Community

In Buddhism, one of the first basic teachings instructs the student to take refuge in the Three Jewels or Treasures: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. To take refuge means to find safety, or guidance.

The Buddha indicates the highest spiritual being, which exists in each of us. Buddha literally means, “enlightened one” or more simply, “the one who knows”.

Dharma is the Truth and the ultimate reality.

And Sangha is generally referred to as Community.

For many years I have felt like the first two refuges are perfectly sound ones, but have struggled with that of community; especially in a society like ours, where businesses are run by large corporations from another state, neighborhoods are gated, while people turn to each other less and to the TV or internet more. The internet, though it can act as another isolating media form, has also somehow started reinventing the idea of community with social networks, blogs, etc, where people with similar interests or beliefs can connect over fast geographic spaces. This phenomenon may be testament to the enduring need of humans to seek community, even in new forms.

Recently I have found fresh perspective on my personal relationship to community with a group of people with whom I study holistic nutrition and wellness. Whether it has been getting excited about new greens and grains, or discussing the challenges and rewards of meditation, I finally feel the indisputable benefits of a community of like-focused individuals. Because it’s just easier to find your strength, your Buddha, your Truth— amid the loving (non-judgmental) support of people doing the same in their own lives. And although many of the ways of organizing community may be changing from those utilized in the 19^th and 20^th centuries; community meets the need that each of us has for meaningful relationship that affirms our truest desires and goals.

So I’d like to extend thanks to all the friends, family, and colleagues that presently make up my various sanghas. My journey grows richer every day with your presence and support.

Never Turn Back

This weekend I attended a choral concert of old “negro” spirituals at the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Richmond, Virginia. The church, which sits austerely on the corner overlooking a city park, was built in 1858 by members of the Third African Baptist Church. In 1864 the church obtained its first black pastor and in 1866 the first Richmond public school for black children commenced in the church’s basement. It is a landmark location, abundant with history and power.

One Voice Chorus chose the site for its concert entitled, “Never Turn Back”. And on a warm night, the first day of spring, fans a’ fluttering in lady’s hands, they began with the spiritual written by Hall Johnson, I’ll Never Turn Back No Mo’. As they sang those words, each section of the chorus twittering or roaring on cue with the deep melancholic hope of spiritual song, I felt tears rise in my eyes for I knew that it’s true:

Once you start down the path of the journey of faith, you can never turn back.

Because even when we falter; even when the world turns dark and cold again just when we thought we were finally safe; even when uncertainty rears its chimera head, we can’t undo the Seed that grows warm, moist, loved in the sun of our hearts.

The concert's program offered a chance for recognition of shared history. Of slavery. Of Freedom. Of personal salvation. We went down to Deep River and attempted to Wade in the Water. We heard The Old Ship of Zion there. We remembered Daniel being saved from the lion, and that when you have nothing in life at all but faith, offer what you have, So I’ll Sing with My Voice.

One Voice Chorus exists to promote diversity and racial harmony. Their mission is to work “toward healing and racial reconciliation between Americans of African and European descent.” And that night they beamed a beautiful gradation of color and voice in the old church of red velvet curtains, balconies, shining wood pews holding hymnals in pockets. I’m grateful to my brother for finding his way to the bass section up in the back of the choral tiers so that I too have been welcomed and I too have been able to openly praise with hymns sung by my historic ancestors, who are surely as deeply a part of me as anything this country has handed down.

Patience

"Patience is not something to have on principle. It's not a skill we learn just to get what we want later on in life. Patience is a word that we should use to express an intimate, loving, and personal relationship with time. Patience is a word we should use to talk about the inherent trust we have that life is moving (through time) in the right direction, always."

--Adam Elenbaas, author of Fishers of Men: The Gospel of an Ayahuasca Vision Quest, forthcoming in July from Penguin.

More Paris: Medieval Revelations

Saint Francis of Assisi endures today as the patron saint of animals and the environment due to a reputation for his ultra-sensitive ability to communicate with animals and birds, and his praise for nature, especially noted in his poem, Song of the Sun.

In the remarkable Musée De Cluny in Paris, a museum of the Middle Ages housed in a 15^th century mini-castle, are many relics such as this bronze engraving of "the stigmata" of St. Francis. He stands with his arms upraised toward the amazing depiction of an angel: a bony skeleton wrapped in rainbow-colored feathers. Four brightly budded trees mimic the four points of the cross as the two figures share the stigmata associated with the Christian-lauded Crucifixion.

St. Francis, or Francesco Bernardone, spent his early years as a troubadour of the French (Provençal) tradition, wandering playfully in bright costumes, singing and reciting poetry. Troubadours apparently originate from the Saracenic tribes from Syria and Arabia. Both the lute and poetry were tools used by the Sufis for spiritual development. Sufis today are associated by many as the esoteric sect of Islam, even as this is not perfectly accurate. (There are many Western Sufi Orders, in particular, whose traditions stem from Arabic origins but are not officially associated with Islam.) The Sufis themselves go by no real name (Sufi is simply a title for convenience) and claim no allegiance to any particular religion. This is part of their enduring tradition, and as Islam stemmed from Judaism and then Christianity, Sufism was also once thought by some to be the esoteric desert tradition of the Christians! Some time after Francesco embraced Christianity, he went to Pope Innocent III requesting permission to start a new monastic order, “The Lesser Bretheren” (Order of Friars Minor). In The Sufis, by Indries Shah, the connection is made between the Lesser Bretheren and an order of Sufis contemporary with St. Francis called “the Greater Brothers,” whose founding teacher, Najmuddin Kubra “The Greater,” had had an “uncanny influence over animals”.

Interestingly, St. Francis set out toward Syria in his early thirties, but returned to Italy for financial reasons. He tried again later, heading to Morocco by way of Spain, but returned home (1214) before reaching his destination due to illness. It should be recalled here that “Moorish Spain” existed until the 1490s, a gateway for Arabic and Muslim (and related) traditions into Europe that is much ignored today.

In 1224, St. Francis wrote the aforementioned Song of the Sun, a praise poem, considered to be the first Italian poem. An excerpt:

Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures,
especially through my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day; and you give light through him.
And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

The beloved Sufi poet, Rumi (1207-1273), also wrote many poems to “the sun”, as excerpted here*:

We are cast like sunlight upon the earth.

And our light, passing through your body

as if it were an open window to our Source,

returns, purified, to you.

Whoever sees that sun says, “He is alive,”

and whoever sees only the window says, “He is dying.”

The Sufis, Shah, Indries. Anchor Books, 1964. Pgs 257-264.

*The Rumi Collection, ed. Heminski, Kabir. Shambhala, 1998.

Renewed Statement of Purpose

The meditations, essays, and reviews in this blog are meant to foster community, contemplation, and vigorous faith; extrapolating inspiration and guidance among the arts, sciences, current affairs, religions,…history, geography, etc. —and to celebrate what unifies us while honoring our differences as testament to the infinite variety of Creative Genius.

(Photo: Taramaso Photo)

Considering Lent

Lent is observed by Christians as a time of preparation during the forty weeks between Ash Wednesday* and Easter**.

"Lent is a time for personal and societal repentance, a time for radical conversion, renewal and transformation,” wrote my friend Art Laffin... recounts Fr. John Dear in the following article, Lent and the Charter for Compassion: click here.

The aforementioned Art Laffin keeps the dream of social justice alive with the Dorothy Day Catholic Worker in Washington, DC. Dorothy Day was a writer and bohemian that responded to the poverty and inequity of her era by starting, firstly, a revolutionary journal called The Catholic Worker, which then turned into action caring for the homeless. But the life-style Dorothy Day lived, honored, and proclaimed was one of pacifism, nonviolence, and social justice. She is a stunning historical character in the history of the US and I urge you to learn more about her life and writings.

*Ash Wendesday is a day of repentance (ie. looking back on the suffering one has caused and becoming aware of one's actions in the world) that is marked by smudging ash on the forehead. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust... we begin from the earth and we will return to the earth. This is the great equalizer.

**Easter is celebrated by Christians as the time Jesus died and resurrected. Resurrection means renewed life, as in Spring, the earth renewing itself, all manner of creatures (rabbits!) reproducing...life in its greatest fecund daze. Fresh air, sunshine, green grass, ah!

C.G. Jung, The Red Book: Recovering the Soul

Jung’s Red Book is here. Well, actually it has existed since Jung began his “creative imagination” exercises in 1914 or so, then sat in his study for fifty years after he died in 1961. But an exhibition of the cataclysmic text just ended at the Rubin Museum of Art in New York, which included the original manuscript in a glass case and three facsimile editions placed around the room for people to examine, marking the first time The Red Book has been available to the public. Also on display were several series of images taken from the text—paintings done by Jung himself—in an attempt to offer some insight into the realm of transcendence created, or better yet, documented, in The Red Book.

The museum articulated the complexity of The Red Book’s purpose well:

“He wished to understand himself and integrate and develop various components of his personality; he wanted to understand the relationship between the individual and present day society as well as in the community of the dead; and he wanted to understand the psychological and historical effects of Christianity and the future religious development of the West… the manuscript serves as record of how Jung rediscovered his soul and overcame the malaise of spiritual alienation. He accomplished this by creating a new image of God and establishing a new psychological and theological cosmology.”

Cosmology means literally the study of the universe, and by extension, human placement in the universe. There have been many varying cosmologies throughout history, geography, and religion. In the Rubin’s complimentary exhibit, Visions of the Cosmos, Hindu, Buddhist, Jainist, Christian, Alchemical, Astrological, and scientific cosmologies are explored side by side, allowing witness of the striking visual similarities across time and culture, while also highlighting the differences of ideology. This context makes Jung’s Red Book images and ideas all the more relevant, all the more powerful.

The book itself is a kind of Medieval illuminated manuscript, with calligraphic German text and brightly painted images that illustrate or elaborate on what is written. The facsimile edition contains English translation in the back, which I sat reading and transcribing bits of into my journal, revealing Jung’s reality in poignant poetry:

“But the way is my own self, my own life founded upon myself. The God wants my life. He wants to go with me, sit at the table with me, work with me. Above all he wants to be ever-present. But I’m ashamed of my God. I don’t want to be divine but reasonable. The divine appears to me as irrational craziness. I hate it as an absurd disturbance of my meaningful human activity. It seems an unbecoming sickness which has stolen into the regular course of my life. Yes, I even find the divine superfluous.”

The honesty and borderline desperation of this excerpt strike me familiarly. I know that place of tension between the rational business of society and the bliss-fire cadence of my own relationship with the Divine. Many of us feel this frustration which sometimes becomes anger; resentment that things cannot just be simple, the way they “should” be, the way money and economy and manners dictate them. Because in the world of self-realization—of soul recovery—things get messy, black becomes white in an instant, art becomes science, love becomes a bird flying through an amber sky. Jung did experience what seems like waves of peace in relation to the God/Universe he explores throughout the remarkable Red Book:

Vocatus atque non vocatus dues aderit. Called or not, the God will be present.

The Fourth Day of Creation: The Creation of the Celestial Spheres from Tractus Mago-Cabalisticum et Theologicum, Gregorius Anglus Sallwigt, aka Gregor von Welling (1652-1727), Germany; 1781, etching, Collection of Mario Diacono, Brookline, MA- from Rubin Museum Visions of the Cosmos Exhibit, 2010

"Wind Tracks", the Kalachakra cosmic model, from Rubin Museum's Vision of the Cosmos exhibit, 2010

cosmology image from Jung's Red Book

mandala from The Red Book

Goddess Worship

La Chapelle Notre-Dame de la Medaille Miraculeuse is a beautiful sanctuary nestled in the center of Paris. The mosaic tiled walls at the altar gleam in fantastic hues of blue, white, and gold to create celestial backdrops, borders of lilies, bursts of light emanating from sacred hearts. A majestic Virgin, crowned and standing with angels, reigns over the entire space. This is the vision of holiness that appeared to St. Catherine in 1830, when she was a young, inexperienced nun just letting go of her place in the world outside the convent. The exhumed and mysteriously preserved body of St. Catherine sits to the left of the altar, and a quieter, more contemplative Madonna flanks on the right. This Virgin is a youthful, innocent woman, standing on the moon, a serpent at her feet, holding another orb, presumably the earth, in her hands. The image, though made overtly Christian with a cross stuck in the “earth”, also brings to mind many goddess images I have seen, from many traditions, over many spans of human history. And so I began to think more broadly about the very specific Virgin Mary inculcated in my mind as a child:

She is the Mother of All; moon, earth, heavens. The goddess divine both present in the world, and holding the world in her hands. She stands tall, confident, infallible. A snake appears at her feet, in this case meaning to symbolize the Christian female reclaiming Paradise from Eve’s error, a mark of triumph as her foot holds down the serpent and all its evil connotations in Christianity. But serpents have long accompanied images of goddesses as a symbol of wisdom and regeneration. Serpents were once known instantly as powerful symbols of knowledge.

Minoan Snake Goddess from Palace of Knossos, Greece, c. 1600 b.c.

Lid of Egyptian sarcophagus, the Louvre

Sekhmet

Athena

Buddhist Goddess

The Goddess is often depicted as a triple deity: Hera was associated with the three ages of woman; the virgin, the mother, and the old wise hag. (It’s worth noting here that the dictionary refers to “hag” as a witch or ugly old woman. The word “hagia” means holy; as in Hagia Sophia [Holy Wisdom] and Hagia Irene [Holy Peace].) Other goddesses with three aspects or forms: Hecate, the Celtic Brigid… and the three Mary’s present in the gospel stories: Mary of Bethany, the sister of Lazarus; Mary Magdalene, the apostle; and Mary, mother of Jesus.

Hecate

Brigid

Regardless of religious context, certain iconography seems to persist in our “collective unconscious” or social psyche. We continually seek to honor the Mystery of womanhood, the Mother, the earth, the moon and its cycles, the cycles of birth and death, and the Wisdom inherent in these. Whether we call Her the Virgin Mother, Devi, Manjushri, Isis, Shari, Athena, Hecate, Sekhmet, or Sofia; She persists in our hearts and minds.

Tanazanian mother at a clinic

[Note: Titles denote image above.]

Language

(excerpted from the glossary of Karen Armstrong's new work, The Case for God.)

faith. Trust; loyalty; the English translation of the Latin fides ("loyalty; "fealty") and the Greek pistis. It did not originally mean acceptance of orthodox theology. See belief.

belief. Originally the Middle English verb bileven meant "to love; to prize; to hold dear"; and the noun bileve meant "loyalty; trust; commitment; engagement." It was related to the German liebe ("beloved") and the Latin libido ("desire.") In the English versions of the Bible, the translators used these words to render the Greek pistis; pisteuo; and the Latin fides; credo. Thus "belief" became the equivalent of "faith." But "belief" began to change its meaning during the late 17th c. It started to be used of an intellectual assent to a particular proposition, teaching, opinion, or doctrine. It was used in this modern sense first by philosophers and scientists, and the new usage did not become common in religious contexts until the 19th c.

*

We cannot presume that words have always been used in the same way, with the same intent. We cannot assume when a person expresses him/herself with words, that we are perceiving exactly what they mean to convey. Language is a tool, not an absolute. Wisdom gives language its wings. Compassion acts as a bridge to understanding.

21st Century Paris: Monasteries & Cathedrals

Wandering around Paris brings many delightful surprises both historical and contemporary. I appreciate the presence of history in the throes of daily living, as well as the skill at which the French transform historical elements into useful new spaces. It’s an overlapping of time and place that allows a feeling of connection to thrive—connection to our shared past, and our shared present. Aged Catholic monasteries and cathedrals have an especially diligent presence in Paris.

In the 5^th arrondissement, on Rue de Vaugirard, I stumbled upon the doorway to the Monestere de la Visitation, which is very austere and run-down, but scaffolding is visible beyond the wall, a heralding of rehabilitation.

On Rue du Bac, down a cobblestone lane is La Chapelle Notre-Dame de la Medaille Miraculeuse (Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal) where a stunning chapel exists to honor the Virgin and the exhumed body of Saint Catherine, the nun that entered the convent there in 1830 and is said to have had visionary apparitions of instruction from the Virgin Mother. People travel there on pilgrimage from all over the globe and Parisians come throughout their regular day for what seemed like the liturgy of the hours. But even for someone without any interest in Catholic lore, the chapel makes for a welcoming, spirited space for rest and contemplation.

On Rue du Poissy sits an amazing old Cistercian (historically a very strict order) monastery now transformed into Le College des Bernardins, a place for inter-religious conversation, thought, research, and community. The large refurbished nave, with a web of arches, exists as both the entry and a place for art performances and exhibits. A tiny and very simplified meditation room sits tucked in the corner, open for any and all to reflect or pray quietly. Beyond this space is the college itself, with classrooms, libraries, etc.—creating a vibrant institute for intellectual and spiritual dialogue.

And in La Marais, near the Centre Pompidou, is an old run-down cathedral—St. Merri—dirtied by centuries of city air, having survived World War II, having stood unmoved among us and our ancestors, which hosts free classical concerts twice every weekend. It’s freezing inside in the winter, with no heat and very little sun penetrating the foggy stained glass, but all the seats fill for high quality music performances; the thunder of a piano or the cry of the violin echoing through the stone corridor.

Traveling Beyond Doubt, Again

Traveling (especially in foreign lands) uproots us from our habitual mind and usual comforts. It takes us out of fixed time and place, out of fixed ideas, and offers a barrage of new experience that stimulates the intellect and opens the heart. If you have ever wondered what people mean by “living in the present,” look to travel as example. During vacation or travel we are imminently aware from one moment to the next without our usual worrying about the future or obsessing on something that happened last week. The relaxation (and joy) we experience is simply a becoming present without the other psychological baggage we usually carry with us. It’s the state of being we might strive for in our everyday lives, a means to greater peace and capacity to love.

In Paris I surrendered to the “marvelous times” of the moment and found myself watching carefully, witnessing myself with a distance that allowed all sorts of new understanding to arise. I had set out across the ocean with hopes of finding clarity about some things in my life. When lightening bolts did not strike my head, dictating that I make this choice or move to that city, I was at first discouraged. Then I began to pay attention to what had my attention each day! The places I found myself seeking in Paris, the intensity with which I studied certain objects in museums, the inspiration I found myself jotting into a notebook, all create a picture I had not noticed before. In hindsight it becomes even more formed and recognizable, though still in some vague state. It requires faith, and discipline, to keep with the process; to believe that the answers I seek are here within my “reach,” even if my fingers cannot touch them.

*

Coming up in February…old Paris monasteries, hidden goddess worship, medieval artifacts from both France and the Middle East; as well as a renewed statement of purpose for Vigorous Faith.

Oh Paris, My Paris

It was a dazzling trip; a winter walk through history, creativity, and surprise. But nothing came out of this trip that I might have expected. On the contrary, what bubbled to the surface were realizations and perceptions that were wholly different than what I would expect for myself. But when I embarked on the Paris journey I made a conscious intention to be open to whatever would be revealed; to just be open, an emptied vessel to fill or not to fill. And so it was.

It is with wonder that I now understand how the most subtle shift in perception can shift the cosmos. Nothing dramatic or reality-tv inclined, just a thin sheath of fog moving this way and that, a change in light, a tender brush of wind on a bridge. And, voilà, something is now different than it had been before.

We often make the mistake of wanting huge, materially visible outcomes to mark what is new or different in our lives. We need to touch the wound with our own hands to believe it exists. Yet, with concentrated awareness comes recognition of a more subtle plane of experience. A knowing without touching...

Paris

I'm headed to Paris this upcoming week. I expect there will be many cathedrals to visit and much art, music, and beautiful architecture to attend to. Not to mention great company and sundry delicacies. It's the perfect voyage after a long year(s) of growth challenges; an opportunity to re-attune to the harmony and grace of Life, so that I can manifest some positive, foundational changes in my life.

And after six months trying out "Vigorous Faith", I suspect the blog could use some readjustments as well, which I will be thinking about during my travels. If anyone has any suggestions or comments on what direction the blog might take to be more accessible and more interesting, please let me know!

Until then, a bientot mes amies!

Marvelous Times

When I asked a friend if they could recommend any good hip-hop/rap music with positive and meaningful lyrics; instead of guns, booty, and bling, they suggested Mos Def. So I picked up the cd, The Ecstatic, over the holidays. In the song "Life in Marvelous Times", the narrator is looking over his difficult childhood and challenging growth years with that sacred detachment that helps us stay present. The song culminates in a wave of gratitude:

wherever you ride, whatever your name,

this road called life is a beautiful thing

and we are alive in amazing times

delicate hearts, diabolical minds

revelations, hatred, love and war...

it's scary like hell, but there's no doubt

we can't be alive in no time but now.

And when I heard the phrase "marvelous times" sung in repetition... it revealed itself as a perfect catch phrase for that phenomenon called "staying present". This moment, right now, is marvelous times.

New Year's

The beginning and the end of a year are mere constructs of the human mind. They are linear configurations making road signs in the cycle of nature. Of course such things "matter" for history and finances, for marketing or for measuring age. But birds and trees and rivers care nothing for such endeavors; and we humans shouldn't take them so seriously ourselves.

Though it is satisfying to call it quits and look forward in a fresh light; a purely psychological exercise in regards to "a new year", but one we seem to count on. One that validates our fragile sense of self. One that we can stand upon and say: "This is real. This is secure." But nothing about time and space can be counted on for security.

So we revel in the chance to start over or categorize last year's defeats as behind us. But we can also revel in each moment of our lives and become timeless, ageless, year-less.

*

May the blessings of endings always bring the blessings of beginnings in your life. Happy New Year to all!

What Child Is This?

A renewed and pertinent understanding of the Christmas story, by Karen Armstrong, printed in the LA Times: click here.

Christmas

[Circular Letter, Advent-Christmas, 1967] The times are difficult. They call for courage and faith. Faith is in the end a lonely virtue. Lonely especially where a deep authentic community of love is not an accomplished fact, but a job to be begun over and over... Love is not something we get from Mother Church as a child gets milk from the breast: it also has to be given. We don't get love if we don't give any.

Christmas, then, is not just a sweet regression to breast-feeding and infancy. It is a serious and sometimes difficult feast. Difficult especially if, for psychological reasons, we fail to grasp the indestructible kernel of hope that is in it. If we are just looking for a little consolation-we may be disappointed.

--Thomas Merton. The Road to Joy, Robert E. Daggy, editor (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1989): 108

*

A deeply authentic community of love. This is not a given, and requires diligence. Most of us may not even know such an idealized communion. Impatience, old grudges, habitual behaviors, holiday perfection-fatigue, loss: these can often speak louder than love. Because among us, love is quiet and patient and unassuming. Love smiles at a mistaken slight and burns away fear in the hearth fire like kindling. And Merton reminds us that we must give love to bask in its blessings. We must be love, to witness it. Is this possible in a family of many, each struggling for their own identity and security and voice to be heard? There is hope, of course, as in that elusive hope in Christmas lore. The indestructible kernel of hope, he says.

Hope hides in the ritual birth of a child—in children born every day. Life created, again and again. Life exists. Every morning, a new day. Every January, a new year. Wise "men" and glimmers of celestial light have always been and will always be, no matter our own stresses and family dramas and insecurities.

The assurance: faith—that after the snow and frost, after the months of cold hard earth in readied sleep, that life will recreate Itself again. That after a long day, another one begins with refreshed energy. That a child will be born after nine quiet, unassuming months in the womb.

Joyous Christmas, and New Year blessings for all. May our difficult times be devoured by Love. Amen.

(Merton quote received via weekly email newsletter from The Merton Institute. To subscribe, go here.)

Diversity is a gift.

It is a means by which we help each other catch a glimpse beyond the veil of our own particular conditioned mind.

Surrender

Praise be to You, Most Supreme God, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, All-pervading, the Only Being. Take us in Your Parental Arms, raise us from the denseness of the earth, Your Beauty do we worship, to You do we give willing surrender.

When I am attuned, I can feel that I'm holding on too tightly, tensing, constricting my muscles, and so probably too my heart. I might be knitting and realize the stitches are very terse against the needle and I understand where focus has been, then consciously relax my stitch. If the stitch is too loose, I'm trying too hard. But when I surrender to the movement of my fingers and hands, surrender to the act of creative rhythm, the stitches are just right.

It's the same, I've noticed, when I'm practicing yoga. In ashtanga yoga, there is the ujjayi breath, a constricting of the throat so that the breath passes along the back of the throat with a whispery hiss. This is to allow better control of and focus on the breath while practicing the asanas, or postures. But I often find myself struggling with that breath, feeling as if I'm not getting quite enough air, swallowing between exhales, interrupting my focus with my tight clinging. This has been going on for the entire year I've been practicing yoga, and the other night I had a break-through understanding that I was holding on too tightly. That like the knitting, there is a space where everything flows in harmony, where ujjayi is like a feather riding on the wind. And this I accomplished by just letting go. Surrendering to all of my life, not just my yoga practice, but coming to the mat with the attitude, "Okay, this is what there is. Let me be here."

These are gifts of surrender to take into my daily life, gems of understanding that change everything because they have been seen. Stress, conditions, circumstances, the holidays,... so many disrupting torrents causing me to hold tightly trying to steady the way. But the way is in surrender. Opening up the arms, the ribcage, the breath, the heart... and meeting whatever is there tenderly.

(Image: Statuette of goddess at the palace of Knossos, 13c. BC, Herakleion Museum.)

A Poem in Preparation for Winter

Let the lips open

revealing a river of fire

the heaving of fire

cleansing away

cleansing away

the Before

I'm a big proponent of the old adage:

If you don't have anything nice to say,

don't say anything at all.

Both right speech and silence are underutilized.

I or You?

Open our hearts that we may hear Thy voice, which constantly cometh from within.

Language is as boundless as we let it be, or as imprisoning as we make it. We may pray to "You", which implies an other, outside of us, while perfectly aware that the You is within. We may say "I am" with the power of One or the spirit of Many. Intention gives language its use. A word has two, three, ... infinite sides, all mirrors, all feathers in the wind.

A story of two lovers reaped from The Sufi Book of Life, by Neil Douglas-Klotz:

He knocked at her door.

"Who is there?" she asked.

"It is I," he responded.

"Go away. There is no room for you and I," she said.

He retreated to the forest and then returned, knocking on her door again.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It is you, " he said.

The door opened.

Renewing Faith

Not faith in a faraway godhead that watches over us from the rim of a cloud, or a prophet saviour, or a guru, or a church of securities, but

faith in the abundance of the universe. Faith in the gracious intelligence of Life. Faith in compassion and wholeness. Faith in yourself, not in the simplistic pep-talk sense, but in your Self, the divine you.

Vigorous faith: energetic, vibrant, whole, immortal.

Depression

Depression is the ultimate loneliness, the ultimate isolation-perspective. When we understand, and then as a result, feel the unity and connectedness of all life, we can no longer feel depression because there is no "I" to feel it. Ego disappears. All is One.

Unfortunately, much of our particular socio-cultural system, habits, and conditioning pushes us away from that connectivity. We struggle to feel the wholeness among the habits of the Western (especially American) lifestyle. Even when we know some other way of being in our life would be healthier, more fulfilling, it is so much easier to fall into the main-stream, where the current is strongest. We are tired, we don't have the gumption to fight that force. And as we get caught up we become fixated on saving the "me" at all costs, so that all connectivity is a blur. Unity is there of course, but we can't witness is through the fog. Loneliness and lack of faith sets in. And the cycle burns again.

What happens if we step outside the cycle by stepping aside of the bully current? Who are we then? What is our relationship to Life then?

Lost Faith

Where do we go when we've lost faith? When the day is full of hopeless moments and the night feels like a bridge crumbling beneath us? Can we open our hearts to that particular suffering? Can we submit to the dark unknown beneath our footing and let our hearts relax into that infinite space? To find footing again, anew, in a fresh place.

It is not easy.

Setting out a bouquet of roses, baking some muffins, finding a new project or a new book-- keeping present, keeping alive in the details; these are small stones where our foot can touch down, even if we can't see an inch ahead of us. It is the soft glimmer of faith waking behind the dark reeds.

Perfectly Imperfect

The word practice is key. We practice patience and generosity and forgiveness. We practice awareness of the sacredness of life around us. One of the charms of humanity is our fallibility, and yet we still practice diligently, as though it is in the practice, not the perfection, that we can most fully open our hearts.

praxis

pratica

الممارسة

praksis

בפועל

πράξη

pratique

연습

практика

práctica

अभ्यास

Ahimsa

The venerable Mohandas K. Gandhi wrote of ahimsa:

Non-violence is not a garment to be put on and off at will. Its seat is in the heart, and it must be an inseparable part of our very being.

(from Nonviolence in Peace and War, 61, 1948, by way of Merton's Gandhi, 36, 1964)

I ponder this a while, excavating less referred-to forms of violence in my daily life, ones that are more subtle than what we usually consider. For instance, when I scream at someone in anger, I commit violence against them. I imagine most people would disagree with me about this being categorized as violent, but what do you feel when screaming at another person in anger? How does your body feel? And their reaction? Merriam-Webster defines violence as 3 a : intense, turbulent, or furious and often destructive action or force b : vehement feeling or expression : also : an instance of such action or feeling c : a clashing or jarring quality. Is there not a vehement and unloving force being spewed upon them? When someone yells at you, does your body not tense up in self-defense? Does your heart clench and your temperature rise?

More subtly still, when I deride myself for being useless or a failure or too [fill in the blank], even if it is but a fleeting condemnation, I am commiting violence against myself. This tiny aspect affects my state of being certainly, and by extension, my treatment of those around me. It sets the tone for easy judgement of others. And where there is judgement, there is fear. Fear, the incubator of violence.

And truthfully, when I go out and "get trashed", pounding alcohol or drugs into my body as fast and furiously as possible, trying desperately, if unconsciously to end my suffering, I am committing violence against myself. I'm not suggesting all forms of alcohol intake or instances of being drunk are attributable to this. But many of us, if not all, know the particular behavior I refer to. The whiny little self-demise that creeps up amid all the hoopla of "having a good time" out in the shadows, when what we are really doing is hurting, running, hiding.

It starts very simply perhaps. Compassion for ourselves. Affording ourselves some patience and non-judgement out of self-love. Extending this practice to the person next to us. Practicing it every moment, extending further and further so that it reverberates in our schools, businesses, government.

Ahimsa, compassion, love; these seem intertwined like a finely crafted rope that cannot easily be separated. A rope that can hold our weight as we dangle over the depths of our suffering.