Bearing Witness

valley cactus in bloom at Grace Land

Recently I had an opportunity to sit and listen as a friend spoke about her partner learning she may have lymphoma. My friend had already left me a message asking if she could call and “be received," speaking through fears, questions, confusion, concern. Her request brought to mind a Margaret Wheatley article where she talks about “the simple practice of being brave enough to sit with human suffering, to acknowledge it for what it is, to not flee from it . . . When I bear witness,” Wheatley continued, “I turn toward another and am willing to let their experience enter my heart. I step into the picture by being willing to be open to their experience, to not turn away my gaze.”

Both of the women in this relationship have been at the forefront of my thoughts and prayers the past two weeks during testing, a biopsy, and the predictably uncomfortable wait for results. Clearly the best loving I can do is to "bear witness" and “receive” my friend, listening with utmost tenderness as she ponders what this could mean in their lives.

Last year I asked another friend of mine if we could practice ‘radical listening’ together. On regular walks one of us would talk while the other listened without trying to figure anything out or offer advise at the end, simply staying present for attention’s sake, taking in as much of the other’s experience as possible. This is different from trying to ‘fix’ something or someone, and as is so often the case, how would we know anyway what should be fixed? In the case of my friend whose partner may soon be navigating an intense and uncomfortable course of treatment that I know little about, what in the world could I offer that would be better than listening while remaining powerfully present?

It’s certainly a very different situation, but I’ve found I must be in a similar place of “receiving” or “bearing witness” when I visit a classroom to observe a teacher, watching and listening with as much attention as I can muster. My work is to center myself and absorb what that teacher is doing as he or she interacts with a group of learners, later giving a voice to what I’ve seen and heard in a way that will hopefully encourage someone to reflect on this incredibly difficult endeavor of teaching. My friend has a strong propensity for reflection and I only hope that after listening to her, whatever I shared may be of help as she and her loved one traverse the potentially arduous healing path ahead.

In the world of education I’ve never felt particularly comfortable with the label of ‘master teacher.' Looking back on my own career some startling mistakes remind me how I could have done a number of things very differently. Although I made plenty of changes while still in front of classes day after day, there are other things I was simply oblivious to at certain points in my practice. What stands out to me, however, is an almost bulldog-like commitment to keep on keeping on. Such vigilance certainly included experimenting with some different instructional methods, but ultimately mixing determination with a willingness to listen carefully may have helped me more than anything to become a stronger teacher – listening to other teachers, administrators, authors, parents, students, and especially myself.

That’s the real test: when I can take all that I’ve heard and turn the lens back upon myself, “bearing witness” not only to what others are saying to me, but also really hearing what I am saying to others as well as what I’m saying to myself. Whether in the moment or later, when I am able to step outside of the circumstances and carefully observe such things, some stark realities fly in the face of how I think I’m being or what I thought I was saying or doing. For example, as I remember the conversation with my friend and all that was shared, I realize that amidst my love and concern for her and her partner, a certain preoccupation surfaced with “am I saying this right?” or “am I being of value here?” along with nagging fears and doubts around my own life. What if this were me or my spouse? How would we navigate a similar situation? Some of this chatter can be relevant, but other internal conversation simply sounds like my own ego jumping in trying to 'save the day.'

I’m inching up on my sixth decade of living and honestly, I don’t know if it’s my age or the world these days that makes life seem increasingly challenging. Hannah Arendt once said that it’s when we are in dialogue that we are most human. My hunch is that learning to engage in the some of the most meaningful dialogues, whether with myself or others, can also mean learning to practice the deepest kind of presence possible, receptive silence. If only I will be courageous enough to take time to “bear witness” on my own life, over and over, so that doing so with others is truly of help. I hope I can do this next week in the most supportive way possible when I see my friends in Texas. Several days ago they learned that lymphoma is indeed the diagnosis.

Back to Square One

Come back to square one, just the minimum bare bones. Relaxing with the present moment, relaxing with hopelessness, relaxing with death, not resisting the fact that things end, that things pass, that things have no lasting substance, that everything is changing all the time – that is the basic message. Pema Chodron

Changes are popping up in my life like the flipping figures on a foosball table. I hear talk of returning to square one and wonder how to get there, where it is. Maybe it’s like Monopoly when I draw the card or land on the square (honestly, I can’t remember which it is) that tells me to go back to start, the first square of the board game. The game of four-square comes to mind, when you try to out play your opponents by advancing to server, heading back to square one whenever you miss the ball or hit it out. Perhaps square one is the center of a labyrinth, or could it be each turn in the labyrinth that sends me in a different direction - here I am at square one again, and again, and again, and again . . . I wonder, should I keep moving to the center, or stop at each turn and simply be still? Is square one a destination or a process?

I heard a poem by Rumi last Sunday that called us each to "return to the root of the root of your Self." In another poem by Rumi he coaxed, "Even if you don't see the water, artfully, like the blind, bring the jug to the river an dip it in." Both poems appear to suggest reliable routes to square one.

Last week I sat still in meditation for so long that my left leg went entirely asleep. Not once did my mind quit racing, but regardless, the mere physical stillness while fully awake was deeply soothing. Was it an experience of square one?

I lie in bed each morning and cast forth prayers like pennies in a wishing pool. Dear God, take this day and take me, and combine the two for goodness however you see fit. May I feel your presence in all my doings and my way of being. May I feel what is greater than my worries or gripes, arriving at a place of peace with whatever is. This place could very possibly be square one.

When a day runs its course and the winter light fades into evening, sometimes I look at what I’ve done since early morning: emails, surveying what the day holds, driving, listening and watching teachers, writing and writing, reading, walking, answering calls, talking and talking, pondering problems, preparing food, washing dishes, looking at what tomorrow holds and days to come, planning and planning, finally feeling like enough has been done, a sufficient number of things crossed off a to-do list or applied to a new list and there I am, back at square one.

Suddenly it occurs to me that square one isn’t a square at all but my heart. Let me go from there and return there off and on all day, over and over, again and again, arriving and leaving from that place of honor, hope and patient love, like the blood coming and going through my beating heart, coursing tirelessly throughout my entire body.