Choosing

‘We all learn sooner or later that we must gather ourselves up and more of less arbitrarily concentrate our interests, throw much overboard to save any.' William James - from a letter to his brother Henry

I am thinking this morning about the importance of structure and focus to cut through the mindless forward movement of our lives. Without concentrated intention, we just drift along - pushed here and there by the powerful winds of the people around us and the circumstances of our lives. We must 'gather ourselves up' and choose a direction. Through the doorway of limitation we step into a world full of creative possibility.

God Finally Speaks in a Language I Understand

            Yesterday, in the middle of an internal tempest, I walked to the coffee shop down the road for a treat.  On the way, I noticed that the cool air and warm sun seemed perfectly untroubled by the momentous issues and feelings that were swirling through my body.

             Nearing the coffee shop, I looked across the street to the mini-mall that has a bead store,  a Curves franchise, a beauty salon, and some other shop I can’t recall.  There, in the window of the salon, was a handwritten sign saying: “Thank you for your devotion.”

             Now I know there is some logical explanation of why they put that sign in their window that has nothing to do with me.  But, in that moment, I knew it was just for me.  God had decided I needed some direct encouragment to stay the course – to have faith through the turbulence. 

 I laughed out loud, made a small bow and got a small cup of foggy morning coffee with room for cream.

No Knowing

Saturday I drove through the rain to the misty hills of the Berkshires.  Sunday I took a walk with a friend in the morning and raked wet leaves for three hours in the afternoon warmth.  This morning I walk under the dark sky to the nearby convenience store.  Only the brightest stars shine through the streetlights to remind me of something beyond.

            It’s Monday and I’m buying the Boston Globe so I can read the articles about my football team, the Patriots, and their big game yesterday against the Colts.  I had Zen business yesterday so I didn’t watch the game.  The headline on the front page is ambiguous and I intentionally don’t read further as I walk back home, make a pot of tea, and sit down to write and watch the eastern sky come to life one more time.

Putting My Self On

I am lying in bed and notice that I’m not asleep anymore. With some focused effort, I open my sticky eyelids to check the clock one more time. It’s almost five. Nearly time to get up if I want to be able to do some writing before the day’s activities begin.  I slowly begin to journey back into my life.

Like someone tied up and deposited in an unknown location by his fraternity brothers after a night of wild drinking, I realize that I really don’t really know where I am. The physical part is the same – I’m in my room in the temple on Pleasant Street – but when I look closely, I notice that each day is radically different.  Each day is a new landscape, a new country with new customs and new sights and sounds.  And there is a time between sleeping and full waking when I figure out what world I am waking up into. I have to put my self on for the day – like a pair of clothes – selecting the appropriate self for the conditions in which I find myself.  I suppose that I am making all this up, but it feels much more like checking out to see what is already here.  I have to look around to take in some information to get a read on where I am. What is the terrain of the world I am in today?

I’m especially aware of this today because yesterday morning was so challenging. I woke to feelings of despair and separation. I felt stuck in an issue that felt totally unworkable in all its dimensions. This morning is different. I check my body – no major pains or problems, then I imagine forward into my day – an early talk with a Zen student, morning practice at the temple, clients. Then I look into the corners of the day – is anything lurking there to do me harm? Do I need to be afraid? Today, the coast is clear and I notice some lightness through my sleepiness as I shuffle into the bathroom and look out the window into the darkness.

(Photo of Aztec mandala)

Rising Together

This early morning, I sit near a window looking out toward the still dark morning sky. The morning star twinkles through the dark branches near the horizon. The edge sky over the roof of the dark house reveals the first hints of this day that is surely coming.

A few minutes later, I look back at the orange rising day and notice that my guiding star has risen a few degrees. I am struck with the realization that everything is rising. Me and my house and the cars driving by on the street – we’re all rising as we spin effortlessly toward the dawning day.

Now the sky has lightened to gray – continuously turning toward brighter and brighter color at the horizon. The morning star still glimmers, now more faintly visible - still rising into the new sky. Ha! Here it is - irrefutable evidence of the imperceptible turning that rules our lives. I breathe easy.

And as I write and reflect, my star vanishes into the brightness of the rising day. But for the time being, I still believe.

100%

At one of our first work weekends here at the temple in September, a few of us were sitting around after lunch talking. The conversation turned toward this amazing property and how quickly all this had happened – from a vague idea a few months ago, to now getting ready for our first retreat in our new home. One person said: “Thinking back to the spring, what are the odds that we would be sitting here today?”

This thought often passes through my head when I work with groups of people. What are the odds that this particular group of people would be sitting around the circle? People that often don’t know each other. People from all walks of life. What are the odds that these exact people - no more and no less – would be sitting here today – talking or meditating or whatever we are doing?

I think this too about my marriage. What are the odds, out of all the human beings on this planet, that Melissa and I would not only have met each other, but would have been so wildly attracted to each other that we would make the ‘conscious’ choice to live our lives together? And that we would encounter a Zen teacher? And that we would move to Worcester? And that…

But in September, in response to “What are the odds?” Someone - I think it was Ray - said: “One hundred percent.” The conversation stopped and we laughed in recognition. Such a delightful declaration of the unseen obvious.

There is no other life that we could be living. No other place where we could be. No other circumstances than the ones we find ourselves. Everything that happened has already happened with 100% certainty. From this perspective, I rest a little easier in what is here – no need to fight or second-guess. Just look around, appreciate, and step forward.

No Problem, It Just Gets Worse

Living in the temple feels like living in a pot that I am making. This place, both physically and organizationally, is being created as we live here. We are already set up and functioning, and it is also just the beginning. Problems and questions abound. How we will deal with the snow in the parking lot this winter? Should we repair the asphalt around the drain now or wait until the spring? How do we chart a course for the ownership of this place to move from us to the larger organization of Boundless Way?

Reflecting on this feeling this morning, I recalled a week-long clay workshop I took in the mid-1970’s with Bruno LaVerdiere, a former monk turned clay artist. In the middle of the week I got stuck with some of the pieces I was working on. The pieces were nearing completion, but I had no idea how to finish and resolve them. I was discouraged and saw no way forward. I went to Bruno to ask for his help in my dilemma and to report my doubts about my capacity to be creative.

Bruno listened patiently to my expression of angst. When I had finished, he laughed and said ‘Don’t worry, it just gets worse.’ I was shocked and reassured. In that moment, the problem, the stuckness shifted from being what was wrong with me to being part of the creative process itself.

So as the doubts and uncertainties arise, now on a much bigger scale than worrying about how to finish a pot, I turn to this same reassurance. When I move toward the difficulty as part of the process rather than as a comment on me and my capacity, I don’t get stuck in the same way. Of course I do get stuck, again and again. And then of course I find a way into and through again and again.

(Photo of clay sculpture now on the temple grounds made by me using Bruno's coiling and scraping technique. Photo Credit: Kevin Osbourne)