The space inside of our minds can be very turbulent at times.

We might dwell within an argument that we had with a friend: Reliving it over and over. With each replay the argument becomes more bitter and the divide between friends becomes wider.

We might anticipate an upcoming conflict with a colleague, or maybe an upcoming presentation. The event hasn’t even happened yet. But, we’ve been stuck in traffic, the slideshow that we so carefully prepared has disappeared from our hard drive, and a jelly donut has exploded on our shirt.

These negative alternate realities are just delusions. But, we dwell in them just like we dwell in the physical world. They can, and do impact our perception of “reality“, and our life in the physical world. It‘s pretty amazing, and unfair, considering that we don’t even eat jelly donuts!

How do we counteract these inhospitable places with their uncomfortable furniture, painfully bright fluorescent lighting, and exploding donuts?

We create other alternate realities that are just as delusional, but in an impossibly positive way.

How many times have we dreamed of the perfect vacation? We live that vacation many times over in our mind before even boarding the flight. Inevitably, we arrive and find the water less blue, the locals less friendly, and the sheets much scratchier than they were in our mind.

So, what’s to be done?

I’ve been working on constructing a space within. The space will be comfortable, but no more comfortable than my chair at home. It will be quiet, but no quieter than my neighborhood at 4 AM.

Many of my favorite things will be there. But, they will be things that are readily accessible to me in my daily life: singing birds, a good book, inspiring words, sunshine, snowfall, or a hot bath.

Absent will be deadlines and donuts, perfect sunrises, and soft sandy beaches. Absent will be stress, anger, bitterness, and elation.

It will be a neutral space. But, it must also be a space of gratitude and humility. When I inhabit the space I will be grateful, as the simplest of pleasures that I listed above are not available to everyone. I will be humble, as pleasures, even simple ones, must never be taken for granted.

I’ve been constructing this neutral space within for quite some time. But, suddenly, I’ve silenced the hammers and saws. I’ve joyfully paid the workers a big bonus, and sent them home early to play with their children.

I‘ve realized that I need not construct this third delusional inner world. I need only open my blinds, open a book, go for a walk, or go run a bath. If I do any of these things with gratitude and humility in my heart I’ll have no need to dwell anywhere but the present moment.

The blossoms made a crisp snapping sound, followed by a soft thud, as my mother removed them from the plant with her thumb, and let them fall into the brown plastic bucket. The pungent odor of their fresh blood tickled my nose as I leaned over the bucket.

The blossoms still looked perfectly bright, cheerful, and beautiful to me. I was sad to see them removed and discarded so violently, so casually, and so soon. Too soon.

I retrieved a few of the marigold blossoms from the bucket and held them in my small hand for a moment, childishly thinking that we might be able to put them back on the plant.

"What's wrong with this one?" I asked. My mother assured me that the blossom was past its prime as she brushed against my hand with her own, causing me to drop the blossoms back in the bucket. "We need to make room so that new, prettier blossoms can bloom." I had my doubts as I shrugged my shoulders and sniffed my palm. The scent of their blood was on my hands now too.

She was partly right. More blossoms did arrive. But, they were never prettier than their predecessors. And, they too were snapped from the plant just as they were about to reach their brightest moment. Too soon.

Our mother meant well. She was always rushing to get to the next, bigger, brighter, or better thing for her and her children. But, it seems that we rushed right through our summers, through childhood, and through four and a half decades together. All too soon. Then, much too soon, my mom rushed on to the next, hopefully brighter thing, as she rushed right out of our lives.

I wish that just once I'd said, "What's the rush mom? What's the rush?". I wish that we had sat in those chairs on the front porch that no one ever sat in. I wish that just once we'd sat for a while to admire the flowers that she had worked so hard to cultivate.

For me, marigolds are like the mascot of summer. I always plant a few in the garden each year, in memory of my mother and summers past, and in celebration of the summer currently at hand. But, I never remove the blossoms from my marigolds until they are fully wilted and spent. This is not an act of defiance. It is an act of love. "See. There's no rush mom. No rush."

Now, I like the scent of the marigold sap on my hands. It's the aroma of long summer days, warm nights, and laughter. As I slow down and enjoy summers with my own children, I realize that maybe, sometimes in my youth, I was rushing just as fast as my mother. Or, maybe I was rushing faster.

This year, thanks to global warming, we had an especially long summer. As I walked my dog each day I admired a huge marigold plant that was not only surviving; it was thriving, in mid-November!

One day I saw a mother and her young son relaxing in the sunny yard, each enjoying a cup of yogurt. It occurred to me that the boy was about the same age as I was at the time of the "deadheading" incident. I stopped and, feeling a little uneasy, I told them how much I liked their marigold plant. "I always smile when I see it. It reminds me of summer.", I said.

The woman's face broke into a wide smile. Clearly, the marigold was a source of joy for her family too. "Thank you!", she said. "We'll keep it going as long as we can!".

Later, I was surprised to find the mother and son waiting for us at the chain link fence bordering their yard as we completed our 20 minute loop around the neighborhood.

"Would you like some blossoms to take home?", she offered.

"Sure!" I said as a lump grew steadily larger in my throat. It was such an incredibly kind gesture.

Unfortunately, she had no scissors, and marigolds are damn tough plants. After attempting to gently snap off two small branches, the mom twisted, tugged, and finally yanked on the branches. Back at the fence, I winced in fear that the entire plant would be torn from the ground. It was a simultaneously heart-warming, melancholy, violent, and comical moment. Finally, the branches broke free. As the mom turned and handed the precious blossoms with their jagged and oozing severed stems to me over the fence I saw my own mother's determination and kindness in her eyes. She knew how much the gift meant to me.

The warm November days continued, and the marigold continued to blossom. Then, one cold, grey morning it was gone. As I approached, I could see the hole in the earth where the roots had been. It wasn't until I reached the chain link fence at the edge of the yard that I saw them. Eight slightly wilted blossoms, carefully cut and gently woven into the fabric of the chain link fence glowed orange against the gloom of the day.

Tears flowed down my cheeks as I removed the blossoms from the fence. I knew they were for me. As I gently removed each imperfect blossom from the fence I heard my own mother's voice say approvingly, "There's nothing wrong with these dear. Nothing wrong at all."

"There's no rush," she said to herself and to me reassuringly. "Take your time," she said.

So, we did.

Wanting:

It was an endless thirst.

Unable to quench my thirst;

I cured myself of the need to drink.

Now, I wish that I could be the water.

I’ve just returned from a pleasant Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, all of the delicious fixings, and a virtual free-fall from thousands of feet up, to the cold, hard earth. Ouch!

To be clear: I did not jump out of an airplane. I never have jumped out of an airplane. But, I did contribute stuffing, squash, cranberries, and pumpkin pie to the meal. That’s got to count for something.

I spoke little, as usual. They think that I have nothing to say. Not true. I have plenty to say. But, what I would say, they wouldn’t understand.

When I did speak, I‘m pretty sure that I was misunderstood. When it was my turn to state: “I’m thankful for:……..” I said that I was grateful that we live where we do. They thought that I was making some kind of a flag waving political statement. I intended the opposite. With compassion I recognize that there are many in the world that can not enjoy such a luxury as a Thanksgiving feast. With humility I recognize that we ourselves may not always be so lucky.

Post-turkey they listened to my brother tell stories of his “adrenaline junky” activities with great interest, and with no apparent skepticism.

I entered the conversation briefly to offer some comments regarding the relative danger of rock climbing versus skydiving:

“I listened to an amazing podcast this summer about a woman who was skydiving and her parachute didn’t open. She survived, and so did the instructor on her back!“

I was told that a person could not survive such a fall. I must have it all wrong.

I rudely began searching Google on my phone at the dining table in order to prove that I wasn‘t the imbecile that they thought I was. But, I couldn’t find the particular incident that I was speaking about. Instead, amazingly, I found that there are MANY people that have survived parachute malfunctions.

The conversation moved on to bungee jumping without me. Fine. It was more rewarding for me to contemplate how it can be possible for a person or a nation to survive a fall from great heights, than attempt to prove the validity of my comments to a table full of skeptics.

Survival without a parachute? It seemed reason for optimism. Maybe?

As conversation droned on, I imagined how it might feel: The realization that the parachute that I had always relied on wasn’t going to open.

I was hurtling toward the earth with the wind ripping at my hair, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and my heart pounding in my temples. It must be simultaneously terrifying and peaceful to be falling alone through the beautiful blue sky with fluffy cotton ball clouds toward sun dappled fields below.

I imagine that I overcome the initial desire to poop my pants (I brought extra underwear, just in case) with a bit of a cocky smile. After all, the terror of falling from the sky or from an election gone awry is a sham. The parachute and democracy will always have my back.

They will. Won’t they?

I’ll always land softly in the green field dappled in sunlight.

I will. Won’t I?

I pull the apparent ripcord, and suddenly everything is not as it seemed.

Instead of the familiar, gentle, yet strong bulk of the silky parachute, the box of Oreo cookies and spare underwear that I carefully packed earlier that morning tumbled out of the backpack.

I am momentarily distracted from my impending doom as I desperately attempt to grasp at the familiarity, luxury, and safety of the Oreos.

Damn! They were the new lemon flavored ones too!

Hopefully, in this situation I would wrap all of my half-learned lessons of the Buddha into a few moments.

How better to teach myself about karma than to unnecessarily jump out of an airplane? How better to appreciate my own impermanence than to jump out of that airplane with Oreos and underwear instead of a parachute?

Hopefully in this situation I would still see beauty in the blueness of the sky and the sun dappled field.

Finally, I hope that I would find humor in the situation and laugh.

“Laughter is the best medicine.“ And, it’s probably best to be relaxed at the moment of impact.

Practical advice: Land feet first. It’s the only way to survive (according to the podcast).

Regaining consciousness momentarily: Are those my lemon flavored Oreos that the paramedics are munching on as they wheel me to the ambulance?

I gesture to the closest paramedic. He leans down close so I can speak in his ear, only to be misunderstood once again. “Have you seen my underwear?”, I wheeze before losing consciousness again.

Parachute, backpack, they kind of look the same. Don’t they?

Looks can be deceiving.

Someday maybe this middle-aged father of two will lead the post-turkey conversation with tales of their own adventures: “Did I ever tell you the story of how I became a non-binary asexual Buddhist?”

But, they wouldn’t understand.

Would they?

Blaze with compassion.

Radiate loving kindness;

Like light from the sun.

Warm every soul.

Love unconditionally.

Cast none in shadow.

Fear, hatred, greed, doubt:

These weeds wither in your light.

Peace and joy prevail.

In your garden, wet by tears;

Insight blooms from seeds of pain.

Like soothing moonlight;

In your glow, suffering fades.

Only love remains.

Today we visited the birds in the Buddha bush.

There is a particular bush (a small coniferous tree really) about 30 yards from the path where I walk my dog.

During the cooler months the sparrows like to congregate in the bush. When the birds are in there, all chirping at once, it’s so loud that we can hear them clearly from the path.

“The birds are in the Buddha bush“, I’ll say, and we‘ll take a detour to pay them a visit. The foliage of the bush is so dense that we can’t see any of the birds, even when we’re standing directly in front of the bush. It sounds like there must be 50, or maybe 100 of them in there.

To my untrained human eye, there are many other, very similar bushes nearby. But, the birds always pick this particular bush. Their choice is remarkable to me, because at the base of this one particular bush the owner has arranged a collection of Buddha figurines. It’s the only bush with the Buddhas, and it’s the only bush with birds.

It seems that even the birds know that this is a place of peace.

Stop. Listen. Smile. The birds are singing outside. A square is still a square.

Or, maybe it’s raining today, and even the sad mourning dove has taken cover in its nest, and is silent. In that case: Stop. Listen. Smile. A steady rain is falling on the roof. A square is still a square.

Or, maybe it’s 2AM and it seems that all of the rest of the universe is sleeping, except us: Stop. Listen. Smile. Hear the beautiful silence. A square is still a square.

Or, maybe………

It occurred to the child who had become an adult, then a child again, as it stood alone in a darkened field, that there was absolutely nothing between itself and the moon above, or between itself and that distant star, or that one, or that one over there.

Like many of the perceptions of this middle-aged child, the simultaneous closeness and vastness of the universe was both empowering and humbling.

An undeniable fact: A square is a shape comprised of four straight lines, all of equal length. But, that‘s not all. All four angles within this shape must be ninety degrees.

An unalterable choice: Within the realm of my control, which consists primarily of my thoughts and actions, compassion and gratitude are as undeniable as the four equal sides and angles of the square.

Tomorrow I will draw a square. Tomorrow I will speak externally with words, and internally with thoughts of compassion and gratitude.

I will be grateful for the people in my life, and grateful for all that they have given me. I will look upon them with compassion.

Even if I can not understand their words or actions, I will understand that we all travel separate paths. My words or actions, or theirs, are heavily influenced by that which we have experienced.

I must carefully choose my words and plan my actions, lest the negative experiences of my past get the best of me. Compassion requires that I assume that others have not done the same.