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.

Two kinds of peace: Cured and Inner

Thank you, Ani Pema, for teaching about peace.

I had a thought last week while lying on a massage table: I don’t care whether the therapist comes back in to do the massage or not; it feels so lovely just to lie here. The type of peace I was experiencing is what my teacher calls “cured peace.” It comes about due to something occurring, usually something extremely simple—seeing a sunset, listening to ocean waves, putting on warm socks and snuggling under thick blankets on a cold night. This type of peace feels like a temporary cure to our usually complex, sometimes painful existence.

Sunset: Tamarack State Beach, Carlsbad, CA

Cured peace is great. May all beings experience much, much cured peace. But we also experience another type of peace: inner peace. Inner peace exists regardless of what is occurring. It was probably as a child at church that I first heard a description of inner peace that sounded honest—a peace that Saint Paul says passeth understanding. 

Different traditions describe inner peace in different ways, and give different reasons for it, but I agree with Paul for sure on one point: this peace doesn’t make any sense at all. We're taught to move away from our pain to experience peace, not that great inner peace exists within pain. I read somewhere that most every adult lives through at least 1 tremendously painful event that changes them forever. Maybe this comes in the form of a broken heart or a tragic accident or a long ago act of abuse that lives on in our nightmares. And maybe the sense of peace we experience in the midst of such deep hurt comes only in glimpses—a momentary gap of sanity in the middle of the unthinkable.

I know that I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. But we get confused. We get desperate. In moments when we’re hurting or shut down, we may look outside of ourselves, searching for something—anything—to move us away from the pain. We look for cured peace, when what may make more sense is to simply be still and give inner peace an opportunity to shine through.

The spacious mind has room for everything. It is like the space in a room, 

which is never harmed by what goes in and out of it. -Ajahn Sumedho

Of course it’s wise to work on opening to pain in your own timing and in your own way. A mindfulness practice called tonglen helps me to open. The word tonglen means “giving and taking,” which is what happens during this practice. We sit still and intentionally take in our own pain or the pain of someone else with each inbreath. We feel the heaviness of the pain, the sadness, and so on, and let it live in our body and heart for a while. And of course we breathe out again, and the exhalation offers space. 

Breathe in pain, breathe out space. Childbirth: Patti and Baby Kara (mosaic composed of baby photos)

In this way, we are reminded of how pain and peace can occupy the same space, even the same breath. We may even give up on labeling it as "my" pain, "your" pain, or "their" pain, and just breathe in and out the spaciousness that lives inside of all pain. May we all experience stillness and peace in the midst of what hurts us most.

I Go Among Trees and Sit Still, by Wendell Berry

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.

What it fears in me leaves me,

and the fear of me leaves it.

It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.

I live for a while in its sight.

What I fear in it leaves it,

and the fear of it leaves me.

It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,

mute in my consternations,

I hear my song at last,

and I sing it. As we sing, 

the day turns, the trees move.

Eyes, Jaw, Shoulders, Belly: A practice in body awareness

Mindfulness students are used to hearing me say “Eyes, Jaw, Shoulders, Belly” as a reminder to check in on those areas of the body. Checking in like this helps us become familiar with where our unique body holds stress.

Here's how the practice works: We pause for a few seconds to become aware of how each area feels.

Eyes
How are my eyes in this moment? Am I holding tension there? Experiment: Squint (as you might do while in front of a computer screen) while swinging your arms open as though you've just reached the top of a mountain. Bring the arms back down. Now release the tightness in your eyes, and swing the arms open again. Can you tell a difference in the entire body? in the breath? in the way that you feel?

Warrior eyes: Wide open!

Jaw
Am I clenching my jaw, which probably means that I’m also holding my tongue tight in my mouth? Try clenching your jaw and smiling. Not too convincing, eh?

Shoulders
Are my shoulders rounded forward, or up around my ears? A study was done with a group of top college students: they were asked to slump 24/7 for an extended period of time. Overall, their grades went down and many of them reported an onset of depression. 

Belly
As I breathe in, my belly should expand. Is that happening in this moment, or am I holding my breath or chest breathing instead? (When I started taking piano lessons at age 40, I held my breath while playing through lines of music—my teacher had to remind me, Breathe!) If we're holding tension in the belly, among other harm being done, our cells are not getting the oxygen they need to be healthy.

Bum
I've added this one—the sphincter muscle—to the list. We have words for people who stay constricted in this area—“tight ass,” “anal retentive,” etc. Even if there is total relaxation in your eyes, jaws, shoulders, and belly, if you’re holding on for dear life at the point of this muscle, you will not be invited to any fun parties.

A baby has open Eyes, Jaw, Shoulders, Belly, and probably Bum too

You may know of Shakira's hit song, Hips Don't Lie. Actually, no body part lies. If our body is constricted, our mind is constricted, and nobody can hide a tight mind behind eloquent words, good acts, or even a smile.

Let the Soul banish all that disturbs;

Let the Body that envelops it be still,

And all the frettings of the Body,

And all that surrounds it.

Let Earth and Sea and Air be still

And Heaven itself.

And then let the Body think

Of the Spirit as streaming, pouring,

Rushing and shining into it from

All sides while it stands quiet.

                         -Plotinus, AD 205