When I was a boy, I was all hung up on Bruce Jenner. Before he became the Guardian of the Kardashians, he was the epitome of the all American athlete, winning this “athalon” and that “athalon…” When my father informed me that Jenner grew up not far from where we lived in suburban New York, his status was crystallized in my superhero driven mind.

While I didn’t actually watch the Olympics when he competed, he seemed to show up on every cereal box down the “crunchy fun” aisle, from Wheaties to Special K, and he became an instant hero. Bruce Jenner was a real life Superman. I knew Superman didn’t really exist but Bruce Jenner did.

At the same time, a new brand of sneaker called Zips came onto the scene with a particularly flashy ad campaign. Tween boys would slip on a pair of the special shoes and take off into the sky like home grown super heroes. I wanted Zips (with the BIG ‘Z’) on my feet because I required the added speed they would surely provide thus allowing me to run like the wind around my block for hours. I was seven years old and I honestly believed the claims they made on TV that they would double my speed. I was already crazy fast, but double? Faster than a speeding train?

My mother, against her better judgment and far above the modest cost of my usual pair of Keds agreed to get me the magic running shoes at Marshall’s Shoe Store. I had them out of the box and on my feet before we pulled into the driveway. It was a warm summer day and the sun (as well as the son) still had some legs before dusk. I reassured my mother that I’d be back around the enormous block in no time…I now possessed the proper equipment to optimize my performance.

Whoooshhhhaaaaaa! I was like lightning out of the gate.

I was sure I could feel my new sneakers lift the rubber soles above the sweltering pavement helping me achieve a supernatural cruising altitude. I already envisioned my beaming face on the Wheaties box, relishing the jealous stares of every little boy around the breakfast tables of America.

I was on fire.

Until I hit the Wall.

My wiry, little legs pumped faster and harder than they had ever experienced previous to Zips Day and they suddenly, simply, said “No.”

“But…? But, I have the Zips now?”

“No. Done. Over. You’re a scrawny little kid and it’s hot out and there’s that German Shepherd growling and did you really think plastic shoes would make you faster? You’re done. Just stop. Walk it on home. Retire while you’re at your peak.”

By the time I made it around the block and back to the driveway, my mother was leaning against the car, waiting.

“So?”

“They don’t work,” I said.

My Zips spent the rest of their short life in the Closet of Effective Marketing and Irreconcilable Dreams.

Since then I have experienced a complex relationship with running.

I tried running away from home. I ran toward the bus on the first day of grade school. I ran around in circles for High School Track and Field. I ran through forests and streams on the Cross Country team. I have run toward women, sprinted past them and scrambled frantically away. Running has been a significant part of the journey, any way you scissor-kick it.

Yet, always, the process of running; the thrill, ecstasy, passion and perspiration has been visited by the Wall. The voice of negativity and reason, low self esteem and broken records; my Wall is the accumulated shadow for all of my life’s great accomplishments, lurking…prowling…waiting to pounce on the first sign of false hope, misguided focus and lactic acid.

So, why do I continue to run? Through injuries and shin splints, muffin tops and fat tires…? Why do I accept facing the Wall every time I strap on my Nike Plus and unleash the hip hop?

There’s something about running that is more integral a part of me than the feet I use to run with because it demands a connection between my heart, mind and body. I must not only get past the pain and just plow through the Wall, I must uncover the joy of feeling my fullness, my wholeness, my whooshing being, in dialogue with the world around me.

In truth, I have lived the greater part of my life living on the Wall, whooshing back and forth between ecstasy and disaster, optimism and pessimism, trust and disgust.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

I’m sorry.

I say this tiny little phrase all the time. Sometimes out loud, oftentimes in my own head.

I’m sorry.

I have heard it repeated to me throughout my life. Sometimes out loud, oftentimes implied through remorseful eyes or pursed lips.

What does it mean, really? Do I mean it when I say it? What could it mean to truly be sorry?

In many languages, “sorry” is equivalently translated as “excuse me.” Yes, oftentimes the way I mean “I’m sorry” is akin to bumping into you at Starbucks and accidentally spilling your coffee. There may be a stain but it’s not life or death, so get over it.

I consider the prevalence of “I’m sorry” in our whack-a-doodle culture. Everyone from priests to politicians, professional sports figures to movie stars, all seem to find their way in front of a camera to utter the requisite mea culpa. Back in the day, folks even used to throw in a “maxima” between mea and culpa, offering “my most grievous fault.”

However, who really means it anymore? And why do we seem to expect public figures to go on global TV and utter those empty words as part of some inane PR process required to return to box office or golf course power? Who are you really saying those words to? Me? You?

A spiritual teacher once told me “everyone will hurt you at some point, so you might as well get used to it.” Well, then. That’s not a fun concept, is it?

Yet, the truism has seemingly had some legs in my life. Sometimes they have been little hurts, other times they have been some culpae maximus… Oftentimes, however, they are accompanied with “I’m sorry.”

If it is a simple fact of life that we will inevitably step on grass and bugs, even killing them, what does it mean to be “sorry?” If I choose to do something hurtful, malicious, even premeditated, what does it mean to be sorry?

Excuse me.

One of my favorite places in Israel was the “Crusader Building” at Mt. Zion in Jerusalem. This was a spot I’d go most days in order to meditate. It remains one of my most favorite spots in the world. The Crusader Building is a building with three levels just outside the stone wall of the ancient city surrounding the Temple. At the basement exists a shrine for Jews where hundreds each day come to pray at King David’s tomb, chanting psalms and singing their hearts out. At the center of the building, thousands of Christian tourists pour out of tour buses to enter the room of the Last Supper. There is no long wooden table or scraps of bread and wine to be found, just a big, empty room where some believe Jesus shared his last meal, a Passover seder, with his nearest and dearest. Upstairs, beneath a great dome exists a mosque where the Turks erected a place of prayer when they took over the city several hundred years ago.

While no one ever really knows where anything took place two thousand years ago, the fact that at any one moment it is likely to find Jews, Christians and Muslims praying, visiting, and essentially existing in alignment with one another is enough a reason to frequent the place. I liked to come here when I was a young man focused on finding that deep, authentic place of love within myself. Lots of folks believed me to be a loving dude, for sure… I was nice to people, kind to strangers and I smiled a lot. I was a spiritual hippie, of sorts, open to the beliefs and practices of most everyone and moved through life ready to break bread in most anyone’s home.

Yet, I knew within myself that I felt like a spiritual fraud and worried that one day I might be found out. I felt a disconnect within that troubled me immensely. I felt like I did and said all the right things, however when it came to truly embodying unconditional love in a completely integrated, unconscious way, I felt like I had a lifetime of work to do before I reached that level. Over time I had become friendly with the regular guard who served as security for the Room of the Last Supper. Each afternoon, the room was closed for a couple hours during ” national nap time” in which tourists were not permitted entrance. My friend allowed me to stay in the space by myself for an hour where I could meditate in what felt like one of the only truly silent spots in the Old City. These opportunities seemed to do more for the deep unfolding of my authentic presence than praying at the wall, studying ancient texts or eating healthy food. Breathing mindfully into silence was the gold that filled my pockets to be shared with others well into the future.

On this particular afternoon, I slipped past frustrated tourists who had come too late to be admitted and assumed my usual spot on the floor at the center of the great room. I liked to chant at the start of these meditations as it seemed to create a certain vibration around me into which my silence could rest. I sat in my white raw silk clothes, a colorful hand knitted kipah covered part of my head while large curls of long hair sprung out from all sides of my Jew-fro. As I chanted a favorite mantra taken from one of David’s psalms about faith that I learned from a Sephardic Jew, I rocked back and forth over my crossed legs, gently swaying a little like Stevie Wonder.

I was gone.
Whoosh.
Lost in my chanting, lost in the moment, enraptured by the sound of my heart passing through my lips, the rocking of my body like a boat on the Galilee, gone.

As my consciousness passed through portals and gates, through the pardes (garden) of enlightenment, across marble stairs that resembled the ocean and a gentle breeze that tasted like pomegranate, I began to experience waves of light, bursting through me like flares through my third eye. They seemed to burn my eyelids and crackle out through the back of my head as my breath disappeared and my thoughts ceased. I was surely gone or, perhaps, more present than I had ever been. Was it enlightenment? Nirvana? Transcendence?

As I sailed through time and space, beyond thought and feeling, a familiar sound called me back to the room from where I had launched myself. I began to hear clicks and murmurs, whispers and shuffling and soon, distinct voices. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes to find myself surrounded by dozens of German tourists flashing cameras at me, dumbfounded by my presence, attire and what must have seemed to be very strange behavior. I silently stared at them and said nothing. Was the profound light of my experience nothing more than flash bulbs from tourists’ cameras? How long had they been there? How long had I been “gone?” I stood up and the sea of Germans parted as I walked out the door.

Rabbis are literally translated as teachers. I learned (often the hard way) that I had a tendency to want my teachers to take me all the way rather than point me in the right direction and allow me to figure out the specifics, even if it meant getting lost along the way. I remember being a boy waiting for my dad to come home from work so he could “help” me with my math homework. It was all strategic as he’d be exhausted from a long day and not have the energy to “teach” so he’d simply fill in the answers out of frustration.

I sat in the Southwestern desert initially with the same desire that my teacher would simply fill in the blanks for me. He was not that kind of teacher. He left my ass in the middle of nowhere and knew that I had to struggle through a narrow passage in order to emerge a stronger, more confident young man. He was a spiritual midwife of sorts, like Shifra and Puah, the midwives who secretly saved the first born Hebrew slaves from instant murder, hiding babies or even sending them down the river in basket boats in hope that someone would take pity on them and rescue them from certain death.

Like Rabbi Moses, we all have to find our way to personal growth and enlightenment through a combination of grace, hard work, intention and focus. Like Rabbi Jesus, we all have to move through the world believing that transcendence is our birthright, that we are all children of the Breath of Life and that loving kindness is the bridge between here and there, inside and outside.

So, may you be blessed this holy week with the chutzpah to believe that you are both the leader AND the follower of many. May you trust from deep within your being that YOU are the resurrection and the life; there is no separation between some transcendent being and your essence, there is only the experience of being in this body at this time. And, if these words make you uncomfortable, I invite you to ask yourself what really makes you uncomfortable, the thought that it can’t be true or the thought that it just might be true?

I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I say unto you: you still have chaos in yourselves. Zarathustra in “Thus Spake Zarathustra” by F.W. Nietzsche

I had a beloved professor as an undergraduate at Colgate named Barry Alan Shain who loved the writings of German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. I took as many classes with Professor Shain as I could which wasn’t so difficult as he was a kindred spirit when it came to not scheduling any classes before noon on a school day.

Most of these classes involved some degree of political philosophy, communitarianism and whatever philosophical itch he was scratching that day. He was a very itchy man and I learned a great deal about not opening my mouth unless I was ready and able to make clear statements about my ideas, beliefs and determinations about the world.

There was something simultaneously disturbing and seductive about Nietzsche’s ideas that fit rather nicely with the state of my being as a twenty year old man living in a cold, sleepy college town in upstate New York. Professor Shain was seductive in his own ability to illuminate the elements of this profound nineteenth century German’s thoughts that seemingly mirrored my own at the time.

The fact that Nietzsche’s work arguably laid the intellectual foundation for both Richard Wagner and Adolph Hitler’s work made this particular academic experience feel a bit like waking up on a Sunday morning with a terrible hangover and some embarrassing flashbacks trailing across my dorm room.

And life itself told me this secret: ‘Behold,’ it said, ‘I am that which must overcome itself again and again.” Nietzsche, “Ecce Homo”

You’ve probably seen a bumper sticker or two reflecting Nietzsche’s most famous quote, “God is Dead.” Of course, to truly comprehend the depth and magnitude of Nietzsche’s work requires a great deal more space, time and effort than a bumper sticker. Yet, boiling down a lifetime of intellectual exploration into a pithy sound bite seems to be the way of the modern world.

Ours is a world of dense volumes of congressional laws offered as a headline or a dramatic cgi graphic. Incredible, monumental events occur in the world and are typically presented with a particular (invisible and unknown) person’s interpretation amidst the sights and sounds akin to a summer blockbuster action movie.

Nietzsche once remarked that

the time is coming when man will no longer give birth to a star. Alas, the time of the most despicable man is coming, he that is no longer able to despise himself. Behold, I show you the last man.

There is an uncomfortable feeling I get when I consider a growing phenomenon of the masses on our planet accepting truth as carefully constructed, bite size morsels rather than a complex meal to be ingested and digested followed by a healthy bit of deconstruction and analysis.

Last week-end I sat and watched my wife eat her favorite dessert of late, an éclair. To be honest, I savored the experience of simply appreciating her relish the pastry, bite after bite, with both precision and passion. I learned far more about her by silently watching her love what she loves than I possibly could have by asking her why she loves the éclair so much. Perhaps we all need a bit more éclair gazing in our lives.

It seems like the new Lady Gaga (or was it Madonna) song about being ok with our bodies regardless of our deformities is following me everywhere I go from my car radio to television to my own damned humming. While the message is, of course, a good message (Love Yourself) the image of Ms. Gaga onstage last week at the Grammys lingers for me in a somewhat different manner.

Lady Gaga is extremely skilled in catapulting herself between two gender extremes, the masculine and feminine. And what a tremendous gift that is. It is a great feat to file away in one’s primate processing center (PPC) “Lady Gaga is hot. I am attracted to her,” only to find a new file tossed on the pile a week later stamped with “Lady Gaga is not hot. Cancel previous designation, post haste. ” What is it like to feel billions of people look at you on the planet as a “sex symbol?” By its very definition, a sex symbol suggests the projection of an ideal sexual partner. My sense is that most folks who fantasize about having sex with Lady Gaga do not think about what that really means for her, for themselves and for our culture. It is also no surprise that our greatest female superstars react to the projection by publicly exploring their larger than life, massive, unruly… animus.

C.G. Jung offered humanity a helpful tool with regard to our internal gender tension. For the great psychologist, each person’s wholeness involves the interplay of both masculine and feminine qualities. In order to exist in a balanced, mindful, conscious state, a person must negotiate their internal pull toward the other gender on a regular basis. For men, there exists an internal feminine presence known as the anima; for women, the animus.

Many men in our society still wear their masculinity on their sleeve while plunging their feminine elements deep within. Not surprising, a great number of women have done much to summon their inner masculines in order to get ahead in the business world, politics and even in the home. However, the real question is about integration. How many of us are truly comfortable interchanging our masculine and feminine surges without questioning our own identity? It is, like so many things in life, a process of balance and acceptance.

In a world where there is still such high demand for black and white thinking, the notion of gender is one that defies the rigidity of this or that, man or woman. Instead of getting so caught up in “well, which one are you?” perhaps it is high time we start to ask “which one do you feel strongest right now?”

It is not uncommon for our biggest sex symbols to react to the widespread projection of sexuality with a gender reaction. “Oh, you want me? Well, would you want me if I was more masculine?” The greatest female sex symbols of our time have played with these societal projections by pushing the boundaries with regard to gender. Madonna was well known for playing with gender and her animus ( animus rhymes with penis, sort of ). Hers was a Madonimus struggle, one might say. Kim Basinger the epitome of a sex object in the cult classic film, 9 1/2 Weeks, enjoyed a scene where she dresses in drag to meet her lover, Mickey Rourke. Like many men watching, he didn’t like it.

So, I’m happy that Ms. Gaga is responding early to the global projections by humans everywhere by presenting her Gaganimus for all to see and deal with.