makes no judgment. The new age opinion that “Gaia” will get fed up and strike back is just another human projection, a judgment based on how we would respond when we perceive that we’ve been locked in the trunk. Only a human could take a hurricane or an earthquake personally. We are champions of such analysis, opinion and assumption. It has led us out of the Garden of Eden and into a world in which our comfort precedes and separates us from our membership in the community of our planet.  

            I expect my apricot tree responds positively to the mulch I spread under it and the care I take in pruning. That kind of prayer seems to be effective, though the results are still up for grabs. It has not yet responded to my prayers to bloom in April rather than March. Neither has the weather changed its fickle progression from winter to spring. It is my dog’s nature to bark at the neighbors, despite my near insanity about it. And my teenage son’s flagrant misuse of the ketchup bottle in the refrigerator is quite out of my control. So I have to ask myself, “To whom am I praying to change these things?” Or, more to the point, “What judgment underlies my prayer?” The notion that my world is not to my liking, and that somehow I have the power, even the responsibility to change it, strikes me now as the ultimate hubris. That kind of prayer goes not to a higher power, it assumes that I am the higher power, and far more than a late Spring frost, or spilled ketchup, will lead to my ultimate despair. Would I be more at peace if I were to keep doing the things that grow strong trees, happy dogs and compassionate relationships; and learn to accept that the results are not entirely up to me? The simple answer is yes of course—but as Eve discovered with Adam, simple does not imply easy.

A quick caveat. In challenging us to consider acceptance over manipulation of our environment, I’m not suggesting that we accept personal, social or political injustice. I fully endorse the passionate fight for life. I’m suggesting that too often we pursue our own comfort as if it were a fight for life, with no thought to the consequences and to our own and our planet’s detriment.

            In considering what separates me from my dog and my tree, I’ve commonly laid blame on this whole concept of judgment. No small irony in judging my judgment. So, how to approach this unique human quality of judgment from a different angle? I’ve long operated on the notion that God doesn’t make junk, no mistakes. Its all here as part of the grand experiment of life, therefore this fascinating experience of attaching value to the events of our lives must lead to opportunity for growth somewhere. One of our wise men, Marshall Rosenberg, founder of Nonviolent Communication, separates value judgment from moralistic judgment. Deciding to pursue those things that enhance my life involves values. I prefer fish to beef. It is clear that my dog values running in the woods with me. Can I even say that my apricot tree values water? (hmm maybe not) But knowing what brings us joy and pursuing it, and what brings pain and avoiding it are reasonable value judgments to make. On the other hand, making up that you are wrong and I am right involves morals and tends to separate me from you, and almost always obscures my opportunity for growth. Despite my upset, my son is not a bad person because he fails to put the top on the ketchup bottle. My moralistic judgment about it separates me from him and divorces me from owning my underlying value of tidiness and perhaps care of our resources. How many of us have been through a painful relationship breakup, or the death of a loved one? “It shouldn’t have happened. Damn you it’s your fault. I’ve been cheated. My life is ruined. If I’m good maybe she’ll come back.” Elizabeth Kubler-Ross outlines a common and healthy progression of responses to loss including all of the above statements. They suggest a normal and healthy emotional response to events that seem to go against us. It only becomes a problem when I stay attached to my judgment and find myself still angry at the SOB ten years later.

            I propose that in moments of sanity, we consider a different set of questions. Rather than deciding that I don’t deserve pain in my back, or that I’ve been wronged by my ex-wife, or any other “why me” questions; and rather than praying for a week of warm weather around apricot blossom time; or even praying that my friend gets the kidney transplant that could prolong his life—How about asking what lesson, what experience, is my higher power seeking in this situation? My prayer for my friend then becomes, “I hope he can use this ‘tragedy’ to deepen his relationship with his higher power.” The killing frost in late March now offers me the opportunity to let go of results, invite wonder into my life, and accept that I am not in charge.

            I am not in charge of my death. I’m not in charge of the price of gas. I’m not in charge of my partner, or my kids, or my dog, or the weather. I have preferences and I am in charge of how compassionately I share them. I am in charge of the environmental impact of my life, of riding my bicycle instead of driving my car, of eating my apricots, of approaching my children with compassion. I am in charge of the food I eat, my exercise level and my resulting health. I’m not in charge of earthquakes or hurricanes, global warming or the AIDS virus, and neither are you. Those things are not messages to, or judgments passed on, us by God or the Earth. They are part of life and death. It happens. Our blessed opportunity, totally different from the beasts and the plants of our planet, who seem to live in unconscious acceptance, is to seek beneath our judgments of events to find acceptance.

             Humanity’s evolution of judgment—what appears to be our unique ability to decide we don’t like the way things are going and do something about it—now shifts from separating our selves from the rest of nature, each other and ourselves through moralistic rights and wrongs, to consciously rejoining the soulful natural world in choosing acceptance. This shift includes practicing the discipline of reflection to explore the consequences of my actions, and asking the difficult questions to discover my underlying needs rather than act to satisfy my immediate comforts. It is in those choices that we are unique on this planet. It is in those reflections that we can rejoin the Garden with awareness, rediscover wonder, and pull in the reigns on our assumption of fixing it all to our liking. This is my spiritual discipline.

                                                                                    —Jeff Hood, March 28, 2011

Dreams, a gift from . . . ?

Seeking

She came to me dripping with rock and roll

when we were young.

Stripped me and climbed on board

the sand dunes of her hip and stomach,

small feathered breasts more than I could bear.

We split, drifted, never knowing what we missed,

searching the bars and pool tables,

this and that kind of therapy

trying to fill the whole Grand Canyon.

I went to sweat in the rain in northwest forests,

hitchhiking, hoping she’d pick me up.

On to India, then back to make a kid

in an unsettled home.

She wrote songs of love lost,

got famous and lonely.

Hired a body guard.

Seeking.

I’ve discovered though that soul

can’t just disappear.

She came last night, late

to the storage locker next to mine.

Seeking, she raised me up from sleep,

battered and deep, Here!

wanting me as much as I want her.

a couple of recent poems

An inspiration from Hafiz

Hafiz suggests that you are waiting,

perhaps stretching the grace carrot

a little further from my reach,

but out there still.

He reminds me to keep dancing

to your imagined song.

And just in case he is right

I’ll put on those soft shoes.

What fool would turn away

from even the possibility

of such a dance partner.

and one from my work in NVC

My slight of your character

I’m afraid, grows like a weed

on my own.

Equally watered by judgment and shame.

Any opinions expressed,

please do us both the service

of returning to their owner,

with compassion I hope.

They prosper when held,

shrivel when owned.

Courage my man.

These are crops

you’ll not profit

by the harvest.

New Reality Transmission

http://www.newrealitytransmission.com/

Here’s what I imagine:

Soldiers in Afghanistan and Congo

putting down their weapons,

and others forgetting how to rig an IED.

I imagine American soldiers lining up on

runways, dancing and telling poetry as they wait

for planes to bring them home.

And some are just wandering through neighborhoods

lending a hand to install a stove or fix a window.

I imagine Senators and Congressmen looking across the aisle

and breathing, letting their shoulders drop as they see a human being

with a story of how they ran for student council in high school and lost,

and later on took care of an aging parent.

I imagine bankers and corporate execs discovering a place on earth

where they belong, and finding kids in that place

who’ve dropped out of school and can’t find a job.

And I imagine an epidemic of bicyclists in our cities,

so many that auto traffic is brought to a halt

and every sidewalk is packed with them

and not one has a lock on it.

And backyard gardens come around front,

where luscious green zucchinis become ornamental beauties.

And the only reason to lock your car

is so you don’t come out of the store

to find it full of pumpkins and tomatoes.

People who make bullets suddenly find themselves

machining pliers and thermometers and solar collectors.

Doctors and hospitals give up their fear of litigation,

recall the passion in their mission,

and turn themselves into teachers of health and wellbeing.

I imagine that people who offer stress management classes

have to redesign their curriculums to become creativity coaches,

and laughter is the main ingredient.

And assertive and compassionate communication

is taught in every school in every grade.

And our consumption of alcohol and drugs gives way to

softball and soccer and needlepoint and fishing.

And next year we birth half the number of babies as last year

and the year after, half again, and again, and we honor our children

and our elders as this swarm of humans reduces itself to a manageable number.

And the trees! the trees breathe a sigh of relief

no longer choking on carbon monoxide.

Worms and frogs and salamanders are seen dancing in the evenings.

Seaweed and lobster, dolphin and tuna fish glow blue and green.

Rain falls gently in the desert, rivers run over their dams

because our electrical production goes local.

And like my Senator, I look across the street and discover

that your beliefs about god and the environment and healthcare

grow out of your life, I find the courage to ask you where you grew up

and what your family was like and listen.

And listen.

I can see it. Can you?

Jeff Hood

AWOL

If you need any convincing that our American Way Of Life (I’ve been calling it AWOL for some time) is unsustainable and in fact on a crash course to disaster, you may want to stop reading right here, go out and fill your gas tank and buy a gift certificate to Walmart. On the other hand, if you find yourself in despair or disgust at the way we humans behave toward each other and our beautiful planet, lets chat a bit.

I opened the following article by Carolyn Baker this morning. It is a no nonsense ultimatum to us humans to wake up, grow up, and accept the inevitable pain that comes with radical change as a valid initiation into the adulthood of our species. The adolescent denial of our consumptive AWOL has reached its peak. How many times must we wake up puking in the gutter having trampled all over our garden? http://www.countercurrents.org/baker131009.htm

Not being able to sit still with it, and still being the good American that I am, I got in the car and drove to the mountains to hike with my dog. I stormed along alternately; wondering how and where to go to survive what seems an inevitable apocalypse as the planet finds balance by reducing our numbers by half, and planning/appreciating the work I’ve chosen to bring civility and humor and soulful reflection to my fellows. I returned home, somewhat burdened yet determined, to open my computer to find the following link to another dimension. http://www.newrealitytransmission.com/ Eleven minutes of eleven days in which millions of people imagine a world in harmony. I don’t know who these people are, but I found myself in tears, clicking through one slide after another and realizing that a fifth dimension is available to us. Not a dimension of escape from the awful reality of our actions, but a dimension in which we may let go of the selfish adolescent to embrace Erik Erikson’s generative adult as we accept accountability for our actions. Make no mistake, if we humans can enter/create a reality of peace, support, honesty and abundance, it will be through both prayer and the sweat of our brows. There is a lot of concrete melanoma to break off the flesh of our mother.

I don’t know the current thinking on addiction, but I expect the denial that has produced our predicament emerges from a fear of being uncomfortable. For what is AWOL but an attachment to comfort? Its comforting to find fresh raspberries on the supermarket shelf in February. Its comforting to drive up to the mountain to hike in beauty. And as long as I don’t think about what it took to bring those berries or that gasoline to my credit card, I enjoy my comfortable life. But there is something that gets in my way even once I realize that raspberries from Chile in February make no sense at all. I’m attached to my comfort, and all the more so as I read the newspaper and build a fear of losing . . . what? Raspberries??!! Let them go for crying out loud! But not the price of gasoline. Oh no! I’ll kill for that. Or better yet, get a young man to go over to the Middle East to kill for me.

Healthy adults have the capacity to look ahead and anticipate problems and to make sacrifices to ensure a positive future. I can imagine a positive future. Am I willing to do the work to create it? Forego the raspberries, ride my bike more often, make friends with the worms in my garden, teach my elected officials how to be civil in their disagreements, get a handle on my debt, say the uncomfortable-fierce-loving thing to my partner. That’s my list. What’s yours?

I have every intention of participating in eleven days of eleven minutes of imagining a world in harmony with itself. I can already see it, feel it, taste it. And that taste includes a strong back and calloused hands, willing to pick up a shovel and plant a tree. And it includes a commitment to my wild heart, beating eagerly in anticipation of the laughter that comes after, free of the fear of losing my precious AWOL.