Paulus could, at a minimum, be described as quirky, though some would say he was wildly eccentric. No cell phone. No email account. Making clay pinch pots that he returned to the Earth instead of firing and selling, Paulus was a pipe-smoking, barefoot-in-summer-grass, NPR-loving, committed to-slow-and-savor hermit of sorts. He was a queer artist living the simplest life I’d ever touched—or, better said, that ever touched me.
But Paulus did more than live differently. Paulus revealed new worlds. This world revolved around a profound love of craft, but not just any craft. Craft that centered around connection, belonging, reverence for the Earth, and beauty. Craft that was about process over product. The how, not the what.
When I first met Paulus Berensohn, I was 16 with a fresh-off-the-press driver’s license and a world that could still be packed into my knapsack. I knew nothing of his book Finding One’s Way with Clay. I knew nothing of his work that furthered the notion that creativity is universal. I knew nothing of the thousands of lives he’d touched through his teachings. To me, he was my fairy godfather (a title he coined and lived into with grace), and he was magic.
His house was full of precious handmade objects, altars, color, music, and stillness. It was here he introduced me to journal making, working with clay, poetry, qigong, and so much more. Spending time with Paulus was like entering an alternate reality. Everything he created and did felt infused with sacredness. His life was a prayer, a poem, a hymn. Of all the influences he had on my life, what of this new world affected me most? His deep engagement with life and the uplifting joy of his unconditional love. With Paulus, anything felt possible. In experiencing Love, that’s how it goes. In unconditional love, possibility is born. There it sings. In unconditional love, possibility thrives.
In unconditional love, possibility is born. There it sings. In unconditional love, possibility thrives.
I was at a Gen X Dharma Teachers gathering in the middle-of-nowhere Colorado when I intuited he was dying. A phone call confirmed it. Expectant and heartbroken, I was in the middle-of-nowhere North Carolina by the next day. As I entered his post-stroke hospital room, I found him in awe. Completely consumed in wonder. Reciting poems without words. Being moved by music I couldn’t hear. This wasn’t my first experience being with someone who had begun the process of transitioning from this earthly realm, but I had never seen anything like it. Paulus didn’t say he had a stroke. He said, “I’ve been stroked by life!” Eyes open, in every sense of it, Paulus had been stroked by life—and by Love, by awe. He was awake.
I spent the last week of his life with him, over 30 years after our first meeting, and his engagement with life shone more brightly than ever. I will forever be moved by the lack of resistance he displayed as he explored various levels of consciousness with ease and grace. He taught me, even from his deathbed, without words. He taught me about patience and acceptance. Most profoundly, Paulus taught me about Love.
The Heart of Who We Are
In so many cases, how we do anything is how we do everything. For many of us, as death calls, we can be found clamoring, clawing, clinging to what we know. Grabbing what we deem as “mine.” Grasping for what we believe we deserve. Gripping the paper doll of identity. This, of course, is not required.
We are deeply habituated to fear death. Our reaction to death can be a mirror for how we face the challenges of our lives. Do we open? Or do we turn away in moments of difficulty? When love feels scarce—when we feel cut off from our very being—how are we conditioned to survive our lives?
When love feels scarce—when we feel cut off from our very being—how are we conditioned to survive our lives?
Survival strategies (in the sense of preserving a part of our inner self, our beliefs about who and what we believe ourselves to be) are compensations for the felt sense of separation, the perception of falling from grace, when love feels out of reach or an overall belief that we are lacking takes hold. They are the strategies we develop, the actions we take, to not only move away from the pain of a felt sense of separation but also to attempt to return to feeling whole. We think we need to do something to get love because we have falsely believed that Love is not inherent. That we must do in order to belong. Survival strategies keep in place the felt experience that we are a separate self. There is little thriving here. Plenty of surviving, however. These strategies—thoughts, beliefs, and actions—offer us just enough to keep our head above water as we navigate the circumstances of our lives.
Survival strategies arise on behalf of the ego, and much is woven into their fabric. The inner critic, personal and collective conditioning, our traumas—all become part of the tapestry of who we mistakenly assume ourselves to be.
Seeing these strategies for what they are can create pathways for returning, for remembrance, for releasing into inherent belonging—into the heart of who we are.
Seeing these strategies for what they are can create pathways for returning, for remembrance, for releasing into inherent belonging— into the heart of who we are.
As Paulus moved toward his death, he displayed an easeful divestment. Gently and with great openness, he shed layers of himself that were not fundamental to his being. When moving through life, he left no stone unturned. Bringing curiosity and inquiry to his experience was his way. As he moved toward death, this continued to be so. He took his time. He listened. He opened toward rather than shrinking away. He didn’t rely on survival strategies. Even in death, Paulus chose wonder. He chose Love.
Recognizing Survival Strategies
As a monastic, I learned to recognize survival strategies. This allowed me to clearly see the ways I learned to keep my sense of self intact in times when my inner critic was at its worst, when I felt isolated, when I felt my survival was threatened—not physically threatened but existentially; when belonging felt inaccessible. This seeing, the recognition of how I survived my life, has been an invaluable contemplative technology for me.
When our survival strategies are revealed, we see clearly that these strategies are actually keeping us from wholeness, from thriving. They promise a return to what is inherent, but they cannot deliver. Thriving comes when we are seated firmly in ourselves, when we recognize our inherent wholeness, when we feel and know our inherent belonging.
To use one of my own survival strategies as an example: I learned at a young age that if I did things well, if I got