Vayas donde vayas, alli estaras.* Or so they might say in Cuba.

In airports, on tour buses, in hotels, restaurants, in Havana, Matanzas, Varadero, Cienfuegos, Trinidad and back at the Copacabana in Havana, I was much the same human being I had been in San Francisco except for swollen feet and ankles. In past travel, I had relied on avoidance-strategies to cope with the strange or disorienting. But this time, bolstered by 55 Tara Brach meditation podcasts, and a budding meditation practice, I was present; I was really there for the pleasant and unpleasant.

I was confused and anxious as we milled around the American Airlines Charter Flight counter at the Miami-Dade airport eager to enter Cuba and whatever awaited us just 90 miles from Key West.

The trip, organized by Global Exchange, was to encourage cultural sharing through choral music. We were a group of 74—the UC Alumni Chorus, Unitarian Universalist choir, 18 or so young Berkeley singers and a few like me who came along for the ride. I could go to rehearsals and performances, encourage the singers, be an appreciative audience or I could stay in an air-conditioned hotel room and read “The Tiger’s Wife” by Tea Obreht or listen to any of my Tara Brach talks.

There I was, present with my “All About Me” syndrome as I faced Cuban customs in Havana. Would I be the one among us ordered to open her suitcases? Would I have to explain my reading material? My large assorted collection of generic pills? Would they look askance at a coat lugged into extreme heat and humidity? Would a Cuban TSA tear out the lining in search of contraband? What about the stack of unworn underwear I planned to leave in Cuba as a sign of my goodwill to the people? Could anything be judged nefarious? If I am questioned, will it hold up the tour buses that wait outside Jose Marti Airport?

In fact, one of our group did delay our departure from the airport because in the spirit of goodwill she brought bottles of expired veterinarian medicines into the country, and airport officials were not happy. Finally, after an hour of sitting in the buses, their motors running, the air conditioning spewing perfumed air, we saw a tour guide go back into the terminal to bring Spanish into her side of the discussion to see if that might help her. The rest of us proceeded to the restaurant. Later, when the two joined us, we clapped. From goat to hero in time for lunch.

Because we got back to San Francisco late Friday night and I slept through most of Saturday, this brief account written Sunday can’t explore all I felt, saw and did those 13 days. But let me cover a few experiences, some of which required mindfulness to remain equanimous if travel were not to devolve into travail. For one, toilet paper is a luxury, not to be expected. Sometimes a lady would sit at the opening of the bano and sell pads of toilet paper for a small amount.** One soon learned to be self-sufficient. In fact my roll of Cuban toilet paper continued to serve me even after we had landed back in Miami at the end of the trip. Irony of ironies, my particular airport bathroom stall lacked toilet paper. And with left-over equanimity, I tittered about it.

Present to the dilemma of unpotable local water supplies and the specter of my plastic bottles cluttering the land fills, I developed an emotional attachment to large plastic botellas de agua from which I poured into multiple little botellas for easier transport as I strolled about the various courtyards or hung out in small stifling rooms listening to Arturo or Eliseo, our guides, translate lectures about state-sponsored music education. Did I always care? Was I always hot? Often thirsty? No, yes, yes.

In other posts I want to tell you more about experiencing Cuba as a member of a large tour group. These experiences are too piled up to unpack now and share from a place of response rather than reaction. For now, let me say that old cars do exist in Cuba, but so do newer cars – Fiats, Kia, Hyundai, and I even saw a Prius and a Toyota Corolla or two. The state does own almost everything, but that too is changing.

At about 1 a.m., finally home after a long day in the Miami-Dade airport, a five plus hour flight, and a three-hour time difference, I tried the key to the front door of my building. As the friends who brought me home drove away, I discovered the lock to the building had been changed while I was gone and the key didn’t work. And just then a third-floor neighbor pushed open the door so his darling dog, Cooper, could make his late night foray. Such luck. And so I was home, exhausted but still present with an overwhelming gratitude, or as we say en espanol, gratitud.



*As spoken in English by actor Peter Weller in the 1984 film The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonzai Across the 8th Dimension: “Wherever you go, there you are.”

While I am without an internet connection, Kate will post pieces I wrote in the past to speak as credos during service at the Unitarian Universalist church where I served as a Worship Associate.

Like it or not, my worldview is limited. I discovered this years ago during a session of active imagining, which resembles dreaming awake. Seated comfortably, as one might be for meditation, I visualized myself cross-legged on a magic carpet. Then I let go of the image and allowed it to carry me where it would, hoping to fly over the rainbow or at least above the chimney tops. Within seconds after take off, my magic carpet upended. Luckily, I did not fall off. Had my own guided-imagery dumped me, the damage could have been irreparable.

Disappointed by this imaginative limitation; nevertheless I flew on, upside down and close to the ground, peering between blades of grass as random bugs scuttled by. Despite its limits, this outlook characterizes my relationship to things in this world as I make my way without benefit of the “big picture.”

Each day I hope to unearth evidence that what I love, including my place in the universe, loves me back. Some may call this practice superstitious or foolish. For my part, looking for loveliness and conferring meaning feels more like bird watching and unearthing hidden Easter eggs.

In this spirit, I practice emotionally connecting with dogs, usually not purebreds. I want these dogs to know I see them as ultra-kind beings rewarded with a return life to continue giving unconditional love as four-legged rather than two-legged creatures. I have heard “To err is human, to forgive canine.” 

However, I never confuse love for random dogs with the true unselfishness of communities like Rocket Dog Rescue and other organizations dedicated to saving animals.  I honor those groups in more practical ways. Both financial support and doggie eye contact are empowering strategies, though one makes sense and the other does not, and doesn’t have to.

A second place I hope to find answers and reassurances about my place in the universe is everywhere and nowhere in particular. I might search horoscopes, scanning all signs for messages that reinforce a sense of hope or possibility. I am going to need plenty of help if and when I have to battle cruelty and injustice.  Once in Lyman’s chess column above the Cryptoquip in the Chronicle I read these words: “Chess – like other sports – teaches us that defeat is not total or forever. ‘One day you give your opponent a lesson, the next day, he gives you one.’” And there’s Heidi Klum on Project Runway: “One day you’re in, the next day you’re out. Those thoughts resonate.

I gave my sister a thought she could use on a day she felt angry with her life and called to tell me she had lost her voice yelling at god. I said to her “That’s like yelling at a tree.” She found this comment useful and profound and called me back to say so. No evidence has yet been unearthed to support my observation, but isn’t it possible?

Between the possible and the certain runs a practically indiscernible line. I have tried not to cross it. But errors can occur. Take Fact #129 under the lid of the Snapple Diet Iced Tea. That Sunday in the lobby of the Jewish Community Center I alone believed a mosquito has 47 teeth. Skeptically, my friends questioned the accuracy of Snapple lid fact #129. Nevertheless, I told all in earshot what I knew. Whatever disbelief I met, I dismissed. But I had been misinformed; mosquitoes do have teeth but not 47. As a result of googling mosquito teeth, I learn the bottle cap was not gospel. Well, Alison, I mused, next time you find a fact in a bottle cap, pose it as possible not certain.

That seems like an apt lesson in humility for one whose access to information is already limited by a perspective nowhere over the rainbow and certainly not way up high.

Fortunately, the world I love is full of people not like me, who recognize the big picture when they see it or know where to find information about it. For example in Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, R. Carlson advises us earth-dwellers to view our trivial concerns against the backdrop of a vast universe wherein we are microscopic dots.

I see the wisdom therein, though contemplating being this insignificant does not increase my hopefulness or sense of empowerment, not the way meeting the eye of a dog in a coffee shop can tune me up for large or small encounters with cruelty and injustice.

While I am without an internet connection, Kate will post pieces I wrote in the past to speak as credos during service at the Unitarian Universalist church where I served as a Worship Associate

It hurts to say so, but I may not be an activist. On the side of love, I don’t stand or march or lie in the street or get arrested. Not that those who do shouldn’t.

I am in awe of the Bernal Heights occupy group that peacefully and with respect, look after the welfare of their neighbors. I, on the other hand, am more apt to be sitting and sipping a double soy latte, though, of course, still on the side of love. And in that spirit, I am “occupying” Starbucks with a diverse cast of coffee drinkers in the Fillmore Center. Here, I make it a point to connect with people who probably wouldn’t see things my way, even if they knew how I saw things.

On any topic, I am not as interested in convincing others of my view, no matter how misguided or wrong they may be, as I am interested in reflecting to them that they are people of consequence who matter.

The Unitarian Universalist principle of every person’s inherent worth and dignity supports me in this. But this is not to say that the homophobe on my right sipping his frappuccino has a good idea going for him. From my perspective, same sex marriage is a human right, and while our opinions are not the same, no bridge can be built between us as people of worth and dignity, unless I am willing to listen and talk to him in a way that bridges the divide.

I try to ask questions that make such a connection possible. People who hold ideas with which I disagree are worth engaging. They are, because if I can be present to them as an interested, accessible human being who is not judgmental, I may make an inroad into their inflexibility.

Sitting next to me is Danny. He is a religious fundamentalist hoping to convince me that we are living in the end times and if we have the right beliefs, we will see Jesus within the next 20 years or so. Or if not, and we die, we will be resurrected because if it can happen once it can happen twice.

Needless to say, I do not agree with Danny. The other morning he brought out notebooks and flipped through page after page of quotations from the Bible and his comments printed in large square letters. He searched for the one quote he was sure would convince me of the imminent reappearance of Jesus, the savior and Son of God. I said, “An interesting perspective and asked him, what his beliefs give him that makes his life better.” By shifting the focus from the beliefs themselves to why he chose to believe them, I hoped to engage him genuinely and not challenge or belittle what obviously matters to him. Eventually, if he asks me what I believe and I tell him, “As little as possible,” we could remain friends and continue to have conversations.

And it isn’t just with strangers that I have had to bridge divides. When I was with my girl friend, Corky, and we went to the movies, we would often disagree about the film. That is, she would disagree with me. My reaction was invariably anger, meaning hurt feelings. To me, her failure to validate my opinion meant I was not a person of consequence to her. Suddenly I looked at my disappointment and feelings and recognized them as familiar. So I didn’t yell, but breathed, sighed and said quietly, “Sorry, you are not at fault. It is never your fault. It will never be your fault.” She thought I was kidding.  But that’s not her fault either. It never was her fault. Because time has passed and we are not together, I realize that fault was never an issue. It is always about remaining open to hearing other opinions and not needing another to validate me.

Perhaps, in some respect, all this sitting does make me an activist – actively seeking to connect from a position of inquiry rather than from an inflexible attachment to my own ideas, willing to listen and bend to better wisdom. Even, as is often the case, it’s not my own.

The oldest, shortest words – “yes” and “no” - are those which require the most thought. -- Phthagoras

Sages, scholars and other bloggers say “yes” is the most powerful word in the world. A “yes” can transform a life. Take for example the “si” I said to a trip to Cuba this month. As a fearful person, “no” is  my go-to response, especially if it means being out of my comfort zone. But in the years since first hearing the Buena Vista Social Club, I have told many who would listen that Cuba was special to me, so now I will travel there. Fear notwithstanding, I choose to say yes.

While saying no to things feels like the safest thing to do, especially when that no is driven by certainty or by fear, one of the first lessons I learned in an improvisation class was the necessity of saying yes to our dialogue partner. Yes allows a dialogue to remain a dialogue and furthers the action. “No” slams the door.  In life as in improv, "yes" encourages connection. Trusting your partner energizes the scene.

My love affair with “yes” was inspired by Irish author James Joyce when at the end of Ulysses, he gives Molly Bloom the stream of consciousness soliloquy of yeses to top all yeses . “And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.”

When I think about life and the yeses I have said before knowing the consequences, I am  amazed at the courage or foolishness that prompted these yeses and in awe of what flowed from them. I said yes to becoming a journalism adviser, yes to moving to San Francisco. And every “yes” became a turning point.

Even when a “yes” later became a "no" I think of that “no” as a “yes” to something else. Sometimes saying “no” can lead to a dead end, particularly when that “no” comes from fear and the need to feel that life is safe and certain. But not always.  A considered “no” can be about boundaries. 

I am remembering the Olivia Cruise to Mexico I agreed to take a year ago March and how I rescinded that “yes.” The “no” to the cruise became a “yes” to putting my needs first. That "yes" took me to unexplored places such as relational therapy which led to mindfulness meditation, a practice that embraces an ongoing "yes" of the heart to the pain of being human.

As John Welwood says, “ You can develop a simple practice of saying yes to yourself each day. Stop for a moment, pay attention to whatever’s going on inside you, and then acknowledge it in a neutral way: ‘yes, this is what’s here.’” A meditative “yes” is not about conjuring the power of positive thinking. Rather it is a willingness to allow what arises, even the pain--especially the pain--to remain and be looked at with awareness, curiosity and mercy.

Tara Brach calls saying yes to the present moment “Radical Acceptance.” She says that we accept “absolutely everything we are feeling about ourselves and our lives by embracing with wakefulness and care our moment-to-moment experience. By accepting absolutely everything… It means feeling sorrow and pain without resisting. It means feeling desire or dislike for someone or something without judging ourselves for the feeling or being driven to act on it.  If we are holding back from any part of our experience, if our heart shuts out any part of who we are and what we feel, we are fueling the fears and feelings of separation."

Like Molly Bloom, I say yes, yes, and then again yes.

I have great respect for all who sit through worship hour on Sundays at my Unitarian Universalist church, even the ministers on the chancel waiting to address the diverse, sometimes contentious congregation. I am sitting too, with an open journal in my lap and a pen in hand.

I am not one to conceal the ear buds of my smart phone. I won’t listen to podcasts of dharma talks in service because I don’t want to miss Reiko at the organ, the choir, the bell chorus chiming out its melodies or the musicians we sometimes hire to play interesting or unfamiliar instruments.

Because I am about to complain, you have every right to wonder why I don’t just stay home that one hour on Sunday. I’m there many other days of the week with commitments and committees. 

Of course, like others, I go to service with my own needs, preferences and mindsets. Right now my mind is set on compassion, with seeing through duality to the interconnection between all beings, which I believe is not only possible, but already actual. Do I hope for too much if I wish to be challenged to try to be kinder, to try to see someone else’s point of view, in short, to move beyond us and them to “the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part?” For the rest of the week, I will be awash in rhetoric from the left and from the right, some subtle, some stupid, but always polarizing, always “us against them.”

I am not keen to hear my ministers congratulate me for being on the right side of some social issue. If there is a right side, there is a wrong side. And because every issue has to be espoused or defended by someone, we now have those who hold wrong beliefs as opposed to right beliefs, and if we congratulate ourselves for being right, where does that leave those others?

In a polarized society, those others will not be understood, at least not by us. We will be congratulating ourselves for being pro-choice or pro-recycling and composting. And while we call ourselves an embracing community, our arms are mostly open to those who think like us, vote like us, march where we march, occupy when we do, and support our values. Of course, we love strangers, at least in the abstract.

And we love each other, though sometimes just as abstractly. Often we bring that “us vs. them” mentality, which is human nature, into our congregation. And this is where my dissatisfaction feels strongest with sermons that seem to reinforce the spirit of contentiousness rather than create wholeness or holiness. We do not need to agree but we do need to learn to respect and respond to each other with kindness. Then this response-ability can lead us into action.

Most of us don’t need to have righteous indignation reinforced. We don’t need to be encouraged to ride our “hobby horses,” those favored social positions we believe in fervently, those truths we hold self-evident.

In truth I often arrive at Sunday service feeling constricted,  in pain, sorrow and fear, self-righteous and judgmental. What I want from the pulpit is not reassurance that my way is the right way but a reminder of my larger, kinder self.

The late Forrest Church said: “Universalism is an exacting gospel. Taken seriously, no theology is more challenging-morally, spiritually, or intellectually: to love your enemy as yourself; to see your tears in another's eyes; to respect and even embrace otherness, rather than merely to tolerate or, even worse, dismiss it. None of this comes naturally to us. We are weaned on the rational presumption that if two people disagree, only one can be right.”*

My idea of what I should do or be isn’t complicated. I think I should be open minded, open hearted and open to growing my capacity to love. And I do realize the ministers in my church are among those I need to “attend and befriend,” as Tara Brach puts it in a Buddhist teaching talk.

As I struggle to see beyond duality, I remember the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh’s poem, “Please Call Me by My True Names.” He challenges me to experience the allness of each as he writes: “I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, my legs as thin as bamboo sticks; and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to Uganda.

“I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate; and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving.”

He ends by imploring: “Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up and so the door of my heart can be left open, the door of compassion.”

Only one of my true names is Unitarian Universalist. Will I wake up somewhere else?  Church could be one place the door of my heart opens to all beings.



*From “Universalism: A Theology for the 21st Century,” UU World. Nov./Dec. 2001 (http://www.uuworld.org/2001/05/feature1.html)

It is practically blasphemy not to listen to another. Even so, here is a short-list of communications that are hard for me to hear with the ear of the heart, as Saint Benedict puts it. Preachy advice, budget reports, mixed messages, and lengthy recitals that begin in dialogue but drone on into monologue.

My one-word comeback in all cases used to be “Huh?” But more aware now that I live in a universe where so many things are speaking on so many levels, I’ve decided it is probably unwise to ignore voices, no matter how irksome, because they may bear wisdom.

According to Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen, “Listening creates a holy silence.  When you listen generously to people, they can hear the truth in themselves, often for the first time. And in
the silence of listening, you can know yourself in everyone. Eventually you may be able to hear, in everyone and beyond everyone,
the unseen singing softly to itself and to you.” **

In Small Group Ministry, at the San Francisco Unitarian Universalist church, I trained to listen in silence and to encourage new group members to listen the same way. At first I found paying silent attention difficult, for it went against a lifetime of habits I had learned to incorporate as a social being – nod, sigh, “oh” and “ah.” While not tempted to interrupt, I did want to ask questions. And being a “good person,” I would sometimes think I should offer help or advice. Although being a silent listener or being listened to in silence can feel hard, it is worth exploring because “cue-less” listening allows the speaker to go deeply into her own thoughts without watching for cues that her words are winning approval or causing disapproval. As I said, not easy at first, but at the heart of silent listening is trust that one is heard and courage to speak one’s truth.

As a Worship Associate in my church, I gave a four-minute reflection called “Listening with the Third Ear.” Eventually I expanded that talk into a sermon I gave at the Petaluma UU Fellowship. Speaking for more than four minutes allowed me to add more ears and call my talk  “Four More Ears.”

My third ear corresponds to “The Third Eye” – the ear of the heart that hears the heartfelt. It’s the third ear in which resonate Paul Tillich’s words: “The first duty of love is to listen.” And these words from David Oxberg: “Being listened to is so close to being loved that most people cannot tell the difference.”

As for the fourth ear, I am not sure all people need it. For me, it’s a cautionary ear because some information may be just that and not a clue to a deep truth. Thus the work of the fourth ear is to redirect information that is just information back to ears one and two.

My fifth ear turns inward and operates in the pause that allows a reaction to become a response. It listens for the sound of childhood pain that once would have been a cry but with language has turned into something else, usually cruel and instant. When I can hear my own pain and identify it as from the past, I can acknowledge it without reacting and continue to fully hear the other person.

My sixth ear is another ear turned inward. It listens for stories I’m telling myself about the other person and prevents speech I might regret later. One of the reasons I try not to listen from story is that I know how it feels to be responded to from the story rather than in that moment. Once, a friend decided that I suffered from low self-esteem. Thus whatever I said, she responded with words of reassurance. Rather than feeling better, I felt irritated, annoyed and alone. We’re no longer friends.

When I think about being fully present with others, all ears operational, I include the clerk at the DMV, the men and women I meet on the streets and, of course those closest to me, the ones it’s often really hard to listen to. Choosing to relate this way means accepting a total person, not picking and choosing aspects that suit me, hoping over time to change the parts I don’t like.

Listening to the whole person becomes a holy act. “Our listening creates sanctuary for
the homeless parts within the other person. That which has been denied,
unloved, devalued by themselves and others.  That which is hidden.”**



* “Music makes an altar out of our ears. A single struck tone, a note blown from a flute, can flush the body with goodness.” W. A. Mathieu, Sufi musician in The Musical Life.

** Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen is Clinical Professor of Family and Community Medicine at the UCSF School of Medicine and Director of the innovative UCSF course The Healer's Art, which was recently featured in US News & World Report. She is Founder and Director of the Institute for the Study of Health and Illness, a ten-year-old professional development program for graduate physicians. She is the author of the New York Times bestseller Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal. Her newest book, My Grandfather's Blessings: Stories of Strength, Refuge and Belonging is a national bestseller. 

“The man in the red hat is not in charge” sounds like the title for someone’s musings.  I’d be wise to use it before it’s registered with GoDaddy.com and becomes a web site. 

The man in the red hat who is not in charge could have been the man in the red hat Saturday morning. Though not in charge, he popped up from his chair again and again to issue orders and to protest the inequity of a food distribution lottery system that has number 345 heading toward the food line well ahead of him, and he (who arrived early) holds number 47.

The mornings I assist at Old First Presbyterian Church staffing the Food Bank distribution to hundreds and hundreds of mostly Asian women, I leave exhausted; my mind awash in cultural stereotyping and colonialist sentiment.

As the man in the red hat charges toward the table where sit the volunteers, the loudest among us pleads with him and the other surging clients, “Please sit down.” As the morning wears on and the crowd of more than 300 repeatedly surges forward, the loudest voice among us resorts to chanting: “Sit down, sit down, sit down.” No one seems to understand, for certainly no one sits down. 

When we are lucky, we have a Cantonese speaking 12-year old calling numbers, but often we make do with the loudest among us and a microphone. As “chalk mistress,” my work is to help Food Bank clients understand when it is their turn by writing numbers on a chalkboard as they are called over the handheld mike. I am not authorized to suggest a system that incorporates the times that people arrive into the lottery process.
I admit to experiencing  irritation that none of us, myself included, has tried to learn one word of Cantonese and none of our clients seems to have picked up on such basic phrases as “Please show your ID” and “Stand in line, please.”

After a year of Saturdays, I have not been interested in learning why some cultures crowd and others willingly line up. I don’t want to hear stories some try to tell me about clients who receive “free” food and sell it, though I, myself, have not seen that happen. I don’t want such stereotypes to keep me constricted and not free to experience individuals like the man in the red hat.

But I do want to learn from wisdom traditions how to relate to the man in the red hat in a way that is empowering and acknowledges his inherent worth and dignity. Tara Brach calls such learning “the freedom to be who we are.” I will always observe behavior that baffles me; I can’t change cultural conditioning or what motivates my own compatriots to behave as they do. But when I acknowledge to myself all that I experience and feel, without pushing away unpleasant thoughts and experiences or grasping at the pleasant to make them last longer, I can see what is happening and know this is the way it is right now.

Having admitted to myself that I am finding this food distribution mission an unpleasant chore as well as a feel-good, do-good opportunity, I am free to be with all parts of my experience and use that spaciousness to inform my responses. I get to choose to whom or even if I will express frustration and negativity.

In the past, as part of my “self-improvement project” I felt obligated to push away insensitive thoughts, to be always on guard against judgments and negative stereotyping, to apply correct pronouns in all cases, in short to “be” a person I could accept and like.  

But as I learn what it really means to be free, I realize I do not need to be without error or politically incorrect thoughts. True freedom is choosing not to shape, contort, or present myself to be what I think the world wants. Instead, I want to acknowledge my experience and thoughts, and then pause, as Tara puts it, to choose from kindness what to say, whom to say it to and when to say it. By accepting my limitations and not judging myself, I become kindness.

The man in the red hat is not in charge and neither am I. It is what it is.