A Peak Behind the Curtain

How a motorcycle from a foreign country crept into my bedroom…

While I use this platform of the written word to share pieces on a spectrum of topics, ranging from personal experience or inner reflection, to aspirations and philosophy on the global or even cosmic scale, I tend to prefer those pieces that call more directly into our collective tension surrounding this evolutionary moment.

This will not be one of those.

I suppose.

In the past, when I have made reference to intimate events, complications, and challenges that might arise in moments of health upset, or quadriplegic vulnerability, I have, on occasion, received some critique from those who know me more personally, that I have failed to reveal a meaningful detail of the reality of the struggle.

This will not be one of those.

I think this piece will be short. I am writing it from bed, while the Bangles whistle their walking Egyptian from the other room.

I'm chuckling, in the heart, as I consider how to express this feeling in my being. I feel like a stream coursing, not so much the picture of, but rather the tumbling, playful, sparkling viscosity dancing its way down the hillside over rocks and sand, splashing on the grass and shrubs and glistening in the sun.

There is a lightheartedness in the magic of life, and a tension in the way gravity flows throughout it all.

I've joked on a number of occasions lately with friends, that I'm having the experience as though there is some stage producer, or director, just out of sight behind the curtains, managing the affairs of my life; and furthermore that they are doing such a sublime job of keeping it interesting that they "probably deserve a raise."

Noting this now, it stands out to me that these teasing began a little sequentially after some recent "prayers" to reexperience the animism of being. Such a playful lover is this wide world of existence!

I'm reminded in the moment of the words from a beloved poet…

Tired of Speaking Sweetly

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a "playful drunken mood"
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

'The Gift - Poems by Hafiz The Great Sufi Master'

Translations by Daniel Ladinsky

Just again this morning, chatting with an old friend who was inquiring on the nature of my experience lately, I made reference to that scripting… Perhaps I should hold my tongue.

To functionally interact with the world as a quadriplegic, I depend on others to show up to my bedside when I wake in order that I might find food and water, dress, and make my way onto the stage of our broader social interactions. Similarly, those same kind hands are needed to ensure my navigation and be simple vicissitudes of the day, those that we also often simply take for granted… More water, more food (if we are lucky), relieving ourselves of those same substances once they have done their work, just answering the door, or collecting the mail. At the end of the day, more of the same.

Without kind hands available, the picture changes. On a good day, I'm up, accessing tools and contexts to live into proactive relationships of love and service. On those days when I cannot avail myself the good fortune of present and loving support, I must retreat from the tools, surrender those contexts, and return to bed where the sufficiency is one of the minimums.

In bed I can change my own position, should discomfort arise. Out and about, others can help managing minor changes in posture and investigate sources of concern.

In bed I have access to a supply of water – a few hours worth (or overnight if I am sleeping.) Out and about, others can keep the tap flowing, keeping me well hydrated and refreshed. (Ironically, a few hours after penning these words, my bedside water bottle fell over and remained out of reach for the next 10 hours.)

In bed my body can relieve itself of excess fluids (yes urine ;-) for as much as 16 hours at the extreme. Out and about, others can help to mitigate these concerns more frequently as, in a mobile position, this must be attended at least every three hours.

In bed I can control some lights, some music and audio, and with the good fortune of my trusty iPad, can manage a handful of critical clerical tasks and correspondence. I can even write a bit, as demonstrated here, though the fluency of moving between the various aspects of the digital workflow remains substantially more viscous in this context, a fact often reflected in my "in bed productivity scores…" ;-)

"It's like there is a skilled and creative producer, just out of sight, but keeping things interesting." I said.

A few hours later as I was really starting to get cooking on a research and development project, the phone rang. It was 45 minutes before kind hands would be coming to cover the latter part of the day in support of my efforts. They would be relieving those hands that have been tending to my care and support throughout the morning.

Kind hands of relief care was calling from the roadside in Tijuana. A motorcycle which was to be the courier of care was broken down and resisting any efforts of roadside repair. A message had been placed to the wider community of "kind hands," but the request for stand-in was coming at the 11th hour, and on a Friday afternoon to boot.

No replies of availability, save one. Kind hands of the morning could stay in support, but that would mean foregoing the planned afternoon errands and the business of maintaining the balance and generosity of their own life.

I sent up a flare to those local friends that might step in, but again the time was short and any replies delayed just enough to prevent salvation of the R&D effort of the day.

And so to bed today. To bed today at 3 PM. Kind hands will swing by closer to 8 PM to help with a little food and water and reset the values on fluid outflows for the night (colloquially, "empty the bed bag.")

From bed I will write this piece. I will probably wait until tomorrow to publish (see workflow concerns referenced above). I will rest, and amuse myself — likely with video entertainment, or some audiobook.

Oh dear! Speaking of scripted disruptions… The comedy of errors really enters the picture, not just in the timely disruption of things, but in the ways that those disruptions can be followed by seemingly unrelated echoes. Just as we were winding down this afternoon and Kind Hands was moving to lockup and head out, the lock to which I have access remotely (in order to allow me to provide access to others as needed), failed. – Not a major disruption by any means, and manageable enough in ulterior ways, however, just a little cherry on top of the silly sunday of this Friday afternoon.

Tomorrow is a new day. We will keep cheer in the heart today, and carry it over to fill the coffers of tomorrow.