Do I Have To?

 

“And then

the knowledge comes to me

that I have space

within me

for a second,

timeless

larger life.”

 

This quote by Rilke (“I Love My Being’s Dark Hours”) found me at just the right moment. I was sinking into some habitually dark hours of my own, focusing on the lack of clarity about my future.  Reading it, my breath softened in my chest, as things quieted and released around me.  My response to it was visceral rather than intellectual; I don’t believe or understand this, as much as I feel it.

I thought I was done.  Really.  I’ve had a great career at Kripalu, teaching, coaching and writing for these twenty-six years.  It has been both a privilege and a blessing to be a part of so many people’s lives and to have learned so very much in the process. I had imagined that, as I got older and more weary of the grind of a forty-hour week, of showing up early, of staying late, of teaching (I HAVE BEEN CONSISTENTLY TEACHING FOR 46 YEARS.), that I would wind down hours, teach a bit, always have Kripalu programs to keep my heart open to the process, to keep some money and clients flowing in.  For reasons I don’t understand, Kripalu no longer represents this to me.  Nothing is wrong—it is just different now.  And in this emerging difference, I realize, to my dismay, that I am just simply not done.  Not done doing what, I ask myself?  Not done—being of service, not done bringing in an income, not done offering what I have learned to the world?  I guess all of the above.  Retirement?  I don’t think so.  Rewire-ment sounds more like it.

Who might I be, if I wasn’t working full time in that building on the hill?  How might my wires be re-ordered?  It sounds so simple, so obvious.  I could sit with you while you work through a transition of this nature—I could help you breathe and relax, open to new possibilities, to imagine what might be and so on.  Yet, can I sit with myself?  Can I sit with my own vulnerability, with that terrified little child in me who hides behind the grownup facilitator, the person with the microphone and the illusion of control?

I know I can do this—I just don’t feel that yet.  And I guess that’s a good enough place to be.

I want to see myself bigger than and beyond that Kripalu building.  Developmentally, it appears, I am compelled to see what else might be alive for me professionally.  Nothing has to happen now; no proclamations need to be declared.  I am simply in a process of widening my lens.  And, quite frankly, I am not yet delighted about this opportunity.  It frightens me to the bone.  Yet the universe seems to be aligning to offer me assuring comfort and general possibilities.  (No specifics, yet, damn it.)  The first general comfort was this Rilke verse that made its way to me.  It grabbed my heart; it softened and soothed it.

The second universal intervention/reassurance happened last week, while coaching a woman. Her husband, in his early sixties, was in the final months of his life; his living with Alzheimer’s was ending.  She was honest and raw and opened with me, her big blue eyes seemingly getting bigger as she talked.  She looked at me, took a breath and said, “My life lies in front of me”.  Her words chilled me, inspired me, and encouraged me.  She taught me.

My life does lie in front of me.  I have zero idea what might unfold, but I do believe that, one step at a time, more will be revealed.  I believe that my “second, timeless larger life” is in front of me, my final chapter of dharma, waiting, opening its arms—not in my timetable—but waiting, nevertheless. And all I have to do today is nothing—just to show up, do my best to be right here, right now—and to allow the future to beckon me.

Do you relate to any of this, dear readers?  What is calling you forward in your life?  Are there surprise detours awaiting you?  Do you feel a fluidity in your dharma, in your purpose, summoning you?  What do you make of this?

 

Six Reasons for Practicing Being in the Moment

 

#1.  It’s just easier.  The energy it takes to participate in the illusion of control, ruminating about what has already happened or worrying about what might happen, is exhausting and never-ending.  Once landed in the present, being in the moment, right here and right now, is fairly effortless.  That wonderful saying, there is nowhere to go and nothing to do, does come literally to life.

#2.  The health benefits are ridiculously positive.  Evidence based data tells us that attempting to manage emotions rather than simply experiencing them negatively impacts many of the body’s systems.  Suppression of feelings increases the sympathetic activity (fight/flight/freeze), decreases a sense of connection, and impacts memory negatively.  By staying as present as we can, we allow the body to enter the parasympathetic nervous system, that zone of rest and digest, where the body can rest, repair, and actually regenerate.

#3.  This is where It is.  It?  What the heck do I mean by that?  Call this “It” whatever works for you.  Call it life.  Call it energy.  Call it grace.  Call it prana.  Call it God.  Call it love.  Call it presence.  Call it Higher Power.  Call it healing.  That place which is greater than the mind, that place in which to savor and relax—that’s right here, right now and nowhere else.

#4.  Fun is happening here.  When I am so busy ruminating about that emotional bump with my boss that did or did not happen last week, I miss the magical sighting of the squirrel scampering through the woods, her mouth stuffed with something several times larger than her entire head.  Spontaneous delight—yep, that’s in the moment.

#5.  Living in present time and in the present tense beats the alternative.  Remember that fabulous movie, Groundhog Day?  Bill Murray’s poor character lives and lives again that one endless day from his ancient history.  Releasing the past and living now frees us from falling into the same hole of response, over and over again.  Have you ever noticed you have the same boss, job after job?  Or perhaps you see that you are attracted to the same lover, despite the name, haircut, or era?  Yep.  That’s what I’m talking about.

#6.  Not only do we owe it to ourselves, we owe our presence to other people.  Our families, our children, our parents, strangers on the street, all—when we bring that place of emptiness to others, no matter how imperfectly, we leave the campsite better than we found it, in that famous (or not) Girl Scout dictate.

What do you think?  Why are the benefits of this practice for you?  And remember, whatever you do that quiets your mind, from yoga or meditation, to walking or hot bathing or cat hugging—as your mind quiets, the moment emerges.  This is the practice.

Yes, This Means You

A new monk went to the Master and said, “I have just entered the monastery: please give me some guidance.”

The master asked, “Have you eaten your rice gruel?”

“Yes, I have eaten”, the novice answered.

“Then go wash your bowl,” the master advised. 

– Zen saying 

Really?  Wash the bowl?  That’s the entire spiritual guidance offered?  Can it really be that simple?  Why is it that our tendency is to over-complicate things, especially on the spiritual path? Maybe this practice of being present can be as simple as breathing and relaxing into the next, best thing to do.

In meditation, we identify loving and gentle tethers, anchors to bring our awareness back into the moment.  The tether might be the breath, a mantra, or perhaps the sensations in the body, like on the yoga mat.  As the master advises above, couldn’t the stabilizing anchor be the next right action to take, with gentle and loving presence?

I talk myself into overwhelm with such frequency—do you identify with this pattern?  Just today, sitting at my desk, twelve different projects seemed to call my name, all at once.  Different folders were open, both on my computer and on my desk, all vying for my attention.  I felt as if I was sinking into the abyss of over-thinking and overwhelm.  Fortunately, I remembered to take a good breath. I got up, took a seven minute walk through the building.  I allowed my breath to move me forward.  I got some water, made my way back to that slippery slope called my office.  As I sat down, I picked up the most time-sensitive project.  Putting the others away and out of sight, I was able to do one piece at a time on this most current project, working my way forward and through it.  The breath carried me.

What about you?  How can you simplify your day—today, just this day?  What’s the next, best thing to do right now?  Imagine you could take just one step at a time.  Where would this lead you today?  Give yourself permission to practice keeping it simple, right in this moment.

I Swear, It Really Did

When I was a tiny child, I was positive that, if I could become a cowboy, everything would be alright.  Life on the plains, sitting on my pony, deeply home in my saddle, eating beans and playing my guitar—all would surely mend my tiny, wounded, still unnamed lesbian heart.  Disguised to myself as a cowboy, everything would be alright.  Then I could rescue the threatened homesteaders; then I could protect the lovely maidens.  Of this I was certain.   It all hinged on playing the guitar—that was the entryway to heaven.  Hence, playing the guitar became an obsessive desire of my youth.  My parents eventually caved to my almost-frantic demands.  At the age of eight, I began my foray into the self-soothing world of guitar-playing.

My first guitar was made of laminated brown not-quite wood with a looming black stencil of a cowboy riding a bucking bronco.  Mr. Galucci, owner of Galucci’s Music Store on Lackawanna Avenue, handed it to me oh, so kindly.  I held it close and didn’t let go.  I continued my lessons, Wednesday afternoon after Wednesday afternoon, throughout my childhood.  My bucking bronco guitar eventually morphed into a lovely Gibson acoustic.  My folk music morphed into cord picking and, in high school, into some light classical playing.  I loved the physicality of the sound in my body, the intimacy of the weight of the guitar pressing against me, the rhythm that I didn’t know I had, rhythm emerging in spite of my crushing self-consciousness.  I played alone or I played with Mr. Galucci, in his little windowless studio—that was the range of my expression.  And in those moments in which I became the sound, I was freed.

And then I stopped.  The adolescent narrative I created demanded that I had to play for others, externalizing this gift, this intimate and private monogamous love affair.  Yet my guitar and I literally could not comfortably leave my room.  Rather than confronting this limitation, I just stopped playing.  My parents didn’t push the issue (as a parent, I hope I that would have).  I simply collapsed into silence.  I carried the Gibson with me, untouched, throughout my active addiction, eventually leaving it behind in the ugliness and chaos of a horrid breakup.  The Gibson was the true loss there.

Years ago in recovery, in a surge of energy, I bought a nice guitar—not a Gibson, but a good enough acoustic.  I prattled on it a bit, playing over and over my few remembered songs.  However, soon she, too, sat in the corner, gathering dust.  Years have since passed.  Yet in these past few months, in this angst of my pre-pre-pre-retirement transition, I have found a little guitar-litany softly emerging inside my head, whispering, “When I work less, I’ll start playing….”. “When I have more time, maybe I’ll …”.  Not really believing this beckoning, I allowed it to be.

Cut to last Sunday.  Sitting in my 12 Step meeting, I looked down at the probably fake yet still lovely Persian rug on the floor.  What was that raised design, that purple shape on it?  What?  About an inch from my foot, facing me, was— a purple guitar pick!  (See picture—a reenactment).  Really?  I picked it up.  Yep, a guitar pick, exactly the firmness I favored.  For me.  Cosmically delivered.  I was stunned.

I went home, without thought, went to the loft, rescued the guitar and carried her downstairs, out of her seclusion.  She is lovely.  I bought a tuner (not the pitch pipe kind from my childhood, but of some evolved vibrational thing—life has changed.)  I hold her now close to me.  My fingers are tender and slow, yet the chords, the notes, deeper than thought, more elemental than my brain, awaken slowly in me.  Can I give myself this immensity of pleasure?  Can I satisfy this desire, this physical longing to fall into my own rhythms, into my own music?  I don’t know.  But surely the universe wants me to try.

“The Impeded Stream Sings”

I believe that I get exactly what I need to grow and to become more of who I am.  I believe the people, places and things with which I interface are perfectly tailored for my healing and evolution.   Believing in the idea that life is coming to heal me demands ongoing and never-ending leaps of faith.  It is an emotional posture that continually insists that I release the victim stance from my life.  One cannot live this perspective and see oneself as a victim.  That said, what a practice, you guys!  I am sizzling this week, aflame with letting go of what I thought was happening, what I KNEW should be happening.

I’ve been immersed in a book project with a friend for almost a year now.  I felt dearly toward the project, hopeful and excited and engaged about the book’s potential.  I was POSITIVE this was the right direction for me, the next steps perfectly suited for my growth and evolution.  Life now disagrees.  For reasons that I don’t fully understand and couldn’t abide explaining, this particular book is not happening.  However, there is a doorway cracked open for a deeper, solo book to emerge within the same theme, women’s friendship engendering empowered transformation.

I am practicing most imperfectly the art of letting go.  As best as I can, I am allowing my feelings to come and to pass. (Oh, I notice that I don’t do anger well.  Why aren’t I angrier about this?)  I can feel a magnetic craving to leap ahead into Book Proposal # Next.  Yet staying in the unknown, that place that just clings to us with such physicality and tenacity, is so profound and powerful.

There is a Zen koan that says, “Not knowing is the most intimate.”  I have been sitting uncomfortably with the puzzle of this damn koan.  Surely by not knowing next steps, although excruciating, I live with myself so much more deeply.  Rather than being externally focused on and buzzed by the exciting next adventures in doing, there really is nothing to do and nowhere to go. Being in the rising and falling of my feelings and responses is the intimate gift of non-doing. Yuck.  I hate this.  And while hating it, I accept this as what is.

Here’s Wendell Berry’s take on it:

“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,
we have come to our real work,
and when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

What do you think?  Have you ever not known your next steps?  What have you learned, what can you learn, from this posture?  What do you see?  What are the impediments in the stream in which you find yourself swimming today?

 

*Wendell Berry