stevenchristopher

I’d been tossing around all night on a sleeping-bag covered air mattress at the 400-acre horse ranch of a guy I met since arriving in Burlington. We really hit it off, this kid and I, and I went to his family’s property last night to check it out and spend the night.

“Are you awake, Steve?” My friend asked from the other side of his bedroom, which is actually a small room built off the stables.

“Yeah, I am.” Barely. It was only 4:30 in the morning. We were up late the night before talking and sorting tools in an open-air garage. I don’t know anything about tools–well, except for a niche ability to make shanks out of just about anything–but I proved useful. The compartments in the socket-holders were just the right size, appealed to my latent OCD, and I got a lot done. But I hadn’t got a lot of sleep.

“Want to see me ride my horse?”

Now, mind you, I’m from Boston. I rode a horse oncein my life at a ski resort in New Hampshire. I think I was 6 or 7 years old. It started trotting, and then cantering. I was so fat then that I nearly had the wind knocked out of me by a combination of sheer terror and the bouncing of my stomach. This is, though, my new life. It’s all about change and new experiences, openness. I’d pet a horse the night before, actually enjoyed it. His eyes had so much softness in them, that horse. I’d made a buddy.

“Actually, I’d love to see you ride,” I said, and meant it.

The trip up to the riding meadow had me floored for a couple of reasons. First, I rode up there on a gigantic four-wheeler (another first) while my friend followed behind on his horse. Four-wheeling! It was freakin’ awesome! The sun had barely risen, and the meadow is surrounded by these green mountains, which were shrouded in fog. The quiet was profound once I turned off the four-wheeler. Just the sound of wind, birds. Grass stretching out to the feet of those mountains, the sun barely up. Man, God is good.

Then he started riding. My mouth hung open as he flew across the meadow so fast that the horse seemed to be rocket-propelled. Cowboy hat in one hand, my bud hooted and hollered; my smile had to be at least as big as his.

My heart just about shattered with joy this morning. Standing there surrounded by true majesty, not gun towers. This gray-blue sky above me, the sun higher now. A faun off in the distance. A friend there with me, taking so much pleasure in introducing me to his family, his horses, his life. The gratitude I felt burst out of my chest like a flash flood. I never smiled so widely, never felt such exhilaration.

One of the truly wonderful things about this friendship is the shared potential of what we can give each other. Every relationship, I believe, has the potential for holiness, for exchange. Some, though, are undeniably Universe-sanctioned. Having always lived a life of the mind and spirit, I find that hanging out with this guy helps me feel grounded, physical, rooted. He, on the other hand, has lived a life of the body–hard work, building and fixing, hands like tree bark–and there’s the chance that I could contribute to his spiritual development.

The Universe humbles me these days in a gentle way. The people coming into my life, the new experiences I’m having, even the responses to this blog, strike me as manifestations of Love.

I abide in gratitude.

     As much as I try to practice the kind of principles I’ve written about on these blog posts, I’m pretty sure it comes off a self-absorbed.  The fact is that I’m so human, so ego-based that I fail to bring all these spiritual ideals and beliefs into practice during most of my day.  Last night as I laid in bed trying to fall asleep, I reconsidered this whole blog thing.  Who, really, wants to read about my life coming out of prison?  What of value do I have to say to anyone else when my own life is evidence enough of my failure to practice what I “preach”?  I thought to write as writing practice, to share some of my thoughts, but the fact is that I don’t know who reads them, and my digital fingerprint might get me in as much trouble as the fingerprints that culminated in my arrest for bank robbery ten years ago…

     I’m trying to live this life in resonance with what I think is True.  It’s so easy to pray and meditate in prison, in the hole, confined to a cell 24/7.  Where I’ve repeatedly fallen short is carrying that stuff into whatever life I create for myself outside of prison.

     I’m a fuck-up, generally speaking.  I talk a great talk, and then lack the courage to really apply wisdom to my life and relationships.  Forgive me if I sound self-absorbed or preachy.  What I’m trying to do, failing frequently, is take all this spiritual wisdom I accumulated from years of endless reading and practice and put it into some concrete form that can serve me and others…But I’m only human, and a screwed up one at that.  

     I wonder whether I should even continue to do this blog.  I’ve had friend requests, and I don’t even know what all that means.  Should I be writing people?  Where do I go from here?

     That’s a common question for me.  Where do I go from here?  Would that I knew the answer.

Having lived what can only be called an unconventional life for the past 30 years, I find it pretty damned funny what I don’t know. Like ironing a shirt. I’m going out with some people tonight to a town south of Montpelier, Vermont, and I tried to iron a shirt. “Tried” being the operative word. Of all the things I learned living on the streets and in prison, Ironing collared shirts wasn’t one of them! I’m glad to have a friend across the street from where I live who does know how!

This friend of mine, she goes by the name Mira, wrote to me for years while I was away. She taught me how to meditate, how to stay in touch with a place that wasn’t affected by the unpredictable violence and insanity that characterized most of the prisons I patronized. What a wonderful soul she is! She’s a mother of two sons, a caregiver to her elderly mother, and she takes the time to correspond with prisoners all over the country, providing a source of light and unconditional love to people who’s lives largely take place in the shadows of guntowers and concertina wire.

While awaiting trial and sentencing for bank robbery, I started to independently explore Buddhism. I connected meditation, which was my real interest at the time, with Eastern religions. So I started reading about Buddhism, mindfulness, lovingkindness. At one point I saw and ad about “Dharma Pen Pals” in a newsletter sent by the Prison-Ashram Project. Mira responded to my first letter.

Over the years, she became a dear friend and a powerful conduit of light in my life. I based my decision to move to Burlington solely on her living here. It seemed like a great message to put out to the Universe, moving to a place, sight-unseen, where my only known quality was a woman instrumental in my spiritual evolution.

The cherry on the sundae is that she’s nasty with an iron! My shirt is nice and pressed, ready to go.

There are times when the amount I don’t know about living a life outside of prison overwhelms the shit out of me. Even grocery shopping is a mind-boggling exercise in indecision and planning. Meal planning? Preparation? I lived off overcooked pasta and rice for years, supplemented by Ramen noodle soups and honey buns out of the prison commissary. A job? WORK? I haven’t had a job for years, and while I picked up all manner of skills in the hoosegow, I realize an ability to make shanks out of soda cans isn’t a valued skill set in today’s economy.

What I do believe, though, is that all is well. I strive to stay open and honest, receptive to this dynamic and vibrant world and the opportunities it continues to bring into my life. For all that I don’t know, my life has given me rich lessons in human nature and perseverance. I know what it is to suffer, and to transcend suffering. That, I think, is a skill set I’ll find use for one of these days.

First, thanks to the couple of people who read my first entry and posted responses. I appreciate you taking the time to do so. I’m very much in the learning process about blogging and all its attendant bells and whistles. As time passes, I’m sure I’ll liven up my postings.

As part of the whole shift I’m trying to enact in my life, I’ve been trying to find small ways to be of service to others. Earlier in the week I committed to a weekly volunteer commitment at a drop-in center here in Burlington, and today was my first “workday”. What I hope is that my sordid and unconventional life experiences–addiction, incarceration, teenage homelessness, etc.–can be used to make connections with people who are still struggling with similar issues, and maybe with luck and grace even one person will make better decisions as a partial result of my openness.

Wow, I sound like some kind of Pollyanna, don’t I? Fact is I’m far from it. I’ve been a bad guy far more than I’ve been a good one. I went to prison for bank robbery, not for jaywalking. Despite that, I’m grateful to still have ideals and optimism, to still see the good in people, and through that to have a sense of goodness within myself. God knows that I’ve seen a whole hell of a lot of the darker side of human nature–violence, exploitation, injustice–and it would be easy to let my heart become worn and calloused. Shit, I lived with my heart intentionally hardened, a circulatory peach pit or something, for years. In a way, it’s a lot less painful to have a closed heart. But a big part of what I’ve learned is that it’s powerful to consciously strive toward open-heartedness despite adversity. Whenever I’ve surrendered into indifference, or when self-centeredness blocks me from being open to the tribulations of others, I usually get knocked upside the head none to gently by a heavy karmic boomerang. As tempting as it is to get caught up in my own crap, I’ve found that the only way for me to have any real meaning is through honest connection with others. And I’m damned sick of suffering the consequences of selfishness.

Blah, blah, blah, right? The ex-con with a spiritual rap. What a gimmick! Anyway…

So, today I spent a few hours at a drop-in center for people recovering from any number of addictions. I’m recovering, myself, from vicious addictions to all sorts of drugs. I did some cleaning, some clerical stuff, and tried to be available to anyone who seemed like they could use some conversation. It’s pretty wild, really, how the Universe seems to work. I’m sure not the first person to notice that whatever I offer to others I gain more readily for myself. I read once that if one approaches life with tightly-closed fists, how can one receive? It’s only through open hands that we can accept whatever it is life brings us.

So, volunteering. Giving a few hours of my time to be present. To talk. To give someone the chance to say whatever they have to say in an informal setting–it doesn’t get any more informal than a big ol’ semi-furnished garage–without bringing my own baggage to the table. Then comes the old cliche: I left feeling like it was I who had gained something. Cool shit, really.

One guy came in, tall and lanky, red hair, wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Fuckin’ Vermont, I said to myself. Played a mean game of pool, whipped my ass. I’ll be getting together with him a couple of times in the next week to introduce him around the recovery community. Maybe he’ll teach me how to ride horses or something. I’m already halfway there, I think, all the shit I’ve shoveled in my life!

By the way, if anyone want to make suggestions on how I can improve my blog, please let me know. I’m still learning…

So, my entrance into the world of blogging. It’s sort of strange, because all I’ve learned about this electronic artform (and I use that term lightly), I learned in prison. No internet access in most prisons, certainly not in the Federal Bureau of Prisons, where I spent a large part of the past ten years of my life. Sitting in one cell or another, pawing through the newspapers and magazines I subscribed to in hopes of staying connected with the world at large, I sat on the periphery of the blogosphere. People all over the world journaling for all the world to see, voicing opinions, ranting and raving, some earning a degree of fame and fortune. And me, for years and years, writing so much with plain old pen and paper that I developed tendonitis in my right hand!

But here I am now–and now is all there really is, anyway–typing my first blog entry on my Macbook, sitting on this luxurious (to me) bed in this ridiculously beautiful (to me) house I share in Burlington, Vermont. Life is good.

I got out of prison 15 days ago. This blog will be about the process of learning to live again. And hell, since it is a blog, probably about a whole slew of other stuff, too.

I’ve got a meeting to go to tonight–part of what it takes for me to stay in the world of the unincarcerated. It’s not as easy as it sounds, that’s for goddamned sure. I’ve bounced in and out of prison a few times in the past three years, this after serving about 7 1/2 straight between 1999 and 2006. Recidivism, which is the term used to describe the phenomenon of people getting release from prison only to end up back in short order, is a vicious deal. For the first time since I was 17–I’m 30 now–not only am I free, but I have no probation or parole.

So I sit and look at Lake Champlain, the patterns wind furrows on its surface, green, hazy mountains in the distance. I watch seagulls glide and hear crows caw. I sit and revel in freedom and beauty. It’s all about consciousness…

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