The wonder of not knowing

My father’s father used to take us kids on walks up mountainsides. I can close my eyes and see those mountains now. Mainly it’s my grandfather's long legs that I recall, as I followed his steps so as not to slip on the jagged slate. We’d stop at points and look back down at road, at houses, at where we had started the climb. 

That’s how it is with my life, and I’m guessing that it might be the same for you—that you look back, and that you can trace the path to exactly where you are right now. I don’t see how it could be any other way, really. With my logical mind, many of the steps that I've taken made no sense at the time and caused me pain, but from the vantage point of sitting here this morning, I see that they were the perfect route to what and who I am today.

Pema Chödrön says that looking back is a wise way to see our progress, because if, instead, we measure progress by how much further we have to go, we will certainly be overwhelmed by all the mountain there is left to climb. At the least we would try to minimize encounters with obstacles in order to get to the top the fastest way possible. And while such planning may make for effective mountaineering, it doesn't work as well when it comes to our lives. 

Reminders of the obvious: Slogan wall by stupa at Gampo Abbey

Sometimes we’d stop with my grandfather and pick wildflowers from between cracks in the slate. That such soft flowers grew among hard rock amazed me; I wondered if those flowers had caused the cracks simply by growing. I want to be like those flowers—soft yet resilient. I want to stop to pick flowers, pause to look back at the path that has brought me here, then step out again with sure footing.

The other day I found a small, round stone. It was smooth like a child’s cheek, and I slipped it in my pocket and turned it over and over between my fingers. It stood out because it was the only stone on the asphalt where I walked, and I wondered how it had gotten there. I keep it on my kitchen windowsill to remind me to keep noticing.

I want to keep noticing like this!

Einstein says that it’s a miracle that curiosity survives formal education. The space of noticing, of being curious is where we first encounter knowing and, at the same time, not knowing. I am happy that this space survives in each of us. May we all find ways to reconnect with the wonder of not knowing, and may this lead us to step out in ways that amaze and delight us.

Two Kinds of Intelligence, by Rumi

There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired,

as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts

from books and from what the teacher says,

collecting information from the traditional sciences

as well as from the new sciences.

With such intelligence you rise in the world.

You get ranked ahead or behind others

in regard to your competence in retaining

information. You stroll with this intelligence

in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more

marks on your preserving tablets.

There is another kind of tablet, one

already completed and preserved inside you.

A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness

in the center of the chest. This other intelligence

does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid,

and it doesn't move from outside to inside

through conduits of plumbing-learning.

This second knowing is a fountainhead

from within you, moving out.

Take it from the top, with love: The practice of starting over

Each time that we take our seat in mindfulness practice, it is to start over. Our intent is to be present with each new breath. Sometimes we try to make more of the practice, hoping for keen insight or longing for spiritual growth. But hoping and longing actually move us away from being present. You see, during practice, all the energy that we normally put toward desiring that things be different from how they actually are can be diverted to awareness of our breath. We sit; we breathe; we get lost in thought, get angry, feel calm, think another thought, stop feeling calm, and so on. Then we start over.

This starting over is good news. Each time that we practice in this way, we open ourselves to freshness. Every breath holds an opportunity to be with what is actually going on within our minds, our bodies, and our lives, without being confrontational with those things. When we learn to be with ourselves in this way, we can truly be there for others, as well.

No breath is more precious than the one you breathe in the current moment.

A monk from the US spoke about being among monastics from another country. The Westerners suggested to the non-Westerners that they could use some work on prajna (wisdom, intellectual acuity). The non-Westerners replied, "And you could stand to work on loving one another." Let's face it, in this country when we are told to sit still, it is usually as punishment, not to foster a gentle attending to our breath, body, and the moment just as it is.

A rock I came upon (heart added with the touch of a finger).

There is a line from a chant that we recite each day here at Gampo Abbey: May I be cheerful in the morning, kind in the afternoon, and inspired in the evening. That's a tall order! But something happens when we commit to starting over with our very next breath: we get glimpses of how precious each breath is, and how fleeting each moment is.

We all know these things in a heady way, but until we cultivate a meaningful experience of impermanence—in practice this involves being with the birth of each breath, its lifespan, and its passing away—impermanence doesn't point us to preciousness; it points us to fear, grasping, and so on. 

Do you remember the movie Groundhog Day? Bill Murray's character does the same thing over and over, and along the way something happens without effort on his part: he becomes cheerful, kind, and inspired. That's the magic of starting over moment to moment, breath to breath. We can stop trying to manufacture peace and, instead, allow it to arise from the spaciousness of simply being still and breathing.

We sit not to become enlightened. We sit to remind ourselves that we already are.

Forget about enlightenment. 

Sit down wherever you are and listen to the wind that is singing 

in your veins. 

Feel the love, the longing and the fear in your bones. 

Open your heart to who you are, right now, not who you would like to be. 

Not the saint you’re striving to become, but the being right here before you, 

inside you, around you - All of you is holy. 

You’re already more and less than whatever you can know. 

Breathe out, look in, let go.
-John Welwood 

Returning to your senses when overwhelmed

In crazy times, the practice of returning to our 5 senses is a fundamental way to restore sanity, or at least to get us moving in that direction. For example, you've just learned that your nemesis at work has gotten a promotion, in part because they claimed ownership of work that you completed. Your face gets red, your heart pounds, your throat constricts, and your mind races. 

1. See.
Notice something small. Don't worry about what it is, just choose something close by and see it. Maybe it's a leaf or a corner of a table. You might notice its color, shape, movement, the way that light reflects on its surface, and so on. Let your visual awareness stay on this object for as long or as little as you like, then gradually allow your field of vision to broaden and return to fuller vision.

Figurine spotted during a walk outside Gampo Abbey

2. Smell.
Close your eyes and breathe in. As air enters the nostrils, notice the scents that register on the inbreath. Breathe out fully. Repeat. Does the scent change if you turn your head to the side, if you stand up or sit down, if you move to a different area of the room that you're in? If there seems to be an absence of scent, notice the breath itself in the nostrils—its temperature, and so on.

3. Taste.
If no food or drink is in your mouth, does taste still register? Does moving the tongue in the mouth affect taste? Does taste register more in the front of your mouth or at the back? Perhaps you'd like to drink water, bite into an apple, and so on. While closing your eyes, allow the flavors to register. Notice the world of sensations inside your mouth as you eat.

4. Hear.
Close your eyes and notice sounds. No need to label the source of sounds (footsteps, telephone, and so on); just hear the sounds: ping, bang, sssssss. Do the sounds seem to be near your ears or far away? inside of you or beyond yourself? Without reaching out for sounds in a seeking way, what sounds do you notice?

Screeching bats: Royal Botanic Gardens Melbourne

5. Touch.
Place one or both of your hands on yourself: over your heart area, on your cheeks, your shoulders (perhaps give yourself a gentle shoulder massage), curved around your forehead, on your belly. Do this tenderly. Close your eyes and feel the sensation of your own gentle touch. We really do have at our fingertips what we need to bring ourselves back into balance.

Mindful, by Mary Oliver

Every day

I see or hear

something

that more or less

kills me

with delight,

that leaves me

like a needle

in the haystack

of light.

It was what I was born for -

to look, to listen,

to lose myself

inside this soft world -

to instruct myself

over and over

in joy,

and acclamation.

Nor am I talking

about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,

the very extravagant -

but of the ordinary,

the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.

Oh, good scholar,

I say to myself,

how can you help

but grow wise

with such teachings

as these -

the untrimmable light

of the world,

the ocean's shine,

the prayers that are made

out of grass?

Mindful ownership: A vow to consider

I bought a great hat for this trip to Gampo Abbey. It has ear flaps and faux fur trim, and I admit to feeling a wee bit fierce while wearing it. But last week I gave it away. I didn't do this as a practice of generosity or as some show of asceticism. I did it because the hat seemed to belong to someone else more than it belonged to me.

It was the wicked and wild wind
Blew down the doors to let me in.
-Viva La Vida: Coldplay

The hat-belonging-to-someone-else awareness arose while I was taking my daily vows—specifically the vow not to take what belongs to someone else. For 2 weeks I had zipped through that vow because I was confident that I wouldn't take something that doesn't belong to me. But then I became curious about what seems a logical offshoot of that vow: in addition to vowing not to take something that belongs to another, can I vow not to own something that belongs to another? In other words, are there things I have now that belong to someone else? 

Do you remember the matching exercise that children do, drawing a line to connect a picture with its corresponding image—bowl with spoon, sock with shoe, and so on? I pictured the fierce hat. I pictured myself—in Virginia with its temperate climate, and my head, with lots of hair. Then I pictured the monks and nuns here—in blustery, snowy Cape Breton, and their heads, shaven. Even a child could recognize the better match for the hat. I dropped it in the Offering box. I felt no sense of doing a good thing by giving away the hat; I felt a sense of doing a smart thing. 

My actions are my only true belongings. -Thich Nhat Hanh

I don't know if this will turn into a practice of mindfully inventorying my belongings, and I realize that I'm talking about a hat—and not, say, a car. But it has me looking, considering, and so on, which is all part of mindfulness. Soon after I gave away the hat, I saw a book of Mary Oliver poems in the Offering box. Night after night I have lain warm in the bed, listening to the wind and reading her words, which in these moments suit me better than any hat I could ever imagine.

Messenger, by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters, 

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be 

astonished.

The phoebe, the delpinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.

6 points of mindful speech

Posted in a number of spots at Gampo Abbey are Chögyam Trungpa's 6 Points of Mindful Speech. I am working with these points as a practice (my comments are in blue below each one).

The eloquent silence of Gampo Abbey

1. Precision: Enunciate your words clearly.

Can I hear the beginning and end of the words that I speak? Do I trail off at the end of sentences? Do I project? Can I remember that when others have to strain to hear me, frustration and confusion can arise?

2. Simplicity: Choose your words well.

Do I need as many words as I'm using? Do I ramble? If so, is the rambling because of insecurity, cluttered thinking, a desire to monopolize the conversation, or something else?  

3. Pace: Speak slowly, without speed or aggression.

Do I speak as though I'm handing words to the listener, or as though I'm tossing words at the listener? When I “accost” people with fast talk (even though this may not be intentional), it increases anxiety and frustration.

4. Silence: Regard silence as an important part of speech.

Do I honor the silence between words? the silence between taking turns with another person when talking? When I don’t honor the silent spaces, I butt in, run my words together, and start thinking of what I'm going to say next instead of letting my words be informed by a bit of space. When I talk over top of silence, is it because I'm uncomfortable when things are quiet, that I think that my words are more important than those of the other person, or for some other reason? 

5. Others: Listen to the words, texture and quality of others’ speech.

Beyond listening to what another person is saying (the words), can I listen to how they speak? Hearing only the words of another person is like reading the lyrics of a song without hearing the accompanying music. I can glean a lot by listening also to pitch, rhythm, speed, and so on. I may find that they are saying something different from, or in addition to, what their words convey.

6. Self: Focus mindfulness on your speech.

When I bring awareness to exactly what I speak, as well as how I speak it, I can clarify instead of confuse, uplift instead of frustrate, and unify instead of divide.

Maybe having big Buddha ears would enhance our ability to listen.

On Talking, Kahlil Gibran from "The Prophet" 1923

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;
And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, 

and sound is a diversion and a pastime.
And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.
For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.

There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.
The silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape.
And there are those who talk, and without knowledge or forethought reveal a truth 
which they themselves do not understand.
And there are those who have the truth within them, but they tell it not in words.
In the bosom of such as these the spirit dwells in rhythmic silence.

When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, 
let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue.
Let the voice within your voice speak to the ear of his ear;
For his soul will keep the truth of your heart as the taste of the wine is remembered
When the colour is forgotten and the vessel is no more.