"This being human is a guest house.
Every morning, a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness...
Welcome and entertain them all!
He may be clearing you out for some new delight." --Rumi
Last fall, I was enjoying a silent morning at Dance Church, where every first Sunday of the month we request that no verbal communication take place on the dance floor. I was communing with myself, and others, through this miraculous container known as the human form, when I spied Peter on the north side of the studio. He was pacing - back and forth, back and forth - short, 5-foot long laps near the mirror. I slowed my internal rhythm down, took a deep breath and simply bore witness to Peter’s predicament. Like a caged tiger, he was being held prisoner in the labyrinth of his mind. Unaware, he was muttering a few, incoherent words as his non-stop, analytical brain kept churning forward. Meanwhile, his body was being dragged along behind him, merely a victim caught up within the deafening momentum of a mental avalanche. I gracefully slid my way across the floor and, even though I am six-inches shorter than him, I sidled up in front of my fellow community member. With my thick eyebrows furrowed, I stared into the aquamarine of his light eyes. A low and husky growl began to emanate from the bottomless pits of my bowels, where a seemingly ferocious beast lay in waiting. I opened up my legs, bent softly at the knees and I began to heavily sink all of my weight over one foot, and then the other. With each step, I made a gurgling sound. With each pulse, I bore down upon Peter and implored, with all of my energetic know-how, that he do the same. It took a few moments of prodding but soon Peter and I were staking out our rightful claims to these EarthBodies, as we ground down into the terrain below our feet. Immediately after this experience, I took a hand to my own back and, with pride, congratulated myself, for I mistakenly thought that I deserved a gold star for my actions. However, a few, short months later, Peter was at it again. He was losing his grip on reality and disappearing into the madness of schizophrenia right there in the middle of the dance floor. When I witnessed him again this second time, though, I felt the cold stirring of habit, like a dead fish in my hands. A desire to ignore Peter and to grow indignant by his fallible humanity gripped me. I felt a cool wind of anger brush by me but, instead of projecting it onto Peter, I inhaled on a deep breath of compassion and tried again.
