Duality or Unity

While painting last week, I listened to a class by Fer Broca, a friend had recommended. Fer does a great job of making complex topics simpler - something I love - and he does so about big subjects. On that day, I was steeped in his explanation of the Tao, particularly three points he had chosen to explore.

As my brush did its thing, swirling colors in just the right spots, I let myself get absorbed by his teaching. When he got to the third point of the lesson, something inside of me perked up its ears.

Yin Yang.

Holding a small piece of art representing the well-known symbol, Fer found a way to melt something inside of me, a border of sorts. The process felt gentle yet profound, as though I had reserved a little spot for this teaching a long time ago, and it had chosen that day to move into it.

I like to talk and write about Contrasts quite a bit. Since I moved to Mexico a few years ago, I have had plenty of opportunities to do so. For some reason, I am wired in a way that this works for me, even if it sometimes hits me hard. The sweet and the bitter, the dreamy and the harsh, the easy and the seemingly impossible, the sunset and the trash.
To me, they are two sides of life, dualities to be experienced and danced with.

Fer doesn’t see it this way.

In his clear Spanish, he explains that instead of duality, these represent unity, things that live together, not separately.

I paint, I listen, I pause. I rewind, and I listen again. Something in me nods its head, and a pleasurable softening takes place.

I think back to a few weeks ago.

I just had breakfast, and I am making my way down a sweet jungle path toward the beach, rich from having spent the last 18 hours with good friends eating, walking into the ocean, talking, and listening to live music in a nearby town. It is time to go home. My eyes and heart are full of so much beauty, nature, and friendship. Right before I reach the beach, I encounter a small hotel with a turquoise swimming pool and a palapa roof. It feels gently luxurious and it feeds that part of me. Then my feet are on the sand, the morning is crisp and full of promises, and I take in a big eye, soul, and lung breath full of gratitude.

Walking into the small village where I parked my car the night before, I decide to spend 10 pesos on a quick bathroom stop before getting on the road home.

With my sheets of toilet paper in hand, I wait. There is another woman waiting also.

Then I hear from one of the two stalls: ¿ Me pueden ayudar, por favor? Can you help me? Suddenly, the door swings open, revealing an older woman sitting on the toilet, seemingly unable to get up.

She is heavy, her panties are on the cement floor around her ankles, and she is asking for help standing up.

The other woman and I both gently loop an arm around each of her shoulders, and to the count of unos, dos, tres, we lift her up. Oddly, and possibly because we are in Mexico, the whole thing is joyful, as though all three of us are in a play or making some sort of prank.
Once up, she closes the door, and I resume waiting for my turn, now filled with something new: sisterhood. Three women in a small, almost makeshift bathroom, taking care of each other at a very basic level.

Then the door opens once more, the woman walks out, and now asks for water. The toilet is not flushing, and she is flustered. It is not uncommon for public toilets to be set up so as to not flush. In that case, there is usually a large container of water outside the door with a small bucket. You fill the bucket with water and then dump it down the bowl. The first time, it’s a little weird, and then it makes plenty of sense. Of course, you usually spot the container of water before walking in and you take the bucket of water with you.

Not today.

The woman seems overwhelmed, and I tell her that I’ll take care of it. I’ll get the bucket and “flush.” She thanks me and walks out.

Turns out that there is no container of water waiting outside.

And now, I really need to pee.

The other stall is occupied, so I walk back into “the one,” and boy oh boy let’s just say it wasn’t a great post-breakfast sight. The kind of sight that immediately turns my stomach upside down (just writing about it now makes me queasy). I just don’t do this well, and that morning, I couldn’t do it at all.

So I walked away, found my car, and drove home. On the drive, I thought about how, within five minutes, I had gone from a feeling of awe and deep freshness to being part of one of the most basic experiences of humanness. As I drove, still having to pee, I thought: Contrasts. Here they are again, right in my face. Pinche Mexico.

But now, listening to Fer Broca and remembering that morning, I live it differently.

What if this wasn’t about the pristine vs the distasteful? About morning sunshine vs stained cement? About turquoise swimming pools vs poop?

What if this was just Life? What if instead of Contrasts, it was about integration?
As Fer proposed: what if this wasn’t about duality and instead about unity?

I am processing, and I am pondering. I am always grateful for teachers who make us pay attention and invite us to peel the corners of places we thought we knew for sure.

***

PS: The unveiling of the Wall of Hearts was richer than I had imagined, and because it was so good, I am ready to have it make babies all over the world. I present you with Wallofhearts.org.