photo by Kim Stafford

 

Open Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue

 

March 15, 2023

 

Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.

 

—from Ulysses by James Joyce, p. 340

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All truths wait in all things.

 

—from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

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#344  To Cherish Your Beloved 

                                                 

“When we know that the person we love is impermanent, we will cherish our beloved all the more. Impermanence teaches us to respect and value every moment and all the precious things around us. When we practice mindfulness of impermanence, we become fresher and more loving.”

–from Your True Home by Thich Nhat Hanh

 

It can be mighty hard to be constantly aware of our beloved’s impermanence—or of our own impermanence, and to be endlessly fresher and more loving. That can be exhausting, to be honest.

 

Another way to be reminded of cherishing your loved one is to have someone close to you die swiftly and unexpectedly. This is happening right now, in this moment. Kim is my dear friend, and her husband, who is/was my dear friend, too, just died two days ago. He collapsed at home while Kim and I were walking on the waterfront and having coffee in Hood River, as we do once a week or more. She returned home, intending to run errands with John and found him on the floor, unresponsive, unconscious. 911, Skyline Hospital, Emanuel Hospital in Portland, where doctors found a blood clot which had traveled to his brain from the left ventricle, causing multiple, massive strokes. And John is gone. How does one express shock and disbelief and utter grief…  So here it is: Impermanence at work.

 

My heart and soul are with her right now. I love her and want to hold her close. But the one I also really want to hold close is my husband. I am instantly drawn to cherish him and all we have together, all we have had for 39 years together. He is in Arizona right now, and I will fly down next week. I call him and tell him I love him dearly, and thank him for the life we have together. I tell him I miss him and can’t wait to hold him and be held. 

 

I am aware that this is how I always want to be with him, this expressive and caring and loving, and maybe, just maybe, I will be able to cherish my beloved due to the impermanence (and sacrifice) of another. 

 

—Jude Russell 

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Small Offering

 

This evening I would be the emperor of delay

if I could order the small bird with bluish

plumage to drop his fish and look up

to see violet angels weave a tapestry

of dreams with the four evening elements.

 

Here at Sunset Point, the overlook

is high enough that mist hovers

in patches. Sunlight sweeps from above

highlighting the solid wall of mountains.

The bird dives again, silver flash in his beak.

 

—Elizabeth Domike

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DHARMA

 

Six months after I turned seventy I moved into an ashram where I would reside for the next 9 1⁄2 years (2012-2021) of my life. I’d been assisting in the care of my mother for two years, and when she passed on, one week after her 96th birthday, I was in a state of ambivalence as to why I had no feeling of grief, or even the slightest indication of sadness. How could this be? I was her only son, and had dutifully been there for Her in these past years– cooking for her, reading to her, rubbing her swollen legs, heavy with edema; escorting her on shopping trips and pleasant drives through the golden wheat fields of her childhood in North Central Oregon. Was I experiencing a kind of release from a period of time that had kept me so preoccupied that my own needs for self-examination and intellectual stimulation were suffocating?

 

I had spent two years in England (1983-85) studying the metaphysical philosophy of Rudolf Steiner, but had not yet arrived at that internal place of a disciplined practice in study and meditation—of simplifying the material circumstances of my daily life; of coming to grasp the ego-transcendent state of the Eternal Self. And so when I was offered a room in the Portland ashram of the Sarada Ramakrishna Vivekananda order at the behest of the guru, Robert Kindler, I decided that a quiet and spiritually dedicated environment might inspire and deepen self-reflection. I might add that I had had the benefit of seven years of coming to know and respect the depth of the guru’s knowledge of the sacred texts of ancient India—the Upanishads, Bhagavad Gita, and the Puranas, as well as the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna (most recent avatar of West Bengal (b. 1836-’86)—through frequent classes and retreats. And I was further inspired by his remarkable facility in speaking the ancient Sanskrit slokas (passages from scripture), as well as his gift of musicianship, having been a professional orchestral cellist with abilities to compose and perform hymns of praise offered to the deities of the Hindu spiritual tradition.

 

I took a small 12’ x 12’ room, and began an exploration of ashram regimen—sharing a simple and contemplative daily schedule of 6am/10pm meditation, vegetarian diet, weekly classes of scriptural study, and shared maintenance and cooking chores amongst the four of us—two men and two women—co-habitants upon the dharmic path. The intent was to “still” the restless mind to enable a depth of self-perception whereby the ephemerality/impermanence of day-to-day “reality” (regarded as Maya—the veil covering the eternal truths of aparanama (free of change) and ajativada (birthless/deathless)), could be grasped, and the elevated state of consciousness attained by the sages, seers, siddhis, yogis and saviors could be glimpsed.

 

My 9 1⁄2 years, grounded in a consistent daily meditation practice, and an inquisitive research into the philosophical richness of the sacred texts of India, as well as the offering of my service/work in maintaining the grounds and shrines, and serving as “the Abbot of the Ashram, has deepened my self- perception and brought me to a place of self-trust and contentment at a depth that I have never before experienced. And I am inspired to proffer this brief koan-like offering from my experiential Realizations (aparokshanubhuti)

 

THE YOGI SITS IN THE CAVE OF THE HEART,

ONE EYE OPEN                                                                          

 

—Sam A. Muller

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God Praying

 

Sometimes we are discouraged from praying,

we lose faith in the possibility of prayer,

everything seems blocked.

We have no trust in words,

in ourselves,

we feel exiled, distant.

There is no one to awaken compassion for us.

From within our despair

we can reveal a new opening,

a surprising one,

and ask God to pray for us,

to give words to our inner scream,

to have compassion on us in our exile.

 

—Rabbi Singer

 

This idea melts my mind. I thought it was to God I’ve been praying, and now Rabbi Singer (and others) suggest I now ask God to pray for me—to whom, though? To ask the Self-Existent One to peer into my deepest recesses, where I’m oft too scared to look, and express, for me, my deepest heart’s desires. It seems both ludicrous and sensible all at the same time. Can I just sit here with my self—all inclusive—and allow those hidden away hopes, dreams, feelings, memories, etc., to just percolate up for Divine consideration or attention. Truth is, God should already “know” these things—all knowing and all—which means I need only sit with and accept these pesky demons (self-made?) as part of my experience.

 

—Michel Deforge, February 4, 2023

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Alex Tretbar sent this poem by Jessica Jacobs:

 

Godwrestling

 

The river has tasted the salt of your skin, has lapped
at your calves with its current. The river has swallowed

 

the press of your steps. There is no record of your crossing.
The river is between you and everything you call your life.

 

So you step into a stranger’s arms. Your shoulder fits
theirs like a bone in its socket. Your jaw notches theirs.

 

All around you, a profusion of oleanders beams
back the moonlight, offering a carpet of fallen petals.

 

In your arms, all the promises you’ve yet to keep, all
you’ve done that shames you. But what is wrestling

 

if not an embrace? It’s too dark to know
you have the same face and only like this, cheek to cheek,

 

each looking over the other’s shoulder, can you see
the world whole. Close, at first, as a slow dance,

 

you spin and spin, your tracks a tight coin; matched,
you step out, making a spear tip of your bodies; matched,

 

you step further, levered like rafters, needing the other
to stay aloft—your tracks trace widening circles, ringing

 

out through the fallen blossoms. Names are required
only when not alone. This stranger

 

does not give you a new name, just dippers up
the true one you tender in your chest. The day is breaking

 

the night’s hold. The far bank is calling.
On one side, you. On the other, your life. Join them. 

 

—Jessica Jacobs

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Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.

 

–from Ulysses by James Joyce, p. 340

 

Here’s what Joseph Campbell has to say about this passage from Ulysses:

 

“I mentioned this basic theme before with respect to the esthetic experience: Any object can open back to the mystery of the universe. You can take any object whatsoever—a stick or stone, a dog or a child—draw a ring around it so that it is seen as separate from everything else, and thus contemplate it in its mystery aspect—the aspect of the mystery of its being, which is the mystery of all being—and it will have there and then become a proper object of worshipful regard. So, any object can become an adequate base for meditation, since the whole mystery of man and of nature and of everything else is in any object that you want to regard. This idea, the anagogical inspiration of Joyce’s art, is what we are getting in this little moment.”

 

—from Mythic Worlds, Modern Words: On the Art of James Joyce by Joseph Campbell, p. 130

 

Here’s one of my small poems that seems à propos:

 

a bowl of oatmeal

and a cup of coffee

did you think heaven was up in the sky somewhere?

 

—Johnny Stallings

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More of my thoughts on LovingKindness meditation:

 

Before beginning Loving Kindness meditation practice each Monday, I center myself remembering my friend and teacher Bob Schaibly. His teaching mantra was, “What the World Needs from Us is our Non-Anxious Presence.” Reciting and listening to the Loving Kindness phrases these past couple of years, I have come to understand that this is what we are training ourselves to do. To find equanimity and to be able in the midst of changes—good or bad—to  find stability in equanimity. This doesn’t mean being passive or uncaring, but to have courage, to not let our emotions make us frantic, to not react immediately with judgement. In this way we can stay present to whatever might arise. We can observe and check our fears and anger and deep sadness without causing harm to ourselves and others, without blocking our feelings. 

 

Compassion in Sanskrit means being present—with yourself or with another. I have two stories that came to my mind about acts of kindness on a small scale that are examples of compassion in action. When I had a bookstore in downtown Portland, one day two people I hardly knew, came in and presented me with a rose. Just to say thank you for having the bookstore where they always felt happy to browse and meet up. I was stunned. They said they liked to go places that make them feel happy and take a flower or two. I also heard a story last week about a woman who wished she could do something for her sick uncle who lived far away. She sent him a bouquet of flowers. He called her and said that in his long life, no one had ever sent him flowers and he was so thankful.

 

 Thich Nhat Hanh says it takes mindfulness training with loving kindness to bring compassion. He writes:

 

“Loving kindness should be practiced every day. Suppose you have a transistor radio. To tune into the radio station you like, you need a battery. In order to get linked to the power of loving kindness of bodhisattvas, buddhas, and other great beings, you need to tune in to the “station” of loving kindness that is being sent from the ten directions. Then you only need to sit on the grass and practice breathing and enjoying. 

 

But many of us are not capable of doing that because the feeling of loneliness, of being cut off from the world, is so severe we cannot reach out. We do not realize that if we are moved by the imminent death of an insect, if we see an insect suffering and we do something to help, already this energy of loving kindness is in us. If we take a small stick and help the insect out of the water, we can also reach out to the cosmos. The energy of loving kindness in us becomes real, and we derive a lot of joy from it. 

 

The Fourth Precept of the Order of Interbeing tells us to be aware of suffering in the world, not to close our eyes before suffering. Touching those who suffer is one way to generate the energy of compassion in us, and compassion will bring joy and peace to ourselves and others. The more we generate the energy of loving kindness in ourselves, the more we are able to receive the joy, peace, and love of the buddhas and bodhisattvas throughout the cosmos.” 

 

Last Sunday, I heard a story about an acrobat flying from one trapeze bar to the next. It was a story about letting go of how things have been in the past in order to break free and into some new engagement. Even though we might not know what that will be. In Buddhism, the term for this refreshing process is “renunciation.” Rather than giving up things it is about what we practice in LovingKindness: becoming aware of where we might feel an aversion—a fear, a grudge, anxiety, resentment—by recognizing it, then softening our hearts, we can let these negative emotions have less power over us. Through that we find more equanimity and ability to act with compassion, with ourselves and for others. With that  foremost in our minds, we can become unstuck and as Bob encouraged us, to participate fully in the midst of life’s difficulties with a non-anxious presence.   

 

in love and peace,   

 

—Katie Radditz