Life Rings

Life Rings

Mesmerized by the rhythmic swell and subsiding of the sea as the sun popped over the eastern horizon, I became entranced by an enormous stump. Measuring not less than 2 ½ feet across and at least a foot tall, its dense body bobbed effortlessly atop the green waves. As the waves crested, it turned its many-ringed face to me, almost as if to say, “When you’re as old as I, see how easy it becomes to take life a little more lightly, to surrender, to relax into the flow.” I shifted foot to foot over many long minutes, curious whether the energy of a boisterous wave might dash the bulky form upon the sandy shore. Did I want it to, I wondered inwardly? And why? Why upset this perfectly secure marriage of heft and lightness, of fluidity and structure, of density and lightness? As if in response, the solid chocolate brown cylinder bobbed contentedly, untroubled by the lifting and dropping of the green sea.

I turned homeward, my eyes trailing the rocky jetty for sight of shiny cormorants or happy coots, their levity somehow more apparent to me. I regarded the length of the gray line of massive boulders placed to demarcate sandy beach and watery throughway. There, singularly perched like a trophy atop the hodge-podge of rocks, a tremendous stump of driftwood lay on its side. Exponentially grander in size than its water borne drifter, its smooth surface shone like white gold in places, the sea like a metal worker polishing it to a rich patina. Its growth rings smiled back of me. Curled within the, untold stories of a long and storied existence. I imagined the mature redwood standing in a magnificent ring of sister trees, their collective presence a cathedral, its circumference singly and the ring collectively marking sacred ground.

Whether felled by age, fire, or human hand, it had wandered a long, mysterious, aqueous route to this resting place. Its epidermis bore burls and knots now softened by age. I climbed atop the jetty to run my fingers along its smooth sun-kissed skin and discovered a cozy cradle of a seat carved out of the heaven-facing surface. My bum fit perfectly in a soft indentation where the trunk dissolved into the base of the tree and then into a glorious complexity of spirals and flourishes and curlicues where a tangle of roots had once been. Ah, Mother Nature – always the consummate artist!

I rested my back against the length of the stump, the wood smooth against my body, softened by weather and time. Why can I not allow myself to be so softened and made more exquisitely beautiful by the seemingly harsh weather in my own life – prolonged unemployment, personal griefs and disappointments, disconnection from loved ones, a prevailing feeling of uncertainty about my future?  I felt the driftwood stump embracing me. Abandon fear. Eschew certainty. Unfetter your mind. Open your eyes. Expand your heart, Mother Nature’s masterpiece of woodworking counseled.

Indeed, that mass of wind- and water-kissed wood had only to rest in the fullness of its expression:  all solidity, yet lightness of being. Had it not been pitched across watery surfaces for many moons to gain its white gold finish, its lighter than water state? Buffeted by storms, scorched by sun, shined by moon, hallowed by wind. Now here, speaking to me:  

Anything worth doing – even learning to just be – takes time. And everything ripens and blooms in Nature’s own time.

Make of Yourself a Light

I’ve been taken by the morning sky recently, the way that its palette reflects every distinct color of the orange, yellow, and pink range of Crayola’s largest box of crayons. The way it dances across Richardson Bay, anoints Mount Tamalpais, and ignites the underbellies of ascending birds. Winter light seems to have a particularly complex play of shadow and luminosity that calls forth this intensity of reflection. I’m breath-taken by the nuances and shades of light and its capacity to elicit moods - of elation or melancholy, inspiration or hesitation, hopefulness or fear.

In her poem The Buddha’s Last Instruction, Mary Oliver writes:

“Make of yourself a light,”

said the Buddha,

before he died.

I think of this every morning

as the east begins

to tear off its many clouds

of darkness, to send up the first

signal – a white fan

streaked with pink and violet,

even green.

I’ve been trying to take that Last Instruction to heart. I watched a gull overhead in this morning’s early light, it’s body lit up with alabaster tones as it journeyed effortlessly through the air. Ah, to be that lit up, I marveled. What would it take? Shedding of shadow and heaviness, for starters. More time spent dwelling in what’s right rather than what’s wrong. A bent toward gratitude and an open heart for possibility. A commitment to optimism and always giving others the benefit of my doubt. Generosity. Humility in the face of unknowing or lack of understanding. And a whole lot of trust and faith in abundance, in the power of love, in human kindness and truth and justice.

Lest these seem lofty ideals, let me link them to what we do here each week, to the heart of why we come together and sit in silence, to why I strive to be faithful to my meditation practice. I’ve found that, left to its own devices, my mind tends to drift toward chaos and darkness, toward a jungle landscaped with looming hazards, screeching voices, slippery slopes, low-hanging branches and tangled thickets that present formidable obstacles to progress. There’s occasionally quicksand to navigate, too – suffocating heavy wet sand that deadens my limbs and occludes my perspective on life.  I only clearly see just past the end of my nose. My daily interactions become all about me: my needs and wants, my stability and comfort, my very survival. I walk right by the homeless person under a tattered blanket lying on the cold concrete. I bumble around doing mundane tasks while my spouse tries to share the trying events of her day. I grumble under my breath about life’s injustices and people’s greed and malice. My world becomes dark and small, a few square feet of suffering and personal injustices.

On days like this, I’ve learned to take myself outdoors, to Mary Oliver’s playground. There, my perspective widens. It catches the Great Egret tip-toeing throw the shallow water as if on high heels, its Phyllis Diller array of feathers testimony to its lack of concern about whether it’s having a good hair day or the currency and elegance of its wardrobe. I find the sparrows and the chickadees capably scavenging for their morning meal, chattering happily about the menu available in the bracken and driftwood. There’s the slowly-fading waning gibbous moon, too, a bright white linen circle pinned against deepening blue sky.

Allow a few minutes to pass. Now I see a child en route to school tumble from her bike; in a few strides I’m beside her, dusting off striped leggings, consoling, mending ego, sending her along with tears dried, confidence renewed. I recall that it’s the 80^th birthday of a beloved friend, make a mental note to call and tell her how much I treasure her presence in the world. I come upon a discarded paper coffee cup, bend to pick it up. As I do so, a chocolate brown gecko scurries off for denser cover. Its awkward but effective four-legged waddle turns up the corners of my lips.

Other days, I sit myself down on my meditation seat, light a candle, close my eyes, and attune to my breath. I let the gentle cadence of my breath clear my head of images foreboding and terrifying. I invite the stillness to enter my head and slow my racing heart. I take up my mantra – “Openness and Trust” – marinating in the deep receptivity and surrender those words invite. With intention, I soften clenched jaw, release hunched shoulders, relax the furrow in my brow. My breath becomes deeper. Each exhale clears away a little more of the overgrown vegetation in my head. Despite closed eyelids, I’m graced with a soaring bird’s eye view, see myself floating atop a broad, comfortable life raft on the open ocean, body warmed by the sun, no need for navigation, destination, worry. I am right where I am meant to be.

Sometimes during these periods, sharks come and circle my raft – small, mean thoughts; echoes of angry words spoken or received; uncertainty about my future; fears about personal finances; anxiety about drought and floods, plane crashes and horrific terrorist acts. These powerful visions rev up my heartbeat. I lose my breath. My hands and underarms turn clammy, jaw tightens into a vise grip. “Openness and Trust,” I remind myself. I reengage my mantra. I feel myself held. My breath attunes to the ocean’s ebb and flow. I am once again cradles in a strong, sure safety net. My muscles soften as if baked by the sun’s glowing warmth. There is nowhere I need to be but here, no certain moment but now.

I learn over and over again that the project of becoming lit from within demands dedication, humility, surrender, and – at times – a robust sense of humor to surrender to the great mysteries of our human journey. In our meditation practice, we practice all of these, strengthening the muscles that are needed to live a life of awareness, kindness, openness, and focused intention to be of good use in the world. I take myriad lessons from our natural world about the significance of relaxing into the flow of things, of trusting in sufficiency – abundance, even – and of being in the world in ways that elicit inspiration and hopefulness. Each of you helps me to remain dedicated, and always to remember that I am not alone. Humility, too, comes from sharing honestly the ways in which physical and emotional pain can sear and tenderize us; from acknowledging the confusion and profound sadness at man’s inhumanity to man; from expressing to one another our concerns about the grave state of our living planet; and also from calling attention to the mind-stopping beauty of a perfectly-crafted infant, a masterfully rendered painting, a poignant violin concerto, a blazing pink-red winter sunset.

So as the sun descends each day and you, perhaps, quiet your mind, attune to the gift of breath, and settle into a few moments of meditation, I invite you to shine a light on the activities and engagements of the day. May you remember these words of poet Ben Okri (AN AFRICAN ELEGY):

We are the miracles that God made

To taste the bitter fruit of Time.

We are precious.

And one day our suffering

Will turn into the wonders of the earth.

There are things that burn me now

Which turn golden when I am happy.

Do you see the mystery of our pain?

That we bear poverty

And are able to sing and dream sweet things

And that we never curse the air when it is warm

Or the fruit when it tastes so good

Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters?

We bless things even in our pain.

We bless them in silence.

That is why our music is so sweet.

It makes the air remember.

There are secret miracles at work

That only Time will bring forth.

I too have heard the dead singing.

And they tell me that

This life is good

They tell me to live it gently

With fire, and always with hope.

There is wonder here

And there is surprise

In everything the unseen moves.

The ocean is full of songs.

The sky is not an enemy.

Destiny is our friend.

Human Nature, Mother Nature - On Surrender

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.