Building the Deep Freeze

Many of us live life isolated, alienated, really not having any idea that there is an alternative. We find ourselves drawn to others, wanting to be part of connection, yet do not know how to be with other people, (or ourselves for that matter). For us, to be with “other” is torture. When in the presence of “others”, hyper-vigilance on our part keeps us constantly scanning for danger, of what exactly we do not know, but we know it is real, deadly and lurks among “other”. In groups, or even one on one, we painfully cannot forget ourselves. Tense, anticipating painful, shame inducing rejection, we constantly scan the “other” for signs that all is “safe”. We “manage” the perception of “other” by adapting ourselves chameleon-like to what we “think” they want to see, and usually, at least until we wake up a little and become conscious of what is transpiring, we are totally unaware that we are engaged in such an activity. This is just how life is for us. Tense, uncomfortable, dangerous. And for some of us, we KNOW that it is all our fault. For others, they are just as sure it is the world and everyone in it that is to blame. In either case, as a result of this self-condemning (or self-aggrandizing) isolation, we are always on stage when with others, desperately performing a show to save ourselves from extinction.

As I write the above, my mind flashes to movie depictions of concentration camp Jews playing orchestral pieces as they watch their fellow Jews being led off trains and into gas chambers. These musicians played the best they could, for to please their Nazi masters was to save their lives for another day, but the shame of doing so was killing them inch by inch, as was perhaps, for some of them, the internalization of the less than human status their masters gave them.

A judgemental part of myself now pops up and says in a slightly sarcastic voice, “Boy, you are being dramatic aren't you Karen?”, and I think about erasing all I have just written. But I won't, because for some of us, this blind uncomprehending terror (and/or rage), mixed with the desperate longing that we feel in the presence of “other” IS this enormous. This is exactly what it is and how we are. Not attractive for sure, not how we want to be, but neither are we “bad” or “deficient” or any other negative term one might find to describe how we might feel about ourselves way down deep.

This was certainly the way I was all the time until I began to wake up a little. I hid from everything and everybody, including myself. I lived in constant anxiety. I had no perspective, no way to step outside of what was so horrific to be able to observe the horror, the horrified self or the world it/I was embedded in. Today I believe this was true because it was simply so shameful to be this way, and my shame filled self dated from so early on, that it was just not connected in anyway with my more verbal, abstracting selves. As children, if we are shamed in someway, we are just the experience of shame, we literally become shame. We have no way within ourselves to work with and understand this experience. This must at first come from the outside, from our parents usually. But if they themselves do not know how to hold and contain and neutralize shame, they cannot teach us. When this is the case, then, as adults we can find ourselves in the unhappy situation of being ashamed that we are ashamed. Whew! Is there any way out?

Most of us at some point will try to logic our way through this. We will trot out all the things we “should” know and “be”. We know that the level of anxiety we feel around others is ridiculous. We know that this anxiety will not kill us. We know we should not let this bother us. Yet, knowing does not matter, because from a place deeper than our “logical, rational” mind, from a place inside us without words...... this danger is gospel, and we all ”know” that if we don't constantly monitor, we will be caught unawares and be destroyed. What exactly that destruction would look like, none of us are really sure. We just know that it would be the end somehow, a door into the perpetually unbearable. Folks I have talked to about this fear speak of spiraling into madness, falling into the abyss, dissolving into extinction, and being condemned to hell.

And to top things off, most of us are terrifically ashamed of this “irrational” fear, ashamed that we are as we are and cannot simply shed this anxiety, and/or bitterness, and/or depression, and/or angst, and/or rage. We are mortified that others will see how we “really” are and disapprove, which will then catapult us into exactly what we fear. What a conundrum! In our longing, we seek comfort from that which we fear, and this to us is unbearably shameful. It is the ultimate proof that we are damaged beyond all redemption, that we are weak beyond belief, that “they” are right to reject us, (as we reject ourselves), so we hide ourselves from them AND from judgemental parts of ourselves. It is an impossible situation. We become living lie. Is it any wonder that many of us eventually give up and decide it is safer to go it alone? Alone, because as horrible as it is to be alienated, it is “safer” than being with “other”. This is the entrance to the deep freeze.

Why Walk Anywhere?

Its strange how this blog is taking on a life of its own.  When I started it, I wanted to talk about the isolation and alienation so many of us have felt in our lives, and about the despair disconnection leads us to.  I also wanted to share with you the strangely mysterious process of reconnection that has taken place for me over the past couple of decades of my life.  This sharing for me is also an exploration of the phenomena as I really have no idea how this has all come about exactly.  Writing for me is a way to process and I often surprise myself with what flows out when I sit down and begin.  What seems to be predominant now that I am writing again is all the long walking I have done in the past decade.  I have known these walks have been very important for me; healing, clarifying, opening,  but I have not until now really tried to communicate anything of the import to anyone, including myself.   Yesterday, someone asked me again, "Why do you walk?"  This always happens when people find out I do long distance hiking, they invariably give me some question containing the word “Why?” in it. Good question. I know folks who ask me this are waiting to hear about some cause, challenge or vow, but in truth, the simple answer is, “I don't know”. I don't know why I walk 1000s of miles at a time, I just do. It is who I am, at least it has been for a while now, and as is true for all of us, I am a moment to moment product of all my experiences embedded in the matrix of life. I carry the past in me as I am now and this may contain some of the answer to “Why do you walk so far and for so long?” You see, as a young child I was lucky enough to find connection, intimacy and a grace filled sense of belonging in nature. I don't know when I lost it, but I did somewhere along the line, without even noticing. I think this happened because life isn't static and the reality of growing up in the complex 20^th century demanded I focus on what our society deemed important and more importantly, because there were no adults in my life to help me know what a treasure this was and how to stay in connection with it. The result being that the shift in attention inexorably took me year by year further away from this simple childhood state of grace until it was utterly forgotten.

Like most of my peers, I grew up, lived and aged doing all the things our culture says are important; I invested in career, marriage, children, social organizations, etc. and without realizing it, I expected each to provide me with unending happiness, which of course, they didn't. In the end, I achieved the American Dream but found it to be dust in my mouth. “Is this all there is?” I asked this at 30 after having a child and completing the last task on the how to be successful and happy list. I found myself having the house, the husband, a child and a successful career. I had all the toys, the cars, the clothes, and vacations but yet the emptiness was still there.

It would take 20 more years of asking the same question to realize that indeed, this was all there was if I continued making false idols out of unrecognized hopes and plans for getting a happy life. I was lucky again in my early 50s when, quite out of my control everything stopped working and life was utterly barren. That emptiness of failed hope, the unbearable pain that accompanied this state drove me to once again walk. Since then, I walk in the same way I breathe, and find my truest, uncluttered self on trails and roads. Why is that? Again, I don't know, but if pressed, I can move to my head and say it is probably true because while engaged in long distance walking, I have no goals but to walk, and when there are no goals, future living, all that planning we do on a daily basis, all that anticipating and worrying that inhabits our normal days, drops off leaving one fully in NOW, mile after mile, minute after minute, day after day. I can surmise that trail walking with its rocky and slippery tree root surfaces encourages, even demands rapt attention to avoid painful falls, even fatal falls. And attention is NOW, leaving little room for ruminating and rehashing past events. A 1000 miles of NOW, is a powerful experience. One loses track of clock time, its irrelevant. All that matters is, “Is there enough light to see the trail? And, how much time before the sun drops behind the horizon and it gets too dark to continue?” Days of the week vanish, and there is just daytime and nighttime, one after the other, forever. And months just become hot time, cold time, rain time, snow time. All that exists on a long trail is endless NOW. I suppose long walks in comparison to walks taken within one's daily life are different in that they become one's life and not just a respite from life. Ask most people about their walks and you will hear about “taking a walk to cool one's head off, or for weight loss and muscle tone.” Sometimes folks talk about saving gas and indeed, in certain places like Manhattan, walking becomes incorporated into a way of life, though often with cell phone attached to the ear.

I am also a Zen teacher and the past few years I have been puzzling over why, for me, and maybe others, short retreats in the zendo, where one just is, and daily morning walks or walking vacations of one or two weeks just haven't had the same effect as the long walk. What is it about this form that that makes it such a powerful facilitator of change, such a profound and harshly gentle healer?  

Life in a Walk-In Freezer……..

……. is cold and dark and vacuous, until someone opens the door and brings light and warmth with them.  If they see you frozen on your shelf, they may invite you to exit with them, and you may, or may not be able to move your frozen limbs and climb down off the place of storage and waiting.  If they do not see you, eventually they leave you to what you know, but perhaps wondering, what that all had been about as they take memory of warmth with them and the light extinguishes.  But while all this deep freeze isolation is very interesting, lets return to the story of Joshua’s first  encounter with Gladys. You see, at that time, Joshua was not yet immobilized in Augustus' waxy catatonia. In those days, for the most part, Joshua was a real boy, living his in-out life in real fantasies of knights, dragons and serial killers. The day Gladys found him, or the day he invented her if you prefer, was a day like any other so far in his short and crossmodaly short-circuted life. The goddess Isis, his biological mother, had put him out with the trash as usual, after which she and his father Al Pacino had their regular roundhouse argument about whether or not it was raining, and if it was, would they ever have children. Joshua found a third class seat on his building’s stoop and began to hum the frequency that cancelled out the one Chronos, his biological father tried to pin him to the pavement with. Humming to himself and crossing his eyes to block the sweet sour smell of swing music rising from the sidewalk,  Joshua invited Gladys to join him by locking the doors that keep her out.

Walking Out

Amicolola Step Off

I shivered. It was a cold morning, and fog enshrouded the deep woods all around. I stood at the base of Springer Mountain, the southern most terminus of the Appalachian Trail, and contemplated what I was about to do. Mist and predawn dark made it difficult to see very far down the rocky trail, just as recent, and not so recent events, had made seeing into the future just as obscure. Ever the planner endeavoring to avoid possible problems, I had arranged for a local shuttle service to pick me up at 5 am so I could hit the trail very early. This is a regular M.O. for me, to always give myself plenty of time for the unknown and unexpected, because I always fear problems and difficulties. I only had 8 miles to do that day, but I had no idea what those 8 miles would look like, or me upon them.

I had passed the previous night in a frankly disbelieving state of mind. “Was I really going to do this? Was I really going to hike all of the Appalachian Trail?” Until I arrived at the rustically luxurious Amicolola Lodge the night before, I had not given much thought to the reality of what I was proposing to do. In fact, until the very moment when the door closed on me and the backpack that was to become my home for the next however many miles of hiking I would do, it had all been just planing and logistics. I remember quickly turning on the television to see what the weather had in store for me on step-off day, (like knowing what the weather might be would make any difference to walking in whatever weather appeared while walking! LOL). But really, as I know now, I turned on that TV so as not to think or feel anything. I was at the pinnacle of my ability to cut off thought and emotion, and without it ever having registered with me, I was numb unto death. I had suspected something was seriously wrong as I had been hearing for quite some time a part of me saying, “There is no reason to life, no reason to live” , yet, thanks I believe to spiritual practices that have been present for most of my adult life, a second voice always followed the first saying, “If there is no reason to live, then there is no reason NOT to live.” I was in deep trouble, and on that night before step off, I both knew and didn't know that underneath numbness, I lived in a despair of gargantuan proportions, bleakness in soul freezing whiteout, and in emptiness without end. Better not to know.

After a short night's sleep, I found myself alone in the cold, dark Georgia morning. My decision lay in front of me, and it was very real, all 2,181 miles of it. What a contrast from the day before, which had begun in the busy city of Detroit. Now, standing at the foot of Springer Mountain, I wondered at the diversity of our world. Just 20 hours previously, I had walked through the Rainbow Tunnel at Detroit Metropolitan airport. There, mechanized walkways transport one through a ¼ mile long tunnel pulsating with colored lights synchronized with 30 minutes of original music composed for just this purpose. One hell of a light show! When I passed through that tunnel, I had literally been surrounded with modern technology, one person among many. Now, I was about to step into an environment as pristine as the day of creation, alone.

                          DETROIT METROPOLITAN AIRPORT RAINBOW TUNNEL

The forest in front of me was densely silent, not even the birds had begun to sing yet. Slave Boy had dropped me off in what felt like the middle of nowhere, and now had disappeared over a ridge taking with him the last sounds of civilization for days to come. He was a sweet guy. He had brought me hot coffee when he picked me up at 5 am, and then had taken me to weigh my pack, (29 lbs), and sign into the southern terminus of the Appalachian trail, ( I was officially the 452^nd through hiker to step foot on the trail in 2008). We chatted about the AT on the drive out to the trailhead, a 15 minute ride on curving gravel roads which grew ever more narrow and wild looking. Slave Boy, who's real name is Ron, had hiked the AT several years before and shared his knowledge and advice freely. He loved the trail and the people who hiked it, which was one of the reasons he had built the shuttle business, and why he still used his trail name for correspondence with clients. All through hikers eventually end up with trail alias's on the AT; names like Banjo, Keychain, Mrs. Bigglesworth, and Serene. Some folks choose their own names, others are christened on the trail by others. My trail name would end up being Peregrine Trail Dancer, but that's another story.

I had no idea why I was through hiking the AT as I had never been a hiker. Just the same, I was utterly certain I had to do it. Hiking the AT had always been in the back of my mind, but when my marriage began to break up in 2005, the idea began to move forward more often in consciousness, and so by the time I left the Vermont Zen Center, where I lived for 2 years following my divorce, much to my surprise, thru hiking the AT was no longer was a vague notion, but a fully formed intent. I found myself astounded by the tremendous desire I had to exert myself in walking long, hard days, and, I found the amount of determination to do so even more surprising as friends and family tried to dissuade me. I was so bone deep certain of the absolute necessity of this task, I never once asked myself why I wanted to do it, a very unusual behavior for me. I had no idea where this certainty came from, but I trusted it.

Now I found myself standing on a narrow gravel road in the Georgia predawn. It was the morning of March 31, 2008. I didn't really know why I was there, nor did I care. I only knew I had to be there, and it would take years and several other long distance hikes to begin to understand, that in this epoch of life, I desperately needed to strive and struggle with something concrete. I fiercely needed to feel alive. It would take this and many other journeys to come to know how much of me was comatose on that cold, dark Georgia morning.  

The fog was cold and still.  I stood silent and motionless at the trail's beginning for what seemed a very long time, though I'm sure it was not more than a minute or two. A slight breeze suddenly gusted down the wind tunnel of road, further chilling me, and the resulting shivers quickly shook me out of musing and into motion. I gave a final tug to the backpack's adjustment straps and took a step into the shelter of trees, onto a trail which would become a 6 month journey filled with physical effort and the beginning of emotional healing. I stepped off-road, and out of all I knew; and when I fell, (which is the way balance is shifted from one foot to another when one walks), I was propelled forward onto the rocky trail and over a line marking before and after.

Seventeenth Century Nun's Prayer

I found this prayer on a bedroom wall in Adelynrood today while washing walls.  Thought it worth passing on.

:)

Lord, thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing older and will some day be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord, that I want a few friends at the end.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of other's pains, but help me to endure them with patience. I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessening cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a saint-some of them are so hard to live with-but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the Devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

Amen.

Power Plays and Thunderstorms

“This is a power play!” Alice hissed.

Margie turned her head and looked at her friend. “Oh come on Al, you’re being paranoid.” She recapped the bottle of bourbon and picked up her drink from the kitchen counter. “You know George, he’s as dumb as a post sometimes, he just got the dates mixed up.”

Alice took a sip of her tequila sunrise and glared at her longtime friend. “Why are you taking his side? This is going to cost me a big bonus and Alex is sure to pass me over for that new promotion coming up.”

Margie sighed. “Al, he just got the dates mixed up; he apologized, and he told Alex it was all his fault, what else can he do?” C'mon, drop it and lets get back to this crap.” Margie grabbed her friend’s arm and pulled her toward the great room door. “Jesus, I hate these company things. So do me a favor and don’t make things worse, okay Al?”

Alice seethed inside but let herself be pulled along by her friend.

***************************

When I moved to Maine, one of the many things I did in an unknowing attempt to start to find my way out of isolation, was to sign up for a continuing education writing course. A course, I participated in, off and on, for about a year. Once, the professor gave the homework assignment to write on the topic of “Who am I?” This assignment was intended to stimulate we students into thinking about how we see ourselves, how we think about ourselves and how we portray ourselves to ourselves, and to the world. At least that is what the meaning of the words written on the blackboard had transmuted into after several days of sitting on the back burner of this old brain.

At first, I found myself unable to write anything on this topic. Nothing was coming easily. I could describe myself in terms of roles, physicality, careers, etc. but it felt false for me to do so. I simply no longer think of myself as a permanent entity, even from moment to moment. This is a far cry from where I began in early childhood, when I fell prey to the notion each of us exists as a single, unique, isolated individual, who which, though while modifiable around the edges, is in fact, essentially an unalterable, permanent something. Now while this is true on one level, life has taught me that it is utterly false on another and that my greatest mistake has been in adhering to the sanctity of the notion of permanence. This mistake has led to living much of my life in discomfort of some sort or another. It has taken me almost 60 years to understand that I am literally not one Karen with all kinds of different attributes, but am in fact, a multitude of karens, each with its own conglomeration of beingness. Each of these unique karens comes out of a greater amorphous essence when called into being by passing moments filled with all their varying stimuli, both internal and external. So when I began to think about this assignment I found myself doing a lot of dithering. Finally, I simply closed my eyes and waited. Eventually I saw a woodland dirt path stretching out in front of me, bordered on both sides by tufts of tender green grass and splashes here and there of white trillium. This was the right image, for these days, I most identify with journeyer, one who travels by foot through all terrains, some chosen and others not. When I think of my life, and by extension all life, I see forest, meadow and big city streets, each with their multitude of paths or sidewalks. There is always the one on which I currently traverse while others cut away from it to disappear behind trees or buildings, and as I follow them as far as I can with my eye, I always think about Robert Frost and his 2 roads diverging in a yellow wood.

The Road Not Taken

BY ROBERT FROST

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

These images of paths not taken, at times, call forth regretful karen, complete with heavy salt tears, but just as often, the same images will bring out joyful karen with her buoyant spirit. Yet these karens are not but a moment, and in just a few steps further down this same path, a wood thrush may begin his aria, and regretful karen may morph into hushed, awe-filled karen, or a car may pass, blaring rap, and joyful karen may transmute into melancholy karen. I have no control over these changes as I have none over the overtaking sorrow which came one day when I came across a deer carcass rotting in a field; killed only for its rack, which had been removed to hang on a would be hunters wall. I even have no control over the changes wrought by writing the last sentence, which brings angry, frustrated karen elbowing in to look at these words with these eyes. Change, change, change. Ever flowing, ever transforming into new configurations, none of which are permanent. But we think they could be, or at least I did, and so I spent a lifetime looking for a way to hold onto happy karen, or at second best, find the permanent content self to ride above all the others. Well, it ain’t gonna happen anymore than a tornado can blow forever or than a leaf can remain forever green upon the tree. Our states, our selves, come into being when conditions come right and then dissipate back into the ground of being when not. So what to do? What am I to do when karens full of pain, sorrow or rage coalesce? They hurt and I don’t want them around.

The only answer I have found so far, I found walking. One day, on a trail in the middle of nowhere, on the side of a mountain high above tree line, I got caught in a ferocious thunderstorm. Lightening struck frequently and so close to me. I could smell ozone. Winds threatened to tear me off my precarious granite perch and send me whirling away to crash on the ground far below, and when hail began to pelt down, making already tricky footing even more perilous, a matching storm inside of fear, anger, hurry, awe, etc. became as uncontrollable as the one buffeting me about from the outside. There was no quick way to get down out of my situation. It was what it was, and would be, until it wasn’t anymore; and worst of all, I had no say about any of it….. something I finally understood deep in my bones in that moment, out there on that trail. Life just is. 

In the past, in more normal types of stormy life circumstances, I had always thought that there must be something I could do to alter whatever was going on around me, or in me, …..or both. But in that moment, in this storm, clinging to this mountainside, a sense of utter powerlessness sunk in, accompanied by a laughter producing knowing, that power, is only illusion. Peace descended. I was still scared, but now I was connected with wind, rain and hail….. and all my-selves. We would exist together as we were for as long as was given us; storm blowing, me being afraid, trying to find a way down to tree cover, then at some point we would change, Nature into one of her other morphs and me into another of mine.   It would still take me a few more years to really begin to get it, that people (including myself), are just nature too.  

Rock Holds

Leaves catch, 

Rock holds, 

Water carries

Heron weaves 

A net of being,

And captures even bone

**************

People are incredibly beautiful, and as I grow older, I find that those which stand out in their wrinkles, scars or deformities often are the most alluring of all. The human face, having such mobile musculature, expresses with but a twitch, depths of emotion which flow out in waves to set up resounding ripples on the heart of those who see.  

Whispers of Spring

I remember the first time it occurred to me that I was not paying attention to life; that I was, and had been, blithely sauntering past myriads of choice points along the trail I trod, any one of which, had they been chosen, would have led to a very different life from the one I was currently clothed in. This understanding came with a shocking flash during a student performance at Interlochen, a summer music camp where my 8 year old daughter was staying, playing viola, and hopefully enjoying herself. On that particular muggy afternoon, from a seat in the darkened concert hall, I listened to these amazing kids play at a level comparable to a small city orchestra, and realized, with dismay, I would never play an instrument that well; that the door of musical excellence was shut to me forever. And sitting there, in my late 30s, I knew, I would never again have the possibility of being able to play an instrument in a professional orchestra, even if I wanted to, The key word in all this emotional mish mash is the word - possible. With a clarity that physically hurt, I knew the time available for long years of sometimes arduous training no longer existed for me, and the neural plasticity of youth allowing perfection to be developed was gone forever. Somewhere along the way, completely unnoticed by me, I had passed this choice, and just as unnoticed, the door had gently, silently closed - forever.

Now, perhaps this is an unremarkable occurrence for most folks; to find shut doors in their lives, but for me, at that moment, sitting in that auditorium, it came as an very unpleasant jolt. For until that moment's awakening, I had been operating under the assumption that I could do anything, and more importantly, that there was enough time to do everything. Strings, woodwinds and percussion faded out of existence as I entered backwards time and sat there seeing the now many portals closed to me. One was marked Professional Ballet, another Veterinary School, and yet another, Olympic diver. These closed entrances passed back along the corridor of time and faded over the horizon. Some of these were firmly shut, mostly those that required years of dedication to the perfecting of some physical activity. Other doors had simply become impractical and would only become more so with each passing year, doors that led to returning to school to enter another 12 years or more of specialized learning, such as those needed to become a neurosurgeon, or astrophysicist.

I remember the tremendous wave of grief that washed over me as I took in, not so much the actual loss of these careers, but of the narrowing of life this loss of possibility seemed to indicate. I grieved as if someone had died. But why? I hadn't been unhappy not being and doing everything up until this point. In fact I had been busy fulfilling and being fulfilled by the path I had chosen. Here I was, in this concert seat, a University Professor in Psychology, a researcher in Bi-polar Disorder, and a healer in the school of Transpersonal Psychotherapy. I was also a daughter, a wife, a mother, and a friend to others as well. So what was this grief?

Over the next several years I was to revisit this mourning many times and was plagued incessantly with questions about why did I choose the path I did. It was not like I was one of those folks who had a burning passion, a calling to some way of being in the world. Rather, I was a generalist, interested in most everything, and because of that, often feeling pulled in a million different directions at the same time by all these interests. Was that it? Did I mourn thinking perhaps I had missed the one perfect path to Nirvana? Or was I aggrieved because Universe was saying No to me and I have never developed a liking for that word?

A man said to the universe:


"Sir I exist!"


"However," replied the universe,"

The fact has not created in me


A sense of obligation."

Stephan Crane

And where did this notion come from that I could do anything anyway? I have never been able to find a simple answer to that question. Perhaps it is genetics, or karma, or learning, or all of these and everything else that makes up one's life. People have accused me in the past (and in the present as well), of being a pollyanna because of this bone deep attitude, or worse, of being arrogant, and at different times, I have bought into their accusations. All I know is that after all these years, ( I am now 63), I still have this fundamental attitude about life; all things are possible, and for this, I am finally, profoundly grateful.

After that summer concert in Interlochen, months, and then years, passed as I sat with these questions.  Finally, I began to ask about what were the most important gifts that I had received from the path I was walking, and rather belatedly, I began to comprehend that the gifts that made my life rich, had absolutely nothing to do with the roles I played in life, but rather, were gifts I could have, and would have, been gifted with, in any role a human might choose. The gifts I had received from life came from learning about our human condition. I had learned, and was still learning, about pain, patience, acceptance, and joy. I had been taught by others about sharing, giving, forgiving, and perseverance. Failure had given tough lessons leading to confidence, caring, and empathy. Success had brought painful homework on pride and avarice, as well as learning how to accept a compliment. The list of life gifts is endless, and surprisingly these gifts have had little to do with any choice I ever made or left unmade.

There is a quote attributed to John Lennon that says:

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans”

What else is there to say?

:)

A Brief Biography

My name is Karen Jo Ebersole Kohler Dene Terzano, and my name is so long because I have been married and divorced three times. I just go by Karen Terzano these days and have thought about using K.J. Kohler as a nom de plume if I ever write truth telling fiction. Of course there is always my Buddhist name, Kanjo, but outside of monasteries, I don’t tend to use it.

The Jo in my name reflects my family’s southern origins. Both branches have been below the Mason Dixon line since before there was a Mason Dixon line. My little nuclear family of Mom, Dad and me moved to the Detroit, Michigan area when I was five and there we remained in permanent extended-family interruptus. My memory's set of lenses, tell me these childhood years were unhappy more often than not, but that is a story to be told another time.

I ended up being an only child, and now since I am without spouse, with both parents dead and a virtual stranger to more distant relations, I am an orphan. I do have one glorious daughter though who has re-migrated to the Deep South and now calls Atlanta home. She is far away and is as independent as I am, but we do manage to keep our vital relationship alive and healthy through sporadic email and even more sporadic visits.

I have been many places and have done many things in my life. I have been in 48 of the 50 United States and all the provinces of Canada. I have spent time in all of the countries of Central America; Belize, El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama. I have visited Mexico, Columbia, Ecuador, and Bolivia and have climbed the hills and ruins of Machu Pichu in Peru. I have walked the Great Wall of China, studied Ch’an (Zen) in her temples and have dug ditches with her people. I have performed the tea ceremony in a temple tea house in Kyoto Japan and have done a thousand prostrations in front of Amida Buddha. Pilgrimage once brought me to Europe and introduced me to the towns and cities of France, Spain and Portugal which interestingly brought a re-internalization of new testament Christianity.

In my adult years, I have sometimes been regarded as a workaholic, and during others, an irresponsible adventurer. I certainly was an alcoholic for most of my adolescence and early adulthood, having started drinking and drugging at the age of 12 or 13. Those “mind-altering” years brought great pain and difficulty in an attempt to escape great pain and difficulty, and being a smart and lucky person, I finally joined AA when I was 23. I gave up all the drugs and booze then, and left behind a fast life which had found me at times flirting with motorcycle gangs, working as a black jack dealer (and sometimes taxi dancer) in Vegas, and occasionally smuggling pot across the Canadian border. (These too are interesting and entertaining stories for another day). In the decade following my renunciation of consumable intoxicants, I ended up participating in all the 12 step programs related to substance abuse; AA, Alanon, ACOA. It is during this great growth period that I also earned a couple of PhDs in Biopsychology and Clinical Psychology.

The years between 23 and 47, would find me working in various hospitals and clinics, teaching at 3 different Universities, giving in-house 3 day workshops on stress reduction to both Fortune 500 companies and the US Army, and doing a variety of other professional odds and ends like sitting on boards of non-profit organizations and being a State of Michigan consultant for the Health Professional Recovery Program. These years also saw me marry three times, divorce twice, and become a mother to my only flesh and blood child.

I bet you have guessed these were my workaholism years. But what you might not guess is that I wasn’t any more happy in workaholism (or motherhood) than I had been in my “Looking for Mr. Goodbar” (1977) years. Even after I fulfilled the American dream of success, (marriage, big house, successful career, beautiful children, expensive toys, etc.), I still experienced significant amounts of debilitating anxiety and depression. So, somehow still believing that it was possible to live in the world as a happy person, I kept searching for a way out of misery and eventually discovered Eastern thought/practice. This discovery has ultimately led to my being a Zen teacher today, and that story is the whole story. The introduction you are reading now only serves as its beginning.

In 1998 my third husband was diagnosed with Post-Polio Syndrome and we ended up moving to Costa Rica to get out of the cold. Seven years of sun, sand, and hotel ownership/management brought a long delayed end to a mismatched marriage, some increase in savings and a ticket back to the States. The Costa Rica years were rich and full of drama, but these stories too will have to wait for their telling.

In 2005, the Costa Rica chapter of life closed for me with a painful divorce and I came back to the United States to take care of my father who had a healthy body and failing mind. I ended up moving him to Vermont where I settled in as a resident of the Vermont Zen Center. I was to remain there for 2 years, assiduously practicing zen, and visiting with Dad (who was in an Alzheimer’s facility 5 minutes away), until zen, the way I was practicing it, didn't work anymore and my long flight from “life as it is”, came to a crashing halt. It was then, my good friend and ex-husband number two convinced me to move to Ellsworth Maine so he could help me with the care of my father.

Dad died New Years Day of 2008, and with his death, I entered into an amazing state. For first time since 1972, (or maybe ever), I was without obligation or commitment to anyone or anything. I was completely without ties. What was I to do with an unique state like this? Well, I ended up doing what any reasonable person would do, I thru-hiked the entire 2,181 miles of the Appalachian Trail. The length of this trail is remarkable, but what is even more remarkable, is that if one walks the entire length, they will complete the equivalent of climbing (and descending) Mt. Everest (29,028 feet) 16 times. Why I thought this activity was a completely reasonable response to the total loss of connection is a major part of why this blog is titled, “Coming in From the Cold”. This extraordinary experience took 6 months to complete, and even today, 6 years later, I still am in the process of digesting it.

Since then I have continued to take long hikes, and have to date, walked several branches of the Camino de Santiago de Compestela, (Way of St. James), including Camino Frances, Camino Finnesterre and part of the Camino Portuguese. One jaunt took me to Nepal in 2012 to experience the high altitude crossing over Tillman's pass.  The leader of that particular expedition told me I was the oldest woman to make that crossing, but I bet they tell all the old women that. Another long hike of note has been a 500 mile semi-urban walk from my home in Ellsworth Maine to New York City on one of the U.S. millennium trails, The East Coast Greenway. Long walks of 100 miles or so continue to pepper my life, though I have set down expeditions for a while, as life has taken another serendipitous turn and I find myself today, the guiding teacher of Ordinary Mind Zen in Scandinavia, where the journey into warmth and connection seems to be blossoming.

This blog is meant to be the story of Zen Master Work in Progress.