Spaciousness

       I've been thinking about space lately – not Star Trek's final frontier, of which I am a fan, but inner space, which is much bigger than anything on Star Trek.

       Physicists tell us that we're mostly empty space and that the space within us, if drawn to scale, would mimic the space between and within solar systems and galaxies.

       Spiritual teachers suggest that space is a sacred emptiness – an infinite, formless, timeless dimension in which all forms and everything temporary (including all thoughts and material objects) arise and subside. 

       We find this emptiness in the silence between thoughts.  It's an exquisitely quiet presence, sometimes described as a noiselessness faintly humming in the background of existence. The search for it is the search for our truest self – that which is vast, nameless and unknowable in us.  It is, I believe, the search for God.

       Sacred emptiness holds us ever so gently.  It's all around us and all within us.  In some mysterious way, a way that feels so true to me and yet so outlandish, we are the holder and the held.

At-one-ness and Aloneness

       A friend recently wrote about an experience of walking meditation, in which he focused on at-one-ness, hoping to feel a deep sense of connection.  Instead, what came to him was the thought that if you replace just the "t" in at-one-ness, you get aloneness.  His thoughtful comment invited me to ponder some themes I've been writing about lately.

       One mystery that's awed me for some time is the paradox that we are always alone and we are never alone.  Human experience is one of separateness.  As we grapple with separateness, we learn so much.  We get glimpses of oneness and the memory of who we are.  And then we forget – only to learn more, remember more and forget again. 

       The truth of our oneness is sometimes validated by a beautiful feeling of deep peace.  And, sometimes, it's not validated at all – at least not in any way we can tell.  When we feel the pain of separateness and aloneness, the best I think we can do is stay gentle and present and spacious with the discomfort.  We don't get to make it go away.  We don't get to eliminate it or control it.  It moves through us at its own pace.  And it moves best when we give it breath – and the quiet space of awareness. 

       We can, of course (and often do), turn our discomfort into real suffering by going to war with it and by indulging in various stories of fear and unworthiness.  And that suffering invites more learning.  Life as I know it on this planet.

       At-one-ness and aloneness – only a tiny letter apart.

From Fret to Flow

       After last week's posting, I've started paying attention, once again, to what brain researchers are calling "the default mode" – the place mind automatically goes during down time, when we're not busy doing something.  For me, that place usually involves fret and fantasy – including regrets and recriminations, review and rehearsal, preparation and planning, and imaginary interactions.  Standard monkey mind.

       I'm playing with ways to shift this default mode to something much more peaceful, so that idle moments are actually restful and restorative.   My favorite approach is to breathe light (love energy) into my lower belly, hold it there for a moment, then exhale through the heart – clearing and opening the heart, sharing the light. 

       There are lots of possibilities here.  The trick, I think, is to find something we like, keep it simple, and stubbornly stick to it – gently and firmly returning to the flow each time we stray.

       If it's true that we need 10,000 repetitions to create a new default, I only have about 9,947 to go.

       Joanie and I spent the last few days backpacking on the Superior Hiking Trail.  As usual, the experience out there was an immersion in beauty – interesting, varied, subtle and not-so-subtle beauty. For me, it's a bit like Holy Communion. 

       One evening, an hour or so before dusk, I decided to write about an experience in the moment.  For those who have been following these postings for a while, you'll detect a familiar theme. 

Beauty and the Beast

       I'm sitting on a rock face high on a bluff overlooking a beaver pond way below in a valley of pines and poplars.  It's a majestic scene – quietly beautiful as the sun begins to soften in the western sky.  Leaning back, lounge-chair-style, with a huge slab of granite supporting me and stubby cedars growing through crevices in the rock at my feet, I realize, with a jolt, that for some time now I've let this bounty of beauty slip right through my awareness.  Instead, my attention has been riveted to an interior drama, a fretful fantasy.  The "beast" was back.

       Eckhart Tolle – whose book, The New Earth, now provides backing for the sheet of paper I'm writing on – says it's a success when we become aware of ego's story telling.  Maybe so.  At this moment, though, I'm not feeling particularly successful – more ego commentary, I suspect.

       Last night, at a campsite six miles southwest down the trail, while reading The New Earth, I was struck by a particularly powerful passage in his book.  I hunt for it among dog-eared pages.

       "You are the light of Presence, the awareness that is prior to and deeper than any thoughts and emotions."  (p. 118).

       Grateful for the message, I breathe … and soften – attuned, for a time, to the quiet observer inside who does not judge, who does not fret.

Nuggets

       Here are some stray thoughts that came my way this week.

       The mind is a beautiful instrument.  Unfortunately, I use it all too often to torment myself.

       Every moment, life brings us just what we need to deepen and grow.  See the gift.

       I believe both of the following statements are true:  We are alone.  We are never alone.  It's in our power to open to both realities and to think/behave in ways that make one truth more real for us than the other.

       "It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages."  Friedrich Nietzsche.

       "Gratitude's the Attitude!"  Ethel Lombardi.

Gardening Love

       Been thinking lately about idealism and realism in romance.  A lifelong romantic, I started doodling hearts at age 4.  I know all too well the yearning for love's intoxication. 

       The knight questing for Holy Grail, the lone seafarer searching for Tropical Paradise, the romantic looking for The One: these stories emphasize the element of search.  That's where the challenge is.  Implied is the notion that once you find the one, your work is pretty much done.  There's plenty to eat in paradise.  The trick is to find the island.

       Another model of relationship is peeking its way into my consciousness:  the gardener.  I remember, as a kid, I didn't like gardening.  I especially disliked weeding.  I wasn't fond of hoeing either.  Perhaps it’s the new house.  Perhaps it's having a partner who can't wait to garden next spring.  Anyway, I'm warming to the idea.

       Gardeners find a good plot of land, cultivate it, nourish it, plant seeds, water, weed, cultivate and nourish some more.  They harvest and enjoy their crops - grateful for what they have, accepting that some years are leaner than others.  Some gardeners freeze or can for enjoyment and nourishment during the winter. 

       During winter, gardeners often think about and prepare for the next spring, when the cycle begins anew.  They are famous for trying new things, learning new techniques, paying attention to what works and what doesn't.  Master gardeners remain students.  They study the art of gardening and the unique nature of their particular garden.  Year after year, they tend and attend.  Year after year, their gardens grow even more unique, more beautiful, and more abundant.

       I know of no stories out there about gardeners searching and searching for the perfect plot to plant.  For gardeners, it's not the search that's important.  It's what you do after you pick a piece of ground that counts.

       Be merry.  Hoe, hoe, hoe.

Bushwhacking Brain

       On our last day in the Boundary Waters, my good friend Doug and I decided to fish a small lake that had no trail leading to it.  Since the lake was almost certainly seldom visited, we imagined it teeming with hungry Bass and Northern Pike. 

       Heading west from a nearby campsite, we pushed and weaved our way over, under, around and through dense underbrush, branches, downed trees, boulders and crevices till we got to a marshy swamp that signaled our proximity to the lake.  After another quarter-mile of slogging, we arrived at relatively firm ground on lakeshore, then proceeded to bushwhack for another couple hours, as we fished up the shoreline (there was no sandy beach on this lake). 

       All that effort for one eight-inch perch Doug snagged on his first cast and released.  It was totally worth it.

       Our adventure reminds me of a challenge I face in relationship.  Through years of repetition, I've etched in my brain well worn paths that do not serve me – old stories of loss and disappointment, gloomy predictions, well-worn protection strategies – familiar trails, leading to familiar places. 

       I need to bushwhack in my brain – head into wilderness, blaze new trails, risk the unknown.  It's damn hard work, way harder than it looks on a map.  But the going gets easier with each trip into new territory.  New paths form.  Old trails diminish from disuse.

       Brain pathways are more malleable than we once believed. While paths are made by walking, they're begun by bushwhacking.

Rhythms

       It's been almost a month since last I've written.  I'm impressed with how quickly I can lose the rhythms of life, the regularity of practices that nourish the spirit – writing, running, working out, meditating, connecting with friends and family, loving a partner.  I notice the chaos, inside and out, that comes with being out of synch with those important rhythms.

       I've been thinking lately about the rhythms and practices of love.  Next week, as I spend time in the wilderness with five fabulous friends – an annual and cherished rhythm in our lives – I hope some of these thoughts crystallize into writing I can share with you upon returning. 

       I've missed being with you.

Two Fawns

       Last night, after nearly an hour of unsuccessful search for a bed sheet, Joanie and I spent our first night together in our first home.  We are surrounded by a chaos of boxes and furniture and stuff – two households of stuff, a mountain of stuff.  I, for one, am overwhelmed. 

       This morning, I went for a run from this new place.  Our neighborhood adjoins a protected forest area, called The Great Woods.  Through these woods, there are lots of paths.  I'm not sure where they all go, but I keep heading in a general direction, not worrying too much about which fork to take.  I figure I'll explore for a few runs and eventually find a route I like.

       As I jogged in this forest, a pair of fawns jogged by me from the other direction, just off to my right. They were jogging much faster than I, of course, and they looked to me like they were having fun. 

       Two fawns - new to life, finding their way in a forest, having fun.  Nice model for Joanie and me.

Touched by a Turtle

       I've been thinking about the turtle we encountered in Quetico last week.  Kirk sent a picture, today, of me bending down and touching her shell.  In the picture, which I couldn't download for you, she's not as big as she seemed in real life – and nowhere near as intimidating as she was at first sight.

       What's most impressive to me is her focus on mission.  She found her spot and proceeded to dig, undeterred by our gawking, undeterred by my touch.  I expected a snap of annoyance, or at least a little hiss.  Nope.  She quietly went about her business, as if we weren't there.

       After nearly a half hour of digging, mostly in one spot, a spot without nearly enough dirt to support her mission, she moved on – not giving up too soon, not hanging on too long.

       What lovely lessons in showing up and letting go.

       It may look like I touched her.  Really, however, she touched me.