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?

Well, spring has sprung here in Chicago. Barely. It isn’t snowing or blowing as much and the temperature is creeping (slowly) upward. It’s funny how we have come to call this season “spring.”

I suppose it would be awkward to refer to it as the Days of the Vernal Equinox, although Vernox would be fun and sort of appropriate in a Dr. Seuss sort of way. The Lorax is definitely a springtime fable in my book, all about the environment and how we relate to the world around us. We even have a tendency to refer to the beginning of better things to come as “springs,” like the Prague or Egyptian Spring, although Libya might have to wait until Summer.

So, as the perky little shoots of this and that (micro flora to be exact) spring forth into existence through the muddy clumps of mushy leaves I am confronted with matters of life and death, or more intellectually speaking: deterioration, disintegration and resurrection. In fact, I need only look to my hallway closet for evidence of this cycle of life. Last week I discovered a Tupperware container full of red worms, newspaper and old banana peels tucked between a stack of clean towels and some rolls of paper towels. My wife’s new composting project would have won me a science fair “honorable mention.”

And yet, it’s all really about composting, isn’t it? As a relationship focused fella, I don’t need to travel far to make the connection between past relationships and the composting required to sprout new strengths, abilities and insights for emerging relationships. Indeed, without allowing old incarnations of relationship to decompose we run the risk of spreading hopeful new seed onto the same old, tired, stuck soil.

I have dabbled in more than a little gardening through the years and I know that I can get the best darned seeds in the world but if I plant them into old, tired, mineral hungry soil I am going to have problems. Likewise, if we don’t learn from the past and put certain old patterns to rest, we run the risk of regenerating the same genetically modified experience and then what…?

We run the risk that our cucumbers will be as small as pickles and our melons will taste like tomatoes. Your past is the black gold needed to nourish your future. Compost away!

When I was a boy, there were few things I enjoyed more on a hot summer day than a good game of war. The sun shining, neighbor kids out en masse, ice cream man due in a few hours…and water guns. I loved squirt gun fights. With enough kids involved, these fights could become battles and we would re-enact our own distorted versions of the Raid on Pearl Harbor (wasn’t their any hand to hand combat at Pearl Harbor) or one of the numerous battles against the Nazis. We could all agree that Nazis were bad.

At my ecumenical summer camp, these games of war were nuanced to the “Raid on Entebbe” where Israeli commandos swept into the heart of Uganda to save 248 Jewish Air France hostages from sure death at the hand of terrorists. We all fought over who got to be the unit commander, Jonathan Netanyahu, who was the only commando who didn’t make it out alive.

What was it that drew me to the hot molded plastic with cool water in its chamber? What was it about the passion and the fury as we swept down at each other furiously squeezing our weapons and simulating machine gun noises? Well, for one thing, we were almost always all boys. Sure, there was the obvious need to release pent up aggression at parents, teachers and bullies. Sure, more than a few of us had begun the Change…strange squirts of adolescent testosterone pulsing through our wiry little bodies, hardly equipped it seemed, to handle these new levels of manhood.

There was something magical about these squirt guns, these tools of young masculinity. Just gripping a plastic Uzi in my hand gave me a certain power, a sense of strength and ability, a certain reach, so to speak. In fact, holding a water gun was like holding an extension of myself. I was able to imagine my manhood reaching out into the world and effecting change.

That might make you giggle. It might make you wince at a culture that equates violence and masculinity. You might run out to the store and buy dolphin squirters for your children. Yet, there is a truth here that transcends projections about violence and aggression that we often associate with little boys playing with guns.

There is a process by which little boys realize that there is something powerful about their penises and while it may not be the ideal manifestation of that process, playing with guns is an attempt by little boys to understand themselves. And, yes, violence is a component of transporting testosterone. It is one of the challenges; a test of strength to use testosterone wisely and for good…

Abercrombie and Fitch this week released a new line of push up bikinis for little girls who aren’t biologically supposed to have a woman’s breasts at nine years old. While I’m as outraged as the next person, I also understand the challenge for young girls to understand what it means to be a female in this world. Somehow, playing with dolls and baking cakes in the Holly Hobby oven doesn’t cut it any longer. Kids know there is something just outside the door, waiting.

Like their male counterparts at nine years old, there is a desperate need to feel safe and in control of oneself as we negotiate a society that is rapidly maturing, encroaching on childhood with a frustratingly insistent intensity. Technology, change, and information is squeezing childhood back toward the crib without concern for the impact it might have on our basic human development.

Forgive me if this seems a bit personal, but what is the POINT of your relationship?

I agree with you… because you love them, because they deal with your crap, because you want to have a family or they look like they’d make a nice baby or two…

I personally believe that the primary reason we enter committed partnership with another person is to grow as an individual! Now that may be hidden beneath the obvious reasons, unconscious to many of us, but have you noticed that the person you love is also the person who seems to get under your skin sometimes?

There’s no coincidence there, and no, this does not mean you are with the wrong person! We choose the person to commit to who pushes our buttons so we have an opportunity to grow and learn about ourselves. Otherwise, when everything is just smooth sailing for the rest of your life together, never a wave or a sudden storm, then you might have a very NICE life, but I have to say, it might not just be boring, it might even be disappointing because you really don’t find yourself challenged to assess yourself and possibly shift some of your behaviors.

Now, many couples don’t like to hear this, but I am very clear that while it is a huge part of relationship to do nice things for your partner, you can not expect your partner to do anything for you. I had a couple on my couch recently and the woman said, “well what’s the point of being married if he’s not going to take out the garbage when I tell him to?” If you fall into this camp, I hate to tell you that you are sailing into a tsunami, not a few little waves.

When my partner does something sweet for me or vice versa, it is a gift, not an obligation. As soon as we feel we have to, we resent it. We all have needs, and we have every right to express those needs to our partners. We just can’t expect them to do anything about them.

Every couple has issues. We all have a problem or two in our relationships however this does not mean we are with the wrong person! However, without a solid, healthy process, i.e. a healthy way of communicating with one another, we find ourselves in trouble. Without a healthy way of speaking and hearing what the other is really saying our problems become the heart of our relationship rather than our process, and that can lead to extraordinary challenges!

So remember, it is the process, not the problems that matter!

“Experience is not what happens to you, it’s what you do with what happens to you.” – Aldous Huxley

In the grand scheme of things, I would say I have had more than the average number of “experiences” for the typical white man from New York. I have done a lot in my life over four decades, from traveling within and without, education, work, relationships, bucket list cross-offs, etc. Yet, for a guy who has been so relatively busy for most of his life, my existence these days seems considerably more settled. And I have never been more content than I am today.

Here’s what I learned.

For a long while, I believed the goal of this whole life journey thing was to transcend the body. I figured I was supposed to meditate myself right out of my skin. I assumed it was all about leaving the old bad of bones behind and skipping my soul across the ethers into real freedom. The problem with that approach was that I lost perspective as to why I was actually placed here in my body in the first place. I was operating under the assumption that Human Life was really more of a cosmic reality show to see how long it takes humans to realize they are really spirits and get off the island!

It took me a number of years before I realized that I was missing this very important piece of perspective, but once I did acknowledge to myself that the point of the journey was not to eviscerate the body but to integrate the bag of bones with my spirit like a fine tuned piece of creation, it truly did recalibrate my experience. I have been far more at peace on both sides of the human experience ever since.

I now find myself in a far better position to integrate the spiritual and emotional discoveries I have with my bag of bones. In fact, I have even come to appreciate the body as not just flesh and bone but something to love and nurture in much the same way as I nurture my heart and soul. It’s all connected.

Even illusion is a creation and deserves to be loved!