Moment to moment

Outside the wind howls. Winter has finally arrived. My precious mountains are finally receiving their winter coat of snowy fur. This weekend I will ride atop that snow on two sticks that give me more joy than a girl could wish for. This week, down here on the plains, I am walking through a blizzard of joy. Meditation has never been more important to me than now.

I am prone to fantasy. I can day dream all day long. My next bike vacation. My next extraordinary dinner. The conversations I want to have with Laurie, Donni, Dave, Erin, Janice and Fred. Where I should hang my storage unit in the garage. When I will travel to Colombia. What Rizzo will look like two years from now. These subtle fantasies and other discursive thoughts power me through mind-numbing days at work. My mind carries me far away from the report I need to write. I wallow in it.

Now a new layer of fantasy is joining the ranks and conspiring to unravel my sanity. But, that's what happens when you fall in love. You lose all perspective. Nothing seems more urgent than love. Nothing seems more necessary than surrounding yourself with that singular joy. Yes. I am falling in love. I haven't done this in years and never this way. Never with such clarity, purpose and freedom. Never with such harmony. But, my love, my sweet Bob, he lives far away. Fantasy is now filled with ache and longing, memory and passion. Meditation has never been more essential than now.

I need this practice and the time I take to give my breath a chance to breathe. My mind races. In meditation, I can rest. I give myself permission to relax body and mind and turn my attention to one simple task that has nothing to do with being in love, or pulling my snow tires out from the crawl space, or making tea. Those precious 12 minutes, sometimes 10, first thing each morning (most days - today I write!) are a gift.

As I learn to observe my mind and all its many circles, I discover peace. I discover the power of separating this self from these thoughts. I am not my fantasies. They are the clothes I wear, the mental fabric of searching for stability in what Chantill referred to as a "big beautiful mess."

This week, as I find myself skipping down future memory lanes, I try to catch myself. Pause. Breathe. Recall what task I'm ignoring as I ride wave after wave of sweet fantasy. Bob and I tell each other to just stay present. Stay grounded in the here and now. It is a challenge for us both, but it's a helpful reminder that we are on the same path.

We call each other warrior. Warrior Bob. Warrior Princess (yes, I am Xena). We are finding the courage to witness this emerging love and not let it carry us away. We return to this moment, enlivened by joy, hungry to taste it now and forever, and awake to the knowledge that nothing matters more than tuning into this breath. Moment to moment.

Living an integrated life

Chantil proposed an interesting topic this week: living an integrated life. I was hesitant only in my knowledge of the word “integrated” and how this word, in the context of our writing, had a narrow-specific meaning. Integration? Like folding yeast into dough or black children into a white school… what were we referring to? Carol clarified it for me by saying “do all aspects of our life line up with what is at the heart of our meditation.” Meditation is my Christian based form of contemplation; the idea of carrying that outward into the world is fundamental. But am I integrating spiritual practice with the rest of life? Good question.

Meditation… the quite mind, drifting through the universe like a sun lit particle in a still room. The journey of soul, the act of reverence, the act of submission that is an act of admission, the amalgamation of ethereal soul and the biology of flesh, blood and bone… or simply sitting. Placing ones self into the cosmos and melding to our unique understanding and interpretation of existence is for me the most incredible facet of existence. All my life I’ve been searching for depth and meaning, especially in the spiritual sense; and I value these spiritual convictions as essential to my soul’s journey. I am most alive when I feel solidarity with creation.

The journey of meditation begins for me with the ringing of a sacred bell. The reverberation and intonation remind me that sound too is an energy force wafting into the cosmos. My breath melds with the tone and I ride them both into silence. Allowing thoughts to dissipate, I give way to a focus on breathing and the physical sensation of relaxation. Often times I will imagine a sacred pitcher pouring a golden light over my head. As the liquid light slowly descends over every inch of my body tension washes away. Until I feel no sensation other than a grounding, and a calming peace. I feel apart of something I cannot physically see. It is often euphoric but just as often a battle to prohibit a busy mind from wondering into thought. Here, after some time in a thoughtless stage I go to what I call prayer, an act of communicating with the higher unseen power… creation. I value this communication and have often seen its manifestation in my life and the lives of my people.

When the ending bell chimes and the silence ends, how do I take this event with me into the everyday world? Can I, and do I integrate it into the routine of my life? My answer is yes and I say this with some certainty. I can feel the foundation of my contemplative life in almost every thing I do. It’s a mindful act sometimes, but just as often it is habitual. That is why when I discovered the Buddhist philosophies I was so amazed at the innate truths that I had discovered without any indoctrination. It seemed to come natural. As often as it is good it is just as often negative. When I see the inherent weakness of my human nature, I also marvel at its resilience. I feel more “Godly,” more sacred in my interpretation of life when I see the melding of my spiritual life with every day life. And that includes all of the faults and weaknesses that come with being a 21st century man. It is as if those faults become the springboard for deepening the spiritual quest.

Yes my integrated life is a mixing of who I am spiritually with who I am as Alfred the farmer, counselor, rancher and modern man. For me it is the perpetual motion of living. Integrating soul with life… can it be any more beautiful?

May I meet death in everyday

I read an article this morning by one of my most beloved teachers, Natalie Goldberg. She wrote about the New Year and about death. Today her words are the perfect match to my fear. Through her words I know her, am her, and I know how death is an ally when fear paralyzes.

I berate myself for fear. Surely someone else, perhaps everyone else, would be able to handle uncertainty with more grace and ease than me. Surely I am over-dramatic and make everything into more than it is. Surely I am flawed and should be fixed. Surely...

I listen, and sit amazed at the voice that arises out of fear and uncertainty. I am astounded by the strength of it yet slip it on seamlessly. It's familiar enough, that inner voice -- critic and executioner. And although I can name her and know that she is a part of me, my darkness, her weight does not lessen.

Death is my friend in moments like these. Death and the reminder that death is ultimately mine frees me of grasping. For what else loosens our grasp more than death itself.

When I reflect on our impermanence it's like I become the blithe and laughing child I once was. I picture myself perched high up on a rocky ledge laughing, legs dangling, looking down on the grown-up me, light hearted and carefree with the knowledge that it's just a little thing, how silly I am to let it take me out life's joy. All of the sudden the paradigm shifts, a telescope swings to sight a whole new universe, one where the colors are bright and fiery, stars wiz past, explode, are born, and there is harmony, flowing, dancing no matter the bumping and colliding. All of it is just as it is meant to be. A big beautiful mess. I let go. I simply am. I know it for the precious, fleeting gift it is, and I don't want to miss any of it.

So how could I spend my life letting fear dictate? I do because I have an ego, I have a story and am conditioned well to live out past pain and projected failing. But not always. Not always. That's my grace.

Sitting in the wake of imagined disaster and failure, reflecting on the end of life makes this moment so much more tender and honest, so much more open. This is what remembering death offers. This moment will never come again, never like this. Ever. So I ask myself what do I choose to make of it? This is my practice of being awake. Can I see that the gift is just being alive to have the experience?

I'm working on it.