Gooseflesh

Spirituality means waking up.  Most people, even though they don’t know it, are asleep.
They’re born asleep, they live asleep, they marry in their sleep,
they die in their sleep without ever waking up.
They never understand the loveliness and the beauty
of this thing we call human existence.
Anthony de Mello

I believe the world would be a better place if we allowed in / invited more gooseflesh.

Let me tell you a story about a visit I made to Antigua, Guatemala.  From a small open doorway, light spills out onto the darkened cobbled street. It is evening; I am walking a familiar calle, toward my friend’s house. Salsa music pulsates through an open doorway, and mingles with the night sounds of the city, sating the surrounding air.  There is little that is subtle about Salsa music. You viscerally feel it, deep into your gut, and as it takes hold, it fashions a blend of exultation and giddiness.  I am in no hurry. So I stop. And stand at the door sill of Salsa Chapina, and watch. I am an audience of one.

The light, in a room no larger than 12-feet-square, comes from bare bulbs–overhead, rudimentary and in no way nuanced. But then, this scene does not require the “correct” lighting in order to create mood or affect. I watch two young people (in their early twenties I am guessing), learning to dance Salsa. The instructor counts, 1-2-3-pause-5-6-7-pause. They (students and instructor) are unmindful (or unconcerned) about my presence.

I know this: The music massages my own weariness.
And some kind of weight is lifted from my shoulders.

On the streets of Guatemala, watching two kids learn to dance, I feel an unusual mixture of enthusiasm and infatuation and sensuality and eagerness and hope and buoyancy and trepidation, and a rare childlike bliss.

It is not surprising that when I leave the door sill (the music still in the air as I continue on), my mind goes through the requisite quiz needing justification for the existence / presence of some crazy infatuation with life. Even if it is only for a moment.

Here’s the deal: meaning comes with presence.
In other words, “Be there, when you are there.”
And the really good news is that this is true for the life we give to others around us, as much as it is true for our own life.

I understand the temptation.
Often when I write, I tend to edit before or while I am writing.
Often when I garden, I critique as I plant or tend.
Often in love, I play my cards very close, until I am certain (although oddly, I never really am), that I will be safe.
I am afraid to simply. . .be.
Whatever that may be: uncertain, sad, hopeful, optimistic, lost, empty, delighted, lethargic, resentful, indebted, sanguine, at the mercy of.

Maybe that was the stab of joy I experienced, when I watched those kids dance. I found vicarious gratification watching someone fall into the moment (literally to fall into life), and to be buoyed by the power of the dance.

Of course, there is the hassle of letting go; you know, of conditions, expectations (scripts) and requisite outcomes. It means no longer linking the sentence, “That didn’t turn out like I planned,” with a kind of filter that prevents us from touching all of the sensory, corporeal, potent, earthy, tangible and mystifying parts of life.

Here’s the deal: I know that if I hang on to my filters (all those “shoulds”), something of life is leeched from me. “Let go of control.” It’s sure easy to say. It makes a perfect bumper sticker. However. It’s not just about what I let go of, but what I choose to replace it with. There is, nevertheless, more to feeding and nourishing the soul than a list of to-dos and guarantees (sorry, list makers). Whether intentional or serendipitous, you can’t always plan for expected results.

It’s my life, and it’s now or never.  ‘Cause I ain’t gonna live forever.  I just want to live while I’m alive.  Bon Jovi