You will not be hearing from me for a few more days. I’m on-the-road….
Yearly Archives: 2009
Where Did I Go?
I’ve know Brenda for a very long time. We often talk together about meditation and practice. She is a gem. A gem among gems. Who is not a gem, glowing in the darkness.
I’m always encouraging people to reflect, and writing can be a useful tool to aid reflection. In the process of writing new insights can emerge. Here is an example of reflection on experience and the emergence of understanding through the process of writing. OK, I did apply a bit of pressure to get her writing! As a correspondent mentioned in an email this morning, in response to asking her to start writing, I would like to give it a try (and sometimes pressure is good, innit?) She’s another natural.
You remember when we talked and I told you that I felt as if I had lost something, and I didn’t know what it was? Well, at the time we talked I couldn’t make any sense of this, and the temptation was to dismiss the whole thing as over-active imagination. It was an uncomfortable feeling you know, – to be aware that something integral had gone and to be unable to access it. You asked if this worried me and as I considered the question I realised that there was fear around and also a recognition that to go down that path would simply confuse the issue. As we talked I recognised my habitual tendency to spiral down (mentally and physically), so your suggestion, Think up! was very timely and I used it as a means of dealing with the disquiet and by the time I went home the feeling of loss had abated and I think I was enjoying the post-retreat period.
Yesterday a whole lot of stuff presented itself to be looked at. I realised that what I had lost was the internal dialogue and thus the persona who constantly wants to explain itself to itself, the whatever that never rests, that re-establishes itself on every re-awakening. Middle of the night awake, and almost before the feet touch the floor this internal ego-me is in dialog with itself, re-establishing its’ identity, re-recognising itself, re-assuring it-self that it still exists. I found my-self scrabbling around, trying to solidify, desperate to anchor itself. This is where it gets a bit difficult. It’s like I knew I’d lost something and it was frightening because I didn’t know what and now I knew and it was even more frightening because where had the familiar voice gone and how would I manage without it?
To add to the confusion is the recognition that without the internal voice there is peace, there is space. Once I had let the disquiet of not knowing go, every thing was OK. Now I know again and this time I have to find a way to embrace the so frightened me and be willing to let it go. And it is scary stuff and I know I may have gone too far in my thoughts. And I wonder if there is a connection here with the permeable being?
With Bows,
Brenda
In answer to your question, yes I think it would be a good idea for you to further contemplate, what you have described to me in the past as the permeable being.
A Still Place For Reflection
I’m so delighted to point you to the work of a Dutch artist, a practicing member of the OBC community in The Netherlands, who has created a wonderful contemplative space in a nursing home in Delfshaven. The site has just recently been translated into both English and German and is, in turn, the work of another Dutch woman artist in our congregation. What talent! I’ve known them both for many years, I can’t say enough good things about them. And here is a link to the home page of the site I’m referring to. Great poem from Basho on there
‘There is little place for reflection in our society, so what I had in mind was to literally and figuratively make room for quiet contemplation here, in the middle of a busy nursing home in multicultural Delfshaven Rotterdam.’ Meulendijks decided not to place a work of art in the space, but to make the space itself into a work of art. The goal was to create a place that excludes no one due to religious affiliation or physical challenges. First, she constructed a detailed model to adapt the existing space to these purposes. She altered the structure and layout and employed motifs from religious architecture to create a visually subdued, serene experience for visitors. Her choice to use circle and dome patterns, as universal spiritual symbols, places the emphasis not on our differences but on the shared human experience of an inner life. All the same, Meulendijks designed mobile furniture and liturgical objects to allow different religious groups to temporarily tailor the chapel to their specific needs. In addition to traditional craftsmanship and handwork, the artist and her team also made use of anachronistic details in the chapel – not in an attempt to resurrect the past, but rather to make all sense of time disappear.
The result is a public space that gives visitors the seclusion they need to listen to the silence.
From The Zorg Compas Chapel, Rotterdam.
See more of Ingeborg’s work and schedule of exhibitions on her web site.
Running In Circles
Yesterday morning my sister, Judy, and her youngest son and his wife left for Oklahoma from California in a sort of reverse migration of events in American history. Many of the reasons were the same: untenable living conditions and keeping (most of) the family together. Compared to the bloated and collapsing California economy, Oklahoma has reasonable housing prices and more available work. And of course there’s my sister’s oldest son, wife, and two year old child already there; the growing edge of a thinned out family tree. A small part of a new American history, a large part of a new family story.
Well, new and old actually. My father emigrated from Denmark in the wake of the crumbling European aristocracy in the 1920’s, my Iowa-farm-girl mother fled alcoholism and domestic violence for the big city of Chicago. Eventually they left Illinois for work and a healthier climate and worked their way to California in their two-toned 1951 Chevy, my sister and I in the back seat munching cookies. Route 66.
The last days of preparing to leave were, of course, chaotic. It’s impossible to pull up roots without loosening the very soil around you. And there are no close passive observers in family moves, my roots were being yanked even though I wasn’t moving. We drew closer and more honest about our feelings. And more honest about what life looks like through the cracks of altered ordinariness. Every interaction became a reminder that it was one of the last before the big change. If excited, we reveled in the betweeness; if tired, we retreated to observations of how “it could be worse”. Family stories of births and deaths circulated amongst the constant revision of plans.
The big day came. Nancy’s and my house became the staging ground for the departure and I cooked a big breakfast. At times giddy, at times stuck in a middle distance gaze, we were reminded that much of what is good in life is unbelievable.
After they left I started cleaning the house but it was as if I had one foot nailed to the floor. I went from task to task without completing anything. Objects defied me and hid themselves from my use or just broke at my approach. When the computer froze and wouldn’t allow me to send an email to the nephew in Oklahoma, I bolted in frustration and went out on the front porch for some fresh air. I found there a hummingbird trapping itself against the glass ceiling of a skylight, frantically beating itself against the unseen. Her situation spoke to me directly.
I slowed down the internal rush of anxiety, exhaustion, and excitement and fetched the ladder. Step by small step, I put the ladder in place and carefully climbed to the hummingbird, gently caught it, and stepped down the ladder. Each step was an act complete in itself, each feeling of completeness releasing an individual emotion. This step: sadness; this step: joy; this step: fear; this step: release. As I cleaned off the cobwebs on her wings, the hummingbird cleaned off mine. We were both spent. Opening my hand, she rested briefly and flew off.
It’s a Quiet Night
She said it was a Quiet Night, so I’m quiet.
Being quiet.
Sounds – sights – smells – silence. All together quiet.
Everything quiet – still. And still the sound of water.
Remembered. In silence – in a grave.
…the evening draws on.