The gale force winds that have blown on the bright, clear
days in recent weeks have plunged me into reflection on whether my mood is
influenced by Mother Nature’s state or, conversely, Mother Nature is just one
of the many living things mirroring back my mood. Researchers, policemen,
emergency room doctors, psychics, and mystics have waxed scientific and poetic
on the direct correlation between the full moon and the spike in the incidence
of acts strange, aggressive, paranormal, or otherwise mystical. There’s also
solid data indicating that it takes about 20 minutes of sitting in silent
stillness in the forest before the birds and animals will resume their normal
activity, so deep is the disruption caused by humans’ typical incursions into
their habitat, all chatter and heavy footfall or iPod-connected disconnection. And perhaps you, too, experience a tendency
toward gladness on glistening sunlit days, a more melancholic mood when the
gray or wet weather sets in? So there is some basis to claim resonance between
Human Nature’s inner states and Mother Nature’s outer states.
Lately, I’ve noticed that on the days on which tumult reigns
in my head, it seems to mimic the high-tempered winter wind’s awesome force,
terrific speed, and ever-changing direction. The very days that I find myself
stymied in my job search, pierced by the delivery or reception of particularly
hurtful or angry words, questioning the providence even the basic elements of a
stable life absent a paycheck, the wind seems to reach crescendo pitches. It
whips the Bay into a white-capped froth, tears limbs from trees, and nearly halts
the progress of winged creatures.
I was sharing this observation with a friend recently.
Well-apprised of my current endeavor to re-make my life so that it harmonizes
more fully with my values, passions, and understanding of my particular path of
service, she astutely observed that any good home remodel typically
necessitates demolition. “It’s as if
Mother Nature is in sync with you, Caitlin, like She understands that you might
need to knock a few walls down, to push out some boundaries. She’s offering her
own special signature of affirmation, encouraging you to press onward into the
chaos and trust that the wind storm will subside, that peace and clarity will
meet you on the other side.”
In her poem The Journey,
Mary Oliver shares her own experience of navigating the more stormy period of
life:
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and
began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices
behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and
deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
We each come to the practice of meditation with hearts and
minds full of whatever calm or chaos our Human Nature has dialed in for that
particular day and hour. At times, my practice can be akin to sitting down next
to a crystal clear blue-green sea, a gentle breeze kissing my cheek, golden
sunlight bathing me in warmth and comfort. My breath’s steady inflow and
outflow harmonizes with the tide’s gurgle toward the shore and babbling retreat
seaward. I drop deep into a state of openness, trust, spaciousness, connection
– almost as if I am floating atop the open ocean perched on a secure,
comfortable life raft.
Other times – perhaps closer to the majority of the time
these days - I sit to meditate and the simple gesture of closing my eyes brings
up a garish stream of painful memories, biting self-judgments, fearful
prognostications about the future. I struggle to disengage the Super 8 movie
reel that spews scenes of rejection, disappointment, wounding, anger,
fearfulness. My breath is there, then it’s gone. When I’ve lost it, I lose all
connection to the deep well of sanity and clarity at the heart of meditation.
The wind scares up towering waves that pitch my life raft about, and I’m white-knuckling
to keep my seat. I can’t wait ‘til the ride is over.
What I’m discovering is that what stands in the way of my
enjoyment and nourishment from both types of meditation experiences – indeed,
of my capacity to engage life’s challenges with certain knowledge that I have
abundant resources to meet and overcome them – is my own perception, which is
linked fundamentally to my capacity to accept what is, without judgment. Consider
Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, just moments before he is seized by Roman
soldiers, imprisoned, and subject to a horribly painful, slow, humiliating
death. Testimony to His humanity, Jesus prays first that the cup of suffering He
anticipates be taken from Him – He prays for escape. Moving more deeply into
his period of silent prayer, Jesus acknowledging the unlikelihood of being spared
the indignities and pain of His crucifixion journey. Next, He prays for
acceptance – simply to be with what is, and to trust that He will have the
physical and emotional stamina to meet each challenge as it comes. Jesus
specifically chooses these moments to be in solitude and silence, to go inward
and commune with the Divine in order to reaffirm His unfailing connection to
the source of love and of life, to the wellspring of forgiveness, healing, resourcefulness,
comfort, resiliency, creativity, and possibility.
These days, I feel as if my meditation practice has a lot in
common with Christ’s prayer time in the Garden. I picture the wind howling
through the olive trees with a force capable of uprooting them. I imagine the cheetahs,
leopards, and squirrels taking cover in their caves and middens. I see the
unwavering stream of moonlight illuminating Jesus as he sits, perhaps brooding
on the turmoil present in his life. I see Jesus sitting silently, unmoving, dropping
into a state of deep and open receptiveness.
Like Jesus, in my own moments of anguish, visceral fear,
heartbreaking disappointment, in confusion and uncertainty, I am trying to
commit myself to sit is stillness, in silence. I assure myself that Jesus took
from this period of meditative prayer all that He needed to navigate the
ultimate transition – the journey from life, through intense suffering, to
death. So, too, I know that the Buddha’s own unwavering dedication to silence
and stillness resulted in his attainment of Enlightenment, to his release from
suffering.
In faith and trust, then, I’m striving to surrender within my
meditation practice, to allow my life raft to float on the open ocean, whatever
the weather. I’m choosing to believe in the practice’s life-sustaining and
life-saving benefits and to have faith that clarity and peace do rest on some
far shore that is, nonetheless, within reach.
I’ll leave you with a simple
prayer, a set of Beatitudes for 2015 called The
Greatest Gifts.
May we break down boundaries,
tear down walls, and build on the foundation of goodness inside each of us.
May we look past differences,
gain understanding, embrace acceptance. May we reach out to each other, rather
than resist.
May we be better stewards of
the earth, protecting, nurturing, and replenishing the beauties of nature.
May we practice gratitude for
all we have, rather than complain about our needs.
May we seek cures for the
sick, help for the hungry, and love for the lonely.
May we share our talents,
give our time, and teach our children.
May we hold hope for the
future very tenderly in our hearts and do all we can to build for bright
tomorrows.
And may we love with our
whole hearts, for that’s the only way to love.
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