Blog.
Paul with a couple of his heroes in Johannesburg, South Africa.
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ONE OF THE GREAT GIFTS OF WRITING a column is receiving responses from readers that move me or even push me to think harder or feel more deeply—especially notes like one that arrived after my May/June column on getting stuck was published. The reader wrote to me about becoming stuck in grief.
Life isn’t about hogging the last bread roll—it’s about sharing the table. We don’t need to wait until Thanksgiving or Christmas to invite someone to share our table. Who will sit at your table? Who will you invite over?
IF EVOLUTION WERE ALL ABOUT PROCREATION, men would die at 30 and women would die around 45. We would mature, have sex, raise children, and die. So, why do we live so long? Because old people are needed to contribute as community members, wisdom keepers, storytellers, and backup parents. We do not stick around to retire. Our evolutionary mandate is not to grow into a life of leisure or a second adolescence. The world did not—and does not— need that, and that simple fact was once obvious to everyone. We old folks are here to be busy spiritual action heroes for our communities, families, children, and society—proudly working more than we did when we had our careers. Our job is to save the world.
A FEW WEEKS AGO, I was in Boulder, Colorado, at the studios of gaia.com, creating a meditation series tentatively called Care of the Soul. I sat on my knees and gave dharma talks about grief, anxiety, forgiveness, right practice, and compassion. Then I guided the audience through a Vipassana/loving-friendliness meditation. I spent a lot of time sitting that day, and the mind chatter that kept taking me from paying attention to my breath during meditation was about responsibility: specifically, what should I do about the injustice, hate, bigotry, exploitation, and other poisons so prevalent today?
IF YOU REMEMBER ONE THING from this column, remember this: Being out of harmony with your soul or with the demands of your spiritual nature is like having a rock in your shoe. It is going to bug you until you fix the situation.
THIS PAST SUNDAY I CRASHED MY BIKE so hard I flew over the handlebars, landed on my head and back, and broke my helmet. Thankfully, my 16-year-old son Patrick was there to make sure I did not try to move my neck or body or let anyone else move me. It felt good that his words were so solid, helpful, and calm with so many people wanting to do something before the ambulance guys took over—and then a CT scan showed nothing broken.