Walk

The loose German Shepard doesn't attack me as I walk past his yard. I continue on, whole, healthy, intact, and grateful for blessings I wasn't aware of just one moment before.

Noticing

When I touch the cactus, it is calm and welcoming to my fingertip.

******
As I walk past, the purple irises whisper of death; the yellow irises bloom with hope. Everything balances.

Just Do It

Feminist critic Judith Butler says, "Gender is performative." That's one of my favorite quotes. It deepens the more you think about it.

I would say that lots of things are performative. Happiness, for one. Also writing.

After a tumultuous couple of months, I just enjoyed the best Spring Break ever with my family. We went to three Science Museums, the beach, Palm Springs, Los Angeles and our beloved San Diego. I don't know if I can express the contentment I experienced lying in the white bed of our little inn, looking past the white ruffled curtains at the streaming early sunshine and listening to the sounds of traffic from the street below. Knowing that in a few minutes I would be strolling with my family to a cafe to get fresh baked bread and a steaming mocha. Everything in my life seems to be falling into place in such a happy, fulfilling way.

Because happiness is performative.

Are We Breaking Up?

I just had an awkward conversation with my therapist. I'm not seeing him anymore. Not last week, not this week, not for I don't know how long into the future.

I just need some time and space. Ironically, I'm not in a mood to talk about it.

Not at all.

I know that sounds like repression or denial or something vastly unhealthy. But I don't think so. I think I just know myself. And what I need now - more than anything else - is time. Time and space to sort out for myself who I am and where I'm headed. I don't want to be prompted into playing any roles -not the sniveling victim, not the noble survivor, not the wounded child. I just want to sink slowly into myself and settle into a peaceful and loving space.

My therapist sounded a bit panicky on the phone. It's always threatening when it seems like a long term relationship might come to an abrupt end. He's unprepared. He actually pleaded a bit - in a therapist-like way -- pointing out the depth of the connection we've built between us. I feel his pain, and I know that he legitimately cares for my well-being. Oh, the irony.

But I can't bear to hear anyone tell me how to think or feel or act. And if I'm just going to be sitting there telling the story, there's no point. This is a story I know well, and I can tell it to myself for much less fuss and money - and with just about as much result.

If not more.

Just is the Wheel

Came across this quote today. A concept I had tripped over and circled back to repeatedly in the last few bits of my life. Something I had decided was core to me being who I am. Just sounds more authoritative that a famous writer said it. :)

Sincere forgiveness isn't colored with expectations

that the other person apologize or change.

Don't worry whether or not they finally understand you.

Love them and release them. Life feeds back truth

to people in its own way and time.

--- James Thurber

Meditation Practice

An advanced Buddhist Meditator instructed a portion of our Yoga Teacher Training this weekend. She led us through three short meditations, an experience so enjoyable that it has only strengthened my desire to embrace meditation as a form of play and prayer. ( I say play because I don't want to approach meditation with goals and agenda - it's counterproductive.)

During the first session, I was so focused on calming my mind and following the breath in and out of my nostrils that I didn't notice my legs slowly, very calmly, falling asleep. When the gong ended our 15 minutes, I tried to unfold myself only to find that I had no sensation whatsoever from the pelvis down. Complete absolute numbness. I had to move my legs with my arms. No pain, no tingles, just nothingness from half of my body.

Which proves what I've suspected- my legs are way more advanced than my mind!! :)

It was an interesting experience. I stayed very calm and feeling came back gently over the next few minutes as I let myself stretch out.

The three Poisons that lead to suffering, according to Buddhist teaching:
1. Desire (as in greed, longing, dissatisfaction, and also clinging and attachment)
2. Aggression (violence, but also Resistance which is a subtler form of violence)
3. Ignorance (not knowing or recognizing, but also Ignoring)

Sitting in meditation doesn't achieve the goal of wiping the mind clean or stopping thoughts. Thoughts simply don't stop. What it can do is teach us to have that bit of space, that Equanimity of mind that lets us stay a bit more balanced as the chaos of life arises.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

*** If nothing else, our initial experience of meditation usually teaches us one thing: it is difficult to sit still and do nothing. In fact, we often get confused just trying to imagine how we ought to approach such a thing. For this reason, it is best to begin each session of meditation by counting the breath. Breath counting calms and clarifies the mind. It is the perfect vessel in which to cross the stormy seas that rage inside our minds and bodies in the midst of a busy day. After a few minutes of focusing ourselves in this way, we find it less difficult to concentrate. The body and mind are brought together under one common enterprise.

Thus it becomes easier just to be where we are (p24). ***

from The Wooden Bowl - simple meditation for everyday life by Clark Strand

What the #$@%?

Lately my life has been absolutely perfect and completely fucked up at the same time. Which makes for a very confusing experience. I'm constantly flipping the metaphoric coin and waiting to see which side comes up. But it really doesn't matter, because it's just going to flip again, and then the other side will show.

And if I don't want to deal with that, I simply wait and it flips itself back. Really.

Sometimes I flip, sometimes I just stand back and watch the flipping happen for me. Depends on if I want to enjoy the illusion of being in control, or if I want to just be detached. Sorry, I'm feeling bitter today.

I saw an amazing book when I was browsing through Borders earlier. (See what I mean? What kind of life is bad that includes browsing through the bookstore as part of the day's activities?)

I think the title was A Stroke of Insight and the author's last name might have been Taylor, but I didn't write that down and it's already gone from my cluttered mind. What remains, however, is the point of the book. Dr. Taylor was already an accomplished Neuroanatomist, deeply involved in studying the brain, when she suffered a disabling stroke at the age of 37. Her brother's lifelong struggle with schizophrenia had led her into brain research and an active involvement in the Mental Illness Movement that included serving on the National Board of NAMI (National Alliance of Mental Illness).

So a completely debilitating stroke that robs the ability to walk, talk, move, and more is a bad thing, right? Turns out, not so much. Turns out that Dr. Taylor thinks it's the best thing that ever could have happened to her. Because of her extensive training and background, she was able to experience the effects on her cognition from the inside, and she was able to completely recover her lost function.

And now, write the story so that others can learn from her insights.

Who would think that a tragedy would be a blessing? Or maybe I should ask that same question in riddle form: When is a tragedy truly a tragedy?

Answer: When you don't do the work to transform it into something wonderful.

Thus, the connection to my own life.

Perfect Wholeness

I see a week has passed since last I posted.

Two things are simultaneously dancing about in my life and busying my days. The first is unqualifiedly positive. I've been blessed with quite a chunk of work for the near future. With each page, I evolve further into this new professional I am becoming.

Working through a draft proposal with my newest client yesterday, I was shocked by how he just wasn't getting it. He and I attended the same grantwriting workshop, where we met. He and I have the same useful textbook for reference. But it makes perfect sense to me and not to him. Weird.

Because I can, it always shocks me that other people either can't write or don't like to write. I just assume that people have basically the same skills that I have. So. Makes me feel good that I can be useful.

Difficulty has also shadowed the last few weeks. Several friends have had challenging situations crop up, and one is facing a severe, ongoing illness. He's been in and out of hospitals and bounced around in an exhausting merry-go-round of care. Doesn't help matters that he's desperately poor. Doesn't help that our social support systems are full of holes. Doesn't help that his primary supporters, his parents, are in their late 70s and exhausted. Doesn't help that my husband has some strong, legitimate resistance to me helping him.

But so it is. Those are the deterrents, but I'm focusing rather steadfastly on the positives. With balance, everything comes.

In class, we chant this mantra of Perfect Wholeness, also published in February's issue of Yoga Journal:

Om Purnam Adah Purnam Idam

Purnat Purnam Udachyate

Purnasya Purnam Adaya

Purnam Evavashishyate

Om. This is complete and perfect. That is complete and perfect.

From perfect wholeness, perfect wholeness springs.

If the perfect is taken from the perfect, perfect wholeness still remains.

So it is.

Therapy and Happiness

Where shall I start?

I enter my therapist's office (come on, we've already talked about this) and kick off my shoes as is my habit. We go through the formalities of him offering coffee and me refusing as I settle onto his sagging leather couch in sukhasana (easy crossed leg pose). I take a deep breath.

"Hmm. I'm feeling anxious," I share. "That's interesting."

"Why do you think that is?" T asks. He's well practiced at his role.

"I think it's a conditioned response to this environment." My gesture takes in the painting of the muddy mountain river, the stuffed gorillas on the empty chair, the plastic statue of Freud next to the horrible decades-old brass lamp. "Plus there's the whole context of therapy, isn't there?" I pause and think. "I spend so much of my time in other contexts, like studying yoga, that this one feels very different."

I elaborate, "Therapy presupposes a lot, doesn't it? Just by walking in the door, it supposes that I have problems and that you have answers. I'm deficient somehow, or flawed, and you will give me what I need to be fixed. Also there's whole cultural concepts of right and wrong, good and bad, knowledge and ignorance. It invokes hierarchy, patriarchy, and authority. It stirs the part of me that wants to get the "right" answers, the A on the test, and win approval."

"Are you doing that?" he asks.

"No." I'm quite sure. "If I were trying to win at therapy, we would have begun very differently. I could easily be taking us down the road of here-was-my-problem-this-week. " I sigh. "But I just don't have enough pathology for that do I? We're doing something quite different, more relational, less fixed."

I pause and smile at T, acknowledging that most clients don't begin at this level. "Isn't this a great start? We're taking apart the whole structure of what you do with your life within the first five minutes. Didn't you miss me over vacation?"

******
During his holiday visit, my beloved brother offered a concerned observation. "You know, Sis, you're clearly unhappy."

I went through all the same reactions you would. First I was in denial. What does he mean I'm not happy? I AM happy. Then I got defensive. Well, how does he know? Is he the happiness expert? He shouldn't judge my life.

Then I went with his assessment and the panic set in. Oh my God. I'm not happy. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with my life? I must fix it immediately!

Of course, all of this occurred in split seconds while our outward conversation moved to some other topic.

It stayed with me though, niggling in my mind. Only about two days later did realization slowly creep over me, like the sun sliding through a morning window.

Who says that we should be happy? What's wrong with being unhappy?

In my case this particularly makes sense. I've had some horribly difficult experiences over the last few years. My life holds the possibility for tremendous tumult. Why should I expect myself to feel happy at all? Being unhappy is probably the only sane response actually.

Of course, the moment you give yourself permission to be unhappy and stop striving so hard for happiness, you relax. Then you notice that actually you're happy some of the time. In my case, a lot of the time. Just not all the time. My brother caught me in the frantic throes of holiday-guest-family interactions in an unhappy moment.

So what?

I mention this because an opportunity for this sort of acceptance arose again this afternoon.

Arriving home from errands, I stepped out onto my driveway and glanced up. The sun was streaming through the blue sky. The trees were perfect tree-green and waving in a breeze. This absolute gorgeousness stopped me in my tracks and convinced me to sit down on the brick retaining wall to soak it in.

I'm so blessed in this moment, I thought as contentment washed over me. Today I am happy. I'm feeling strong and determined. I'm feeling hopeful and loving. I feel good. Everything feels like it's heading towards balance and positive energy.

Instantly, I got clingy. How can I keep things stable like this?

Then I caught myself. Who says things need to be stable? I don't have to stay happy. I don't always have to be strong and content. I can simply be whatever I am in that moment. Life will cycle. It is inevitable; fighting that by trying to hold on to any emotional state is as ridiculous as trying to stop the sun from moving.

Pema Chodroen, a Buddhist teacher, explains that each moment is fresh, an awakening of realization. Even after decades of meditation practice, she still is learning to accept the awakening of each moment.

The state of life is flow and change. When we try to "create ground", to find something firm to hold on to all we do is create tremendous suffering. I think we all know this, but still we fight it. For some reason, the flow of reality terrifies us all, even those among us who are more familiar with it.

My happiness today comes from my willingness to be accepting - of my true self, of my desires, of my values, of others, and of the nature of life.

Yoga class today ended with my favorite benediction:

May our hearts crack open with love

May we be awakened to our true natures

May we be healed

May we be a source of healing to all beings

Namaste

A New Year Starts

Monday morning. A new start to a fresh week. A day of rebirth. Time to put the ultimate absorption of the holidays behind us and head forward into an unwritten year.

I like beginnings. They’re hopeful and I, a generally hopeful person, feel at home with that energy. I’m not that keen on endings, and transitions are tough, but give me a good, fresh start any day of the week. I love the reflective process of looking back to see where I’ve been and then looking ahead to see where I might want to go.

I’ve even come to love the surprise of life, the dreadful, wonderful inexplicableness of it. Even as I make my plans, I know that they’re likely to go awry in ways I can hardly imagine. I know from experience that I am quite capable of achieving everything I set as a true intention, but in an unexpected, slightly warped way. That’s how wishes always come true in the fairy tales, isn’t it? You have to be careful what you wish, and how you wish, because when it comes true the results are sure to be something you didn’t bother to fully conceive.

For example, I should have been writing this yesterday, if not last week. I thought I would be. But my husband was able to leave work early. Consequently all my good intentions of working went out the window. So it is. I enjoyed the extra vacation time with him immensely.

My husband asks me repeatedly why I don’t write about him more often. It’s complicated. Really, that says it all. I simply don’t know what to write, how to say the incredible mixture of emotions he evokes. He and I go so far back in each other’s lives that nothing between us is simple or clear or clean. We have love and anger, devotion and insecurity, faith and disappointment, often, like yesterday, all in just a few hours. I suppose I think maybe he doesn’t really want me to write what I might say, and I may not want to share it with the world. That part of my life tends to be private and guarded.

One of my intentions for 2009 is to embrace yoga more fully. That means more of the physical, of course, a more devoted practice of asanas. But I’ve also found myself focused on yogic spiritual principles – the Yamas and Niyamas. Sauca and Satya float at the surface of my mind – purity and truthtelling. I’ve done a lot of truthtelling over the last few years, and more over the last few weeks than anyone would expect. I seem to be burdened in life with an extreme need to be open and truthful with others, even while knowing that such a goal is a near impossibility because Truth as we think of it hardly exists. If it does, it certainly doesn’t exist in a way that we, with our small and active biologically driven minds and incredibly strong egos can access easily. So ironically, I live my life trying to respect Truth that I don’t even believe in. Yeah, that’s me.

Anyway, at this point in time, my life is as truthful and as open as I’ve been able to make it. That’s not easy for me (or anyone probably). Like most of us, I learned that lying and covering up unpleasant aspects of life would make everything easier. But I’m a terrible liar. I just don’t believe in its energy. Long term, secrets and lies eat your purity away. The insidious energy of the concealed becomes a potent obstacle. Thus.

Thus. At this point, I stand open and honest. For all my flaws of selfishness, stubbornness, inconsideration, insecurity (I could go on, but you get the idea), at least I honor others, Life and God by striving to adhere to a moral code. I want a foundation upon which I will build the rest of my life. I refuse to build that foundation out of shadows and sand.

Teacher trainer S interprets the Yoga Sutras for our class. He says that if something you’re doing isn’t working, you should do the Opposite. A very good idea, and one that makes strong intuitive sense to me. If only I could figure out which parts of what I’m doing don’t work, and then figure out exactly WHAT the opposite is. Then I would do it.

Call and Response

This is the Way

we chant

the sacred Words

in

Yoga

This I Know

With pop music groups broaching the subject of love right and left, I'll relate the mild argument my therapist and I had today. (Okay, yes, I have a therapist. It explains a lot. As if you don't.)

My therapist took the stance that all love is conditional.

"No way," I said. "Love can be unconditional."

He challenged me to name unconditional love.

"Easy. The love for your children."

T argued that love for children may begin as unconditional but the older they become, the more your love for them becomes conditioned by your feelings about them as people. "What if your child was a drug addict, violent scumbag?" he asked.

But I held firm. Sure, I admitted, you wouldn't LIKE them. You absolutely wouldn't like their behavior. But it is possible to still LOVE them. Not everybody does, of course. But it's quite possible.

I went further. I actually think I LOVE my children more now than I did when they were younger, because with each year, they become more separate from me and more of the people that they really are.

He and I did readily agree that of all the relationships, romantic/relationship love is actually the most conditional. Most relationships are complexly negotiated contracts with each party agreeing to abide by their stipulations. That's why relationships fail so relatively frequently and easily.

But Unconditional Love? It exists - without a doubt. I know it does. And I didn't even mention the classic example - God's neverending love for us, which I deeply feel and believe in - as I thought it would be too difficult to prove or disprove.

In fact, in a real and deep sense, since you're reading this blog right now, I'm sharing Unconditional Love with you. Yep, you. For your humanity and all that you are, I love you unconditionally. And you know it. You can feel it. That love will persist despite all those annoying character flaws that you have. (We all have our share after all.) Even if I didn't like you, I could love you.

Reminds me of something S was teaching about in yoga training this weekend. Like many, he's clearly been scarred by a Christian upbringing. That's a common factor that brings Westerners to Yoga. He even went so far as to angrily declare, "Fundamentalist religions are stupid, that's all they are. All Fundamentalists religions are just stupid!"

After a calming breath, he continued, "Christianity is a Deep Practice. That's a heavy load to lay on people, To love others as yourself. It's no wonder so many crack under that pressure."

Good point. That is a Deep Practice.

Unconditional Love.

But it is possible. This I know.

A Good Thing to Remember

"Yes, honey is perhaps good, honey and patience." - Ursula, 1-23-08

A Yoga Narrative

Okay, I'll tell you another story that happened in Yoga Teacher Training on Sunday:

The afternoon was winding to a close, and S was wrapping things up. Instead of just letting us go an hour early, he wanted to lead us through meditation.

He spoke about the Chakras, the seven energy wheels that are aligned with our spines. According to him, Hatha Yoga came into existence as an offshoot of earlier practices about 1200 years ago with the description of these Chakras. I don't know the Sanskrit off the top of my head (yet), but the first Chakra is at the top of the head. The next is at the third eye or forehead. The next is the throat. The heart centers it all. Then the solar plexis has energy, so does a spot in from the navel at roughly our center of gravity, and, finally, the "lowest" the root of the spine.

So S was being S, making these grand pronouncements. "In my opinion, nobody has ever tapped into the energy of the lower Chakras," he said. "Well, only a few, and they've probably been corrupted by the energy. The energy of the lower chakras is as powerful as a train coming down the tracks. It's a good thing we can't access it, and most people probably shouldn't even try..." And so on and so forth.

I sat there churning this around in my mind. Is this true? I wondered. I thought of my own fairly limited meditation experience. I'm actually pretty sure that I HAVE tapped into this chakra energy. I've felt that. Besides why would there be all this energy inside of us if we couldn't access it? That makes no sense.

But S is very into the "danger" of yoga - he advises caution in everything he teaches. (Remember, he warned us that a side effect of breath practice might be death. Which was an interesting conundrum. Breathe and you might die; don't breathe and you will die!)

So he talked for about 15 minutes about all the dangers, then he said, "Okay, let's give it a shot!"

And I burst out into peals of laughter.

Which I think may have offended his sensibilites, and ruined the dramatic mood he had set. Defensively he said, "Well, it's no good if I warn you AFTER something happens."

So we meditated on just the lower three Chakras. Everyone seemed to make it through the experience undamaged.

Teacher training is fun!

Pain Relief (and a poem)

I write so long this morning that I am almost too late to go to Farmers Market. But I do, because my family needs fresh vegs and fruits.

Driving, I realize that I don't feel cheerful at all. I feel lonely, and quite sad. Bummer. So sad, that I don't really want to walk around the Market, chatting with the sellers and buying food. But I do, because my family needs fresh foods. Bags of strawberries and asparagus and brussels sprouts and persimmons later, I feel a little happier. I always feel better when I spend time around people.

Perhaps I am down because I am SO hungry. This is getting pathetic to admit, but I boiled dry a THIRD pan of water this morning. Utterly disgusted, I confine myself to one of the girls' yogurt snacks and an apple for breakfast on my way out the door, reasoning that I should be safe with cold foods.

I don't get any tea until this afternoon when I grab a waffle for lunch at Coffee Depot. Again, I don't really feel like hanging out in Coffee Depot, but I do because it's Friday, and what else am I doing? The counter guy takes pity on me; he gives me two tea bags so my tea can be dark and strong. Still though, my headache persists past food and caffeine. Perhaps I had a bit too much fizzy vodka last night...

I am actually delighted when my cell phone rings. It's my boss calling. Well, one of my bosses. Or is he my point-of-contact? It gets confusing when you're working for multiple places. But I think of him as my boss because he approves or disapproves my work and when he tells me to do something, I do it. I love making business-related calls during the day. It's my only contact with adults since everyone else I know is working at their "real" job during daylight hours and don't really welcome just-to-chat phone calls.

When I get home, I take the unusual step of swallowing down some ibuprofen. That's how bad the aching is, like hot needles pushing into various spots on my skull and blood clotting behind my eyes.

Seeing the bottle reminds me of this poem that I wrote this summer. It's sort of a tribute to my Tylenol-substitute.

Pain Relief

On the bathroom counter,
The simple white bottle
Of generic tablets that I take
For my clenching headaches
Proclaims
PAIN RELIEF
In jagged red letters.

Considering,
My aching heart twists
With the wish that it were
Just that easy.

Oh, dear. This isn't uplifting at all, is it? Well, such is life... in all its variety and menu options. I'm not always cheerful, you know. I just persistently claim happiness as the better choice when possible.

The newspaper I scan in the cafe agrees with me. A front page article trumpets that happiness is vital to social health and is transmissible through your contacts (like the flu, but with better resulting effects.) I knew that; I really did.

Now I feel even more of an obligation to be happy for you all.

I'm in love...

...with my park.

Is it possible to adore a place?

My favorite park is a living creature with a spirit and a sentience all its own. Paths wind below huge calming trees. Squirrels leap and chatter. The fresh air soothes and revives me. Blossoms twirl their colored arms in their own special dance of welcome.

In the park, I am calm. I feel relaxed and hopeful. What is, is. What will be, will be. Time shifts form, in a malleable, promising swirl.

I go to the park faithfully, as often as my schedule permits. Sometimes I read there; other times I write. I walk for exercise and to expand into the vastness. The soft grass under my favorite pine is by far the best place for Tarot reading or simply musing.

I was at the park Tuesday, eating my lunch in the open air. A nice break in a long day of writing and tasks. Before I started my walk, I set an Intention, this one a wish without conscious thought or words, simply a half-formed inclination contained in a motion.

Immediately my eye fell open a lost fortune lying in my path. The distinctive white rectangle of proclamation gleamed against the dusty brown.

"Be prepared to modify your plans," it declared.

Okay by me. I have only the vaguest outline of plans anyway. Honestly, I'm not sure if I could even tell if they WERE modified.

A bit further on, I picked up some trash under the old walnut tree and found a discarded perfume sample shaped like a bottle. REALITIES, it said.

Exactly, I thought.

It continued, "Live in the moment, every chance you get."

Which is precisely what I'm doing.

Actually

It's never too early for giving thanks.

Meditation and Mind - Or "In My Head There's a Greyhound Station"

Preparing to write, I sit for a moment, letting my thoughts settle and deepen. The golden sun on my face is my companion from early morning throughout the afternoon. Its light creates a steady thread of hope and comfort for me, as I work here.

Lately, I've been brushing up against poetry and Zen meditation tips. Life has a way of handing me what I need, when I need it, so the discovery of some great blogs exploring meditation feels significant.

This morning, I lie awake in bed and wonder why I can find the time to let half an hour pass while my thoughts wander about here and there - I love that time where I am free within my own head - but I "cannot" find the time to sit for 10 minutes of meditation. Yoga teacher S would say that my mind is resisting that quiet, that inactivity. The mind doesn't like to be inactive; it likes to feel important and in charge. My poor mind - it probably needs a bit of a rest.

When I awake in the morning, while I am still in that dreamy, hazy twilight of the unconscious mind, I feel my conscious mind awaken. Every day, it stirs, stretches, and picks up the threads of the stories it tells itself all day long. They are only stories, even my mind knows this. Still it clings to them firmly and querulously, with the determination of a child on the verge of a major pout.

In the morning, my mind is a pony, turned out from the barn into the dewy pasture. It gallops and snorts, kicks up its heels and suddenly leaps sideways for no reason at all, simply alive in its own motion.

Our minds are not that different from our hearts. Our hearts work all the time to pump our blood for us, moving muscles that power our great machines. Our brains work all the time as well. At a physical level, they create our thoughts, emotions, beliefs. I am grateful to my mind for all the work it does, just as I am to my heart.

Because, truly, it goes all the time.

Except, perhaps, during the meditation that it actually needs, but just doesn't want to admit to.

Darkness

My daughters are still very young, but they do not use a nightlight to help them sleep. We have arrived at a point where they have abandoned it, preferring to snuggle gently into the inky blackness of the night. When I awaken to check them, I pick my way carefully to their bedsides, wary of any discarded toys lurking underfoot. The total absence of light means that I reassure myself of their safety by gently touching them rather than through vision.

There aren’t many moments for us modern humans when we are immersed so thoroughly in darkness. Once I pause to allow my senses to work, I often realize that absolute darkness is not really at all. Usually, there is some light mingled into the murk, and given time, my eyes adjust and send distinct pictures to my brain after all.

Just now I looked out the window into my night-darkened yard upon a beautiful arrangement of lawn chairs and bushes made visible by the stars. Painted by the night, the familiar landscape becomes a strange and fantastic scene. At some intuitive level, we know that there is a gift in darkness, a gift in this revisioning of the ordinary into the unfamiliar. We seek this gift from the darkness almost as much as we resist it.

Lately, I have refamiliarized myself with the rhythms of the unlit hours. My normally solid sleep schedule has shattered, perhaps through contact with a new friend, perhaps because I am going through a period of change and growth. I carry a sense inside myself that I am transforming. I awaken two or three times during the night. Between 2 and 3 am, I usually begin to hear the beginning of a piece of writing persistently tugging at the corners of my mind. I know that to try to sleep past that is to delay myself in a miserable limbo of wakefulness. So I arise, and write my way through the darkest hours of the night.

I miss my sleep. But I also appreciate the gift of the quiet, wonderful solitude when the night draws around me and my work. We run from darkness on so many levels. We can provide light at a moment’s touch, and we do without thought. But darkness offers us some things that we can find no other place. It offers us silence, contemplation. It offers us a deeper awareness, below the level of visual input. When I walk quietly through the blackened rooms of my sleeping house, I am freed from being the person I am throughout the day. I sense myself to be spiritual, a ghost gliding from place to place. My other sensations heighten, and I feel the comfort of the soft carpet cushioning my bare feet, of the comfortable air sliding across my skin. I hear the quiet nighttime sounds as a soothing song.

All of us have had our moments where we must journey alone, face to face with our innermost selves, and we must do it in the dark, only carefully picking our way along, and unsure of finding a path in, or finding a path back to the light. This darkness is the one that we flee from most of all. When we click that light switch, or cling to sleep, this is the deeper darkness that we want to chase away. But just as the night offers our eyes a respite from the sun’s brightness, and a different way of seeing, so too does our inner darkness allow us an opportunity to know ourselves from a different perspective. There is a gift in being able to accept the darkness within and to balance it against the light.

Margaret Atwood, that brilliant yet difficult author, commented on darkness in her 2002 book of essays about writing, Negotiating With the Dead: “Possibly…writing has to do with darkness, and a desire, or perhaps a compulsion to enter it, and, with luck, to illuminate it, and to bring something back out to the light. All writing of the narrative kind, and perhaps all writing, is motivated, deep down…by a desire to make the risky trip to the Underworld, and to bring something or someone back from the dead.”

Once I took a tour of an old lead mine that plunged deeply, deeply into the earth. At the bottommost point, the wide tunnels opened into a spacious cave which contained an absolutely black, cold lake. There was not even the faintest hint of natural light. Only the lanterns and flashlights of those who explored there. And still people journeyed from miles to dive below the surface of that black lake and to cast some light on its secrets.

That was one of the most psychologically and physically frightening things I’ve ever considered, the terror of that lightless, freezing water waiting below the weight of all the rock pressing above our heads in the stale, motionless air. Just to look at its inky surface crushed my lungs and compressed me. It was a tangible embodiment of symbolically facing the inner unknown, the plumbless depths of the human soul. We hold our breath when we think of the dark, and reach for that light switch.

But still, I am here now. The dark creates these words. The dark creates a space and strength inside.

There are visions worth seeing even without light.


9-26-06