Life’s Mystery

Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger

Some Native Americans use the term “The Great Mystery” to refer to the concept of God or Source energy. It’s such a wonderful usage because within it, humans step back and allow the unknown to be just that—unknown. Many religions spell out the specific attributes of God, the heavenly realm, and its relation to living beings on Earth, including sets of rigid moral codes, laws, and commandments. How much more open-ended is the idea of a mystery that we will never understand with the human mind? Our hearts can experience God or the Divine, but we cannot solve the enigma of existence. Perhaps the greatest wisdom lies in acknowledging that and allowing the Mystery to live within and through us without trying to understand it.

To live in alignment with this mystery involves dissolving identification with thoughts and ideas; then awareness flows freely without conceptual distortion. Buddha mind. Baby mind. The innocent eye. At the beginning of life, we see the world this way—pure perception with no distorting language filters. Toward the end of our lives, words and memories may begin to fall away as we prepare to return to the oneness of pure divine consciousness, in which human language plays no part. In the middle years, we struggle to understand the seeming contradictions and unfairness of life—and the inevitability of death.

Not all of us are driven to figure out the meaning of life and death. I am one of those who has always tried to do so, from early childhood on. Only in recent years have I found my spiritual journey less burdened by inquiry and more open to possibility. This past summer, in particular, I began to let go into “not knowing.” This came out of a weeklong program with Panache Desai in which he challenged me to drop my questions and live from a place of experiencing instead of trying to understand everything. For someone who has perpetually had cosmic questions spinning around in her head, this was indeed difficult, even painful. Finally, though, in the weeks after the program, something in me opened to not knowing as the most peaceful way to go through my daily life. Basically, I surrendered to the Mystery.

I have surrendered in the past, of course, but there are layers to letting go, and humans are never finished with it. We have to keep being reminded, again and again: Relax your fingers; stop clutching. Relax the mind; stop questing. The wider, higher perspective opens up when we allow everything to unfold with awe and wonderment instead of “What’s going on? Why is this happening? How can I change it?” The “control” trap keeps us stuck on a hamster wheel of trying/failing/trying again. Ultimately, surrendering to mystery may be the wisest and least painful path to take in life. Human existence can be miraculous or a curse. We can suffer or we can celebrate. Celebration involves embracing everything, the sadness as well as the joy. We don’t know the meaning or the outcome, but we can fully experience every incredible moment of the journey.

Perfect Imperfections

Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger

The idea of perfection is something we all carry around in our heads, applying it to ourselves, our loved ones, strangers, and to every experience in our day-to-day lives. We want to live up to a standard we have set for ourselves—or someone else has set for us. We want others to live up to that same standard, and even more important, we want life to live up to this standard as well. Whatever the standard of perfection is, it involves judgment—and almost inevitably failure, disappointment, frustration, anger. People or events let us down, we disappoint ourselves, and life becomes an experience of disillusionment rather than joy. We have not yet learned to embrace “what is” as the true perfection of life.

Every day in my backyard flower garden, I learn this lesson over and over again. Reluctantly, and sometimes with great frustration, I am forced to give up my mind’s idea of a perfect garden with every flower and leaf intact: no violet leaves ragged with rabbit bites, no hyacinths bitten off by woodchucks, no potted coleus uprooted by squirrels, no rose buds eaten by worms. Each morning is a practice in letting go into loving what is, in seeing the perfection in everything. I prune dead flowers and chewed leaves, remove worms and aphids, but I also stand back and gaze at the beauty of what continues to bloom and flourish. Nature includes all living things (yes, rabbits too), and my role as a gardener is to find a way to live in balance with that wholeness. The curves and jagged edges; the perfect symmetry of inclusiveness. And after an hour or two in the garden, I am always more at peace, more accepting of all of life because I am surrounded by such incredible beauty. Beauty that is constantly changing, just as life is. Nothing remains the same, and that is the miracle of being alive.

Photograph © 2012 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2012 Peggy Kornegger

If God or Source energy is in all things and everything I see is shining with that inner divinity, then “what’s not to love?” as the saying goes. Same with animals, same with people. When I judge myself or others against some mental standard of what I think I or they should live up to, I am not appreciating the absolutely perfect creation that we each are. If I stand in judgment of people, life’s events, or my own “failure” to be as enlightened as I think I should be, then I am missing the miraculously orchestrated unfolding of all things in the universe. Nothing is out of place, and everything is evolving and expanding into more. Flowers, animals, insects, and human beings are all playing their parts. So this is a gentle reminder to celebrate all of life’s perfect imperfections as you go through your day—in the garden, in your home, and out in the world. Heaven is all around you, and everyone you meet is an earth angel—absolutely perfect.

Inconsolable Loss

© 2013 Anne S. Katzeff / Artist *
© 2013 Anne S. Katzeff / Artist *
Robin Williams’ death two weeks ago has reminded us all of how devastating deep depression can be and of how thoughts of suicide plague so many individuals. The death of a close friend or loved one—or in this case, a beloved well-known comedian/actor—is never easy, but suicide is particularly difficult to take in and assimilate. I know this firsthand because a dear friend of mine died by his own hand 25 years ago. There is no real consolation for that kind of death. To say that his “time on Earth was complete” sounds hollow and meaningless, even though on one level it may be true. Those left behind are often haunted by feelings of horrified shock, disbelief, and helplessness. In our heartbreak and grief, we feel robbed of years of that person’s living presence in our lives. Such feelings never disappear entirely. We just learn to live with inconsolable loss as part of life.

Robin was a comic genius—unscripted, outrageous, wildly clever and ridiculous at the same time. You couldn’t keep up with his rapid-fire humor: if you laughed out loud, you missed the next hilarious gem. He could take any interviewer’s questions and turn them into a comic riff so packed with spontaneous unrehearsed one-liners that listeners became dizzy from the nonstop barrage of funniness. Robin was the master of on-the-spot improv that took audiences on a rocket ride through his high-speed, ultra-connected mind. Yet, that same mind took him to painful, sad places that he struggled to come back from. Perhaps it was that inner sorrow that informed his deeply moving portrayals of complex characters in films like Dead Poets Society and Good Will Hunting. He was a man of extraordinary, multifaceted talent, loved by millions, yet on the inside, he suffered. The joy he brought to the world was not enough to dissolve his pain.

My friend Michael was multitalented too—an actor, poet, and musician who excelled at all three. He was also one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. From the moment we met, we were instant friends, as if we’d experienced many lifetimes together and were picking up where we left off: “Oh, there you are….” We worked as proofreaders at the same company for seven years, both of us finding ways to express our creativity elsewhere but making our work life an occasion for constant back-and-forth joking all day long. Michael was just so silly and physically funny—like the schoolroom class clown who makes you laugh uncontrollably. Still, like Robin, Michael had his demons, and ultimately they got the best of him. Perhaps his deep sensitivity, which made him such a great actor and poet, also made him especially vulnerable to inner insecurities, fears, and mental anguish. After his death, we all tried to understand why it had come to that, but ultimately, there were no real answers to the questions we asked ourselves over and over.

Both Robin and Michael ended their lives to end the terrible suffering they were experiencing. Sometimes the pain of living is just unbearable. We have all probably felt that to some degree. Life on this planet is filled with reasons to wish you were elsewhere, and there is no safe harbor or respite from the constant turmoil of a changing world. We are all at risk for toxic overload from global events, coupled with personal challenges or tragedies. We feel the tension in our physical bodies and in our psyches. Yet, hope exists. It quietly appears every time we reach out to a friend or stranger in distress. It becomes stronger when we hold hands and hearts in our families, in our communities, and around the world. In time, perhaps the love we share will shift the balance, and those tottering on the edge will be able to step away from the precipice and return to the center of life. May we all find comfort, compassion, and loving connection in our lives. And may Robin’s and Michael’s sweet souls rest in peace.

*The flower iris is named for the Greek goddess Iris, who was seen as a link between heaven and earth.

Connections and Distractions

Photograph © 2014 Anne Katzeff
Photograph © 2014 Anne Katzeff
We are connected invisibly all the time, every one of us, through a psychic web of thoughts and emotions. The existence of the Internet has made this web tangible to people around the world. However, we are now in danger of losing our awareness of the power of that connection because of our dependence on technological gadgets that rob us of our intuitive intelligence. Smart phones are dumbing us down by keeping us compulsively plugged in to social media and online information sources.

When I ride the bus and train these days, there are very few riders who are not glued to their smart phones—checking emails, texting, tweeting, posting on Facebook, etc. The world around them goes by in a blur without their noticing. They could be passing urban high-rises or a park with trees and flowering gardens, and they would not look up. Where are they really? Yes, they are interacting with friends or acquaintances, and some of these exchanges are important and worthwhile. But a lot of this constant social back-and-forth is just distraction, avoidance of the present moment. So many of us pass the day in a trance state that blocks natural connections with the people and world right in front of us.

As you might guess, I am not a big fan of cell phones. I have avoided them for years because of the health hazards associated with them and also because I don’t want to be available for phone calls anytime, anywhere. Recently, however, I purchased a cell phone to use when I’m traveling. Because of the almost universal demise of pay phones, it became a necessity. Although my phone is “smart,” I use it only for the occasional call when I’m away. My home iMac is where I read emails and interact with friends via social media. I value these connections greatly, but I know firsthand the addictive attraction of online activity, wherever you are. It seems to have a compelling, magnetic power all its own. The images, posts, and website content draw me in and before I realize it, hours have gone by. I’ve been completely and utterly distracted.

The only way I’ve found to break this pattern is to limit my online activity. I usually check email, Facebook, etc. once a day and only interact for an hour or so. This can be challenging because I’m a writer, so I’m often at my computer anyway. It’s so easy to check in more frequently. I have to be strict with myself in order not to succumb to the sirens’ call to “log in just for a minute.” This is where conscious awareness comes in. Through meditation, yoga, and other spiritual practices, I have come to live more fully in the moment, to be aware of distractions when they ensnare me, if not immediately, then relatively soon. I know that when I spend several hours online, I am less connected to my own internal process and rhythms. The only exceptions are the spiritually related webcasts and communications that I participate in, which do in fact impact me at a deeper level. Other than these, my time offline is the most life-enhancing and soul-enriching: walking, gardening, writing—any quiet activity that centers me in my own peaceful inner core. Actually, spending time doing absolutely nothing except being present to the world around me brings me the deepest soul connection.

So what is the value of online activity? Is it more harmful than helpful? Well, I see it as an interim evolutionary tool to demonstrate to humanity the existence of invisible connections. I think more and more people are starting to become aware of the distractive downside of being perpetually online: smart-phone dependency. I recently read an article by a yoga practitioner whose 9-year-old son asked him, “Daddy, why do you have to check your emails so often?” A wake-up call for him. Perhaps it will be the next generations who show us that we don’t need those phones to be connected. Our own internal intuitive “smarts” that we are born with can handle that just fine, if we learn to access and use them instead of letting them atrophy. Each time we awaken to our own distractions, we take an evolutionary step into that space of awareness and connectivity.

Fractals of Life

Photograph © 2013 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2013 Peggy Kornegger
I became fascinated with fractals many years ago when I came across two wonderful photography books on nature: Patterns in the Wild and By Nature’s Design. Fractals, or fragments, display characteristics similar to a larger whole. In nature, fractals form repeating patterns that can be seen everywhere. One example is an oak tree, in which the branching pattern of a leaf is the same as the branch to which it is attached, which is the same as the tree itself. A leafless tree silhouetted against a winter skyline shows countless large and small fractals in its branching. The branching of blood vessels in the human body also looks very much like a tree’s branches, as does lightning in the night sky. The spiraling pattern in the center of a sunflower resembles a spiral-shaped shell on the beach, as well as a spiral galaxy in the heavens. Infinitely complex examples of fractals are visible throughout the natural world. These repeating patterns together make up the greater whole of the universe we are part of.

Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger

My own backyard and flower garden are full of nature’s fractals. Perhaps that’s one reason why I love being in nature. I am continually in awe of the colorful patterns I see there, whether bird feather, butterfly wing, flower, or leaf. When I sit and gaze at the beauty with patterning in mind, I begin to see the connectedness of everything on Earth. The tiger swallowtail butterflies that visit my butterfly bush in summer call to mind their namesake, the tiger. An allium flower is made up of tiny flowerettes, forming a larger ball that looks like a small lavender planet. Sunflowers, of course, resemble the sun itself, with rays of golden light shining out. Many other flowers are named for what they remind us of. Cleome, or spider flowers, have long thin stamens that resemble the legs of a spider. Cardinal flowers look like smaller versions of the brilliant red feathers of the male cardinal. And pastel-pink bleeding hearts, which hang by the dozen from the branches of the plant, are indeed just like tiny hearts.

When I work outside in the garden, I am reminded again and again of the extraordinary complexity of the living world. Every plant, flower, insect, bird, stone, and piece of dirt is an integral part of something much greater, of which I too am a part. I look at the sunlight filtering down through the trees, the clouds floating by overhead, the hummingbird darting between the honeysuckle and bee balm flowers, and I feel the oneness that connects every small fragment of life everywhere: I am the leaf and I am the tree. I am the wave and I am the ocean. I am the spiral shell and I am the galaxy. We are all fractals in an infinite, perfectly designed and geometrically sacred multiverse. We are all fractals of God.