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Living Service

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credit: Andy Reis

credit: Andy Reis

We serve life not because it is broken, but because it is holy.  ~ Rachel Naomi Remen

A friend recently shared a beautiful article by Rachel Naomi Remen about the difference between helping, fixing, and service. Her basic point has to do with the importance of approaching good works from an attitude of love and connection.

Coming from the position of the detached expert who is going to fix the problem is inherently disempowering and objectifying. In the article, Remen shares an experience of shame created by this sort of fixing. Many practitioners of holistic healing arts make this same point, and do their best to ensure that they are not reinforcing clients in unhelpful passivity or victimhood. Similarly, social activists emphasize the importance of empowerment, dignity, and solidarity.

This is essentially about the energy of the process. Remen suggests that service emerges from the energy of oneness and reverence, and that helping/fixing comes from the energy of separation and brokenness.

What I want to add is that this same idea applies to environmental work. It was clear to me during my years in environmental nonprofits that the culture was very much one of fixing instead of loving, sacred service. Because that type of approach remains in the energy of separation and brokenness, its efficacy is ultimately limited.

I am convinced that when we work in the service of ecological restoration it is absolutely vital to hold the vision of the earth as both holy and whole. While we may at times feel grief when we witness destruction and suffering, we must also hold space for nature’s wisdom, tenacity, and power. She is sacred and she will prevail. With or without us.

Again, these words from Remen’s piece apply to our service to nature:

Service is not an experience of strength or expertise; service is an experience of mystery, surrender and awe. Helpers and fixers feel causal. Servers may experience from time to time a sense of being used by larger unknown forces. Those who serve have traded a sense of mastery for an experience of mystery, and in doing so have transformed their work and their lives into practice.

Leaving Presence

Anyone who pays attention to their insides eventually notices the inner human impulse to constantly move out of the present moment. I’ve been focusing on this a lot this lately and have observed two different aspects within this movement.

One has to do with a core need to control everything. My inner control freak is an absolutely fundamental part of my pattern of being in the world. I notice that I have a compulsion to manage, organize, and finesse every object, occurrence, and structure of reality. My mind wants to touch everything and shape it. This tendency continually takes me off the flowing path of presence and down little side trails.

Of course a lot of this mental activity is necessary and unavoidable. But I definitely overdo it. I recognize that it’s not helpful to give myself a hard time about it. Instead, I just notice when I’m doing it and create a little distance from that part of myself, rather than collapsing into it.

A second thing that’s going on is what A.H. Almaas describes as the failure to value the present moment. In other words: the failure to value direct contact with my True Nature, when this is probably the only thing of ultimate value. On the face of it, this sounds obvious. But lately I have been working with the exercise of inquiring into what really, deeply, relentlessly prevents me from loving and fully settling into the present moment. What is actually going on? What do I believe or assume that keeps me from groking that being in contact with my True Nature is what gives existence meaning?

As I see those structures and beliefs operating I feel a sense of embarrassment, surprise, and amusement. And it helps. For example, I find that I believe that only certain types of activities are important and valuable. So if a particular moment is not associated with that sort of activity, I don’t sense its value. I really do believe that. And if I examine that belief more deeply, I learn all kinds of things about the way it is shaping my life.

As I write this I sense that it all sounds obvious and simple. But like any practice, it really means nothing until applied in real experience. Only a small part of us functions in the abstract (though often it seems like it’s our favorite part – ha!). Noticing my beliefs and conditioning in-process creates space. I don’t have to then turn them into problems or projects. Just noticing is enough. When I bring them into awareness they shift on their own.

The Sap Rises

credit: Andreas Krappweis

credit: Andreas Krappweis

Tu B’Shevat is an obscure Jewish holy day also known as the Festival of the New Year for the Trees. It begins at sundown today and ends at sundown on Saturday. I know very little about Judaism, but I am always intrigued to learn of earthly elements in theistic traditions.

The Festival honors the beginning of the rising of sap in trees and the renewal of life that spring brings. On Tu B’Shevat we are encouraged to look to trees as teachers, connecting with the energy of the sap rising and spreading out to each branch.

We all experience winters. Sometimes our challenges can seem cold, dark, and brutal. We can feel frozen. Our life force can feel like it has faded to a flicker. Many times it can seem like we’ve come to a standstill with a thick layer of snow covering us.

The Festival of the New Year for the Trees is a good time to reflect on the lessons of our winters, but also to focus on the hope of rejuvenation. Even when it seems like nothing is happening, the sap begins to rise. Perhaps we can feel it in ourselves also.

Traditionally the Festival is marked with the planting of new trees or the eating of new fruit. I love the idea of honoring trees in this way. In a few short months they will be making leaves again and transmuting light into form and fruit. Photosynthesis is the earth community’s original miracle. Our ultimate spiritual metaphor.

I won’t be planting a tree tomorrow, but I will make a donation to the Fruit Tree Planting Foundation to do it on my behalf. They have beautiful projects that connect sustainability, food security, and partnering with trees. I will have some jam, made this past autumn from the fruit of my plum trees. And we’ll have a long conversation.

Celebrate our noble siblings the trees. It is winter and the sap rises unseen.

I am a pause

© The Center for Contemplative Mind in Society

© The Center for Contemplative Mind in Society

As the cocoon of winter thickens around us, the mood becomes more contemplative. I wanted to share a tool from the Center for Contemplative Mind in Society. This is a brilliant graphic that maps out the many different domains of contemplative practices.

I use it as a tool to reflect on my own spiritual practices, identifying where there might be gaps. For example, I actively cultivate a number of practices along the stillness, movement, and relational branches, but I could definitely do more in some of the other areas.

Descriptive information about the Tree and the various practices it includes is available here. You can also download a blank version of the graphic and write in your own personal practices and/or practices you would like to begin working with.

One of the practices I would like to get back to this winter is a non-religious form of lectio divina. That is, contemplative reading of deeply spiritual writings that are not necessarily scriptures. For me, certain kinds of poetry open those sorts of doorways. In the next few months I’ll share some examples through this blog. I’ll also explore other contemplative practices, and invite you to do the same.

I admire Octavio Paz’s ability to capture the flavor of nonduality in his poems. For me, spending an hour sitting inside one of them is transformative.  Here’s my translation of Entre Irse y Quedarse. You can find the original spanish here. I understand this poem as being all about meditation. I like the way he weaves together sensory impressions and emotions. He is able to simultaneously convey a sense of porous fullness and spacious stillness.

Between Going and Staying

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.

The circular evening is a bay:
rocking the world in oscillating stillness.

All is visible and all is elusive,
All is near and all is untouchable.

The papers, the book, the glass, the pencil
rest in the shadows of their names.

The beating of time repeats in my temples
the same stubborn syllable of blood.

The light makes the indifferent wall
a spectral theatre of reflections.

In the center of an eye I find myself;
it doesn’t see me, in its gaze I watch myself.

The moment dissipates. Without moving,
I stay and I go: I am a pause.

credit: K Bramblet

credit: K Bramblet

Currents

There are certain truths that we have heard so often they have lost their charge. Especially in this time of cynicism and snark. When someone manages to get one of these points across with any kind of freshness, I am grateful. It’s a blessing to get such reminders.

David Foster Wallace was a writer with an overly active mind. He was hilarious in the way only very depressed people can be. He wrote some essays I recommend (see A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again) and a couple of novels I abandoned once their cleverness exhausted me. But that was around the time I lost interest in fiction altogether.

Recently I came across a commencement address he gave, which was posthumously turned into a short booklet. You can find transcripts of the spoken original online. I was interested to see what someone so brilliant and troubled would say on such an occasion. What would he want to impart? A central feature was this story:

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes “What the hell is water?”

His point is that the most important subjects are those that are hidden in plain sight. The easiest to overlook; the hardest to perceive. He goes on to urge his young audience to be aware of what they give attention to and how they construct meaning. He talks at length about the inescapability of belief and even worship. Humans are hard-wired to make meaning. Our choice – and adventure – lies in how we do this.

Nothing really new. But it’s interesting to me to see my generation’s intellectual class pass such a baton. And the problem of the day that he articulates is necessarily a spiritual one: “The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.” Indeed. And so he leaves us with a practice. A mantra. A reminder.

“This is water.”

“This is water.”

Plants are the Ultimate Lightworkers

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the sacred datura

It’s been quiet around here lately. That’s because outdoors it’s high summer and the world is a joyous explosion of photosynthesis. I’m a gardener.

It occurred to me that the time I have spent in the garden has probably been more beneficial than all the years I spent working in the environmental movement. Certainly for me it has been enormously healing. It’s impossible to feel depressed when you’re friends with Fordhook chard. Or watching a hummingbird visit sunset hyssop, dancing in the aroma of licorice and root beer. It’s my version of therapy.

Plants are earth’s original lightworkers. They constantly model the process of transmuting light energy into beautiful, extravagant form. Delicious offerings. Gorgeous gifts. They show me how it’s done. Carefully. Generously. Openly. And each time only once. The aubergine shines in purple perfection and I hoot in delight. Then she says, “now you”. This is what the soul wants.

I like to think e.e. cummings was a gardener. I do know for sure that he was transmuting light when he wrote This Amazing Day:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes…

Yes. I have to go make pickles. Crystallized cucumber light.

aubergine with friends

Persephone’s Path

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Credit: Michael Wer

We don’t talk much about the underworld any more. The dark realms were such a strong undercurrent in pre-modern consciousness. There were so many stories. And ceremonies. Occasionally, even now, reminders surface. Little sparks and shadows that flicker at the edges of awareness, like the melody of a song that we dreamed long ago. But for the most part, we carry on as though it’s not there.

Society has trained us to be high-functioning in the middle world, now dominated by rationality, consumerism, and the institutions of modernity. Interestingly, though our culture is self-consciously secular, we still have robust traditions that encourage spiritual transcendence. Reaching towards the upper world remains a legitimate part of the human enterprise. But we no longer descend. At least not with clear intention or with the willingness to let the shadows instruct us. When we tumble down the rabbit hole it’s usually because we’ve tripped.

I want to make space in this blog for Persephone’s path – the descent and return. The soul journey often takes quite a few underground detours and I think it’s important to explore that terrain. But “detour” is the wrong word, already implying a bias. Instead, I suspect these are necessary adventures. On Persephone’s path I need to use night language, and the best way to do that is either to speak a poem or tell an old story. So here is a story from Northern Europe. It’s called the Erlkönig and I first heard Clarissa Pinkola Estés tell it.

There was a village at the edge of a forest. People there told stories about a supernatural being called the Erlkönig, who lurked in the forest at night to steal away the souls of anyone who happened to wander out into the woods. One night a man was riding home with his young son on his horse. They were tired. To save time, he decided to go through the forest. As they made their way through the woods, the boy became very afraid. He heard something, and told his father he thought it was the Erlkönig. His father reassured him, saying the Erlkönig did not exist, and all would be well. They rode on. Then the boy saw a figure coming closer, and again he warned his father. But his father said he was just imagining things and scaring himself with foolish stories and nonsense, and there was no Erlkönig. They rode on. But now the boy could see someone right behind them, reaching toward them, and he cried out in terror and the horse panicked and surged ahead at full speed and the man had to use all his strength just to hold on. When they arrived at their home the horse collapsed in exhaustion. And the man discovered that his son was dead.

I think of the man, the boy, and the horse as different aspects of the self. Because he operates purely in the world of rationality, authority, practicality, and the five senses, the man is not able to see the danger or to save his son. The boy – the part of the self that is emotional, open and transparent – is able to perceive the world of shadows and imagination, to see in the dark. The horse, representing nature and the aspect of the self that is connected to the earth, responds both to the boy and the danger.

Our culture trains us relentlessly to be like the man. But the story reminds us to stay connected to the parts of ourselves represented by the boy and the horse – to stay in contact with wonder and wildness. The story calls us not to transcend, but to something else…

Integration vs. Bypassing

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The Flammarion Engraving, 1888

Why is it that certain aspects of being human get such a bad rap in spiritual circles? I’m talking about the usual suspects: the ego, and our proclivities for attachment, strong feelings, and scenario planning.

Recently I participated in a workshop on mindfulness. Interestingly, the idea of giving significant attention to thoughts and emotions was pooh-poohed as neurotic self-obsession. Focusing on moment-to-moment sensory experience was the preferred mode of being that we were encouraged to cultivate. I just don’t buy it.

Fostering vivid presence, mindfulness, and being grounded in the body is absolutely vital. I have a regular meditation and yoga practice that assist me greatly in these excellent goals. However, I would argue that the experience of our inner world is not in principle problematic, and we unnecessarily give ourselves a hard time when we take on this belief. Further, our thoughts and emotions are no less “real” than sensorial experience. Consciousness and matter are energy, and that energy exists whether our five senses can detect it or not.

The danger in promoting the notion that our interior worlds are somehow invalid is that it may lead to unhealthy avoidance. This is what Robert Masters calls “spiritual bypassing”. This is the idea that we use our spiritual path and the primacy of transcendence to avoid dealing with our stuff. Let’s face it – it can be horribly unpleasant to deal with our stuff. Spiritual bypassing is a welcome reprieve. If we tell ourselves that it doesn’t count, we can ignore it. Unfortunately, it’s simply not true. We all know stories of spiritual teachers who spent decades working on their liberation to the exclusion of dealing with their shadow selves, and ultimately the chickens came home to roost. The shadow owns you, till you own it. The disowned self will kick your spiritual ass.

The real issue seems to me to be a question of balance. Instead of simply redirecting neurotic self-obsession into a fixation on sensory observation, I think it is more productive to explore what exactly constitutes a healthy, balanced, constructive use of attention and presence. What does that look like in the day-to-day? How do we achieve that? The various parts of our humanity need attention, nurturing, healing, and integration. Not exile. Not annihilation. My thoughts and feelings are real and should not be dismissed. Instead, how can I own them and work with them in a loving, transformative way? This reclaiming and integration is the path of redemption. This is the path of the soul.

How I Learned to Love My Monkey Mind

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credit: Oskar Henriksson

Have you ever been meditating only to find yourself completely overwhelmed and frustrated by the incessant, acrobatic gyrations of monkey mind? Some spiritual paths put a lot of emphasis on getting the little chimp under control. Or rather, getting better at being present, so he eventually decides to go sit in a corner and quietly amuse himself with a twig or leaf instead of bothering you. I don’t mean to pick on any of these well-intentioned traditions. The teachings aren’t the problem, it’s the way that we apply them. Namely, sometimes we put way too much pressure on ourselves.

Evolutionary psychology offers some insights that put the way I experience my inner world in context. As a result, I feel affection instead of exasperation towards my monkey mind, and showing the chimp a little love actually settles him down rather nicely. I wanted to share some of that wisdom from brain science as it applies to spiritual practice.

The human brain is the product of several iterations. The prototype reptilian brain is composed of the cerebellum and brainstem. These structures govern the five F’s: fight, flight, freeze, food, and the four-letter word that sounds like “fire truck”. These instinctual responses make our survival possible, and we should be very grateful to have them. But the reptilian brain can also get in the way of our best interests. For example, as I am writing this I notice that Katrina just posted a great piece about fear at Freedom to a Full Life that dovetails nicely with my point.

The limbic system developed with mammals. This governs the ability to feel emotions, and its healthy functioning includes dreaming. It enables mammals to form bonds and nurture young, which is unnecessary for reptiles (who lay eggs and set off to find a new partner to make more). The mammalian brain also enables the development of social groups, hierarchy, and the notion of status. Again, while I deeply appreciate the ability to form deep bonds and have feelings, I also see how this can get out of hand. And in so far as it amplifies reptilian drives with strong emotion and competitive status-seeking, the limbic system can get me into even deeper trouble.

Evolution came out with a new mammalian brain model via the primate neocortex. I think you can guess that this is where the monkey mind lives. The neocortex is akin to a computer – constantly processing permutations and combinations of information, including input from the reptilian brain and the limbic system. The primate brain is capable of generating scenarios, looking back into the past, or forward into the future. It weighs pros and cons, calculates probabilities, predicts consequences, and scientists speculate that this part of the brain is what makes free will possible.

What I appreciate about knowing this is that it shows me that many of my troublesome tendencies have their roots in ancestral ways of operating. Though evolution has added new elements, the old structures remain, as do certain unwanted patterns. When I understand where these patterns come from, they are easier to deal with. So I don’t have to beat myself up for eating that last piece of pie or missing my bus stop because I was daydreaming. Of course that doesn’t mean we get a free pass. It is not OK to simply shrug your shoulders and blame an affair on your reptilian brain. My point is that we can be a little more forgiving and gentle with ourselves for not being perfect when we understand and appreciate our less evolved parts. Fortunately, evolution is not done with us yet and has already provided a way to manage this motley inheritance.

We humans have a unique pre-frontal cortex or frontal lobes. This area performs what brain scientists refer to as “executive functions” like intentionality, purposefulness, and high level decision-making. This peculiarly human faculty involves the ability to override the less evolved parts of the brain. So there is no excuse for dismissing egregious mistakes as biological in origin. We actually do have the ability to know better and make wise choices. But when it comes to everyday slip-ups I think we can cut ourselves a little slack and thank our frontal lobes for the opportunity to do it right next time.

These days when monkey mind pays me a visit on the cushion I pat his furry little head and thank him for the ability to multitask, do my taxes, and remember a loved one who has passed. And then I choose to breathe in… and out.

Circles of Connection

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credit: Päivi Tiittanen

I want to continue exploring practices that could foster mutual support for the spiritual-but-not-religious. Let’s start with circles. I am very grateful for the privilege I have to participate in a circle of women who meet regularly for this purpose.

There are elements that seem especially important, including:

  • using ritual to create sacred space
  • committing to ground rules that maintain privacy, promote deep listening, and create a safe container (e.g. no fixing or giving unsolicited advice)
  • participating as equals – no leaders or followers
  • embracing authenticity, vulnerability, and honesty
  • honoring the diversity of each member’s spiritual path and experience
  • using movement, sound, breath, and silence to attune to the group energy and cultivate presence

The opportunity to gather with allies who share the goal of supporting one another’s soul journey is amazingly rich. It is different from simply sitting with a friend or loved one and sharing conversation. Perhaps because it allows us to set aside habitual roles and interpersonal patterns. But there’s something more. The power of group intention and conscious focus opens up a unique space that we cannot access on our own. Speaking one’s truth and being deeply heard by others enables a profound healing that is different from what we can achieve by ourselves. There is something mysterious about the energetic field created by group consciousness that triggers shifts and breakthroughs that may otherwise elude us.

I have participated in other groups and gatherings that were not as helpful. A major missing element was trust and the ease and freedom that it creates. When people bring small, stubborn agendas with them into circles it generates static and noise that clutters up the spaciousness that would otherwise appear. The willingness to set aside the anxious contraction of our egos is a key ingredient of transformative connection.

There are many circle practices beyond my example. Indigenous cultures are full of such traditions, including sitting in council and using a talking stick, prayer, ceremony, etc. Perhaps you can describe examples from your own experience? I recently participated in another circle that had several interesting rules that were new to me. First, the use of names was not allowed. So, when it was my turn to speak, I could not refer to something X said earlier. Second, no questions were allowed. The reasoning was that using names and asking questions pulled the group’s attention too much in the direction of specific participants (the one named and the questioner) and away from the emerging field of the collective.

Perhaps we also form a virtual circle of sorts through our blogs. I like the taking turns and holding space. Heart-speak. Thoughtfulness. Mirroring. I like watching an insight float up from California, or South Africa, or Seattle, and see how it settles and maybe works on me for a spell. The comments… bowing.

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