I just received a letter from my friend Char who has completed her first year of Buddhist retreat where she meditates all day in solitude. She says she would like to be in retreat for the rest of her life, but will continue only until 2010. I think, 2010, that is so far away, but really, it’s only three years from now. I don’t claim to understand what she does in retreat or why she is called to separate herself so fully from the world; maybe though, in my ignorance, she is not separating, but entering true intimacy, contributing love and healing to this wounded world in a dimension I only dip into for a few short scraps of time in my week.
Along with paragraphs of gratitude, Char sends photos of her new retreat space behind her house, a “mini-barn of enlightenment.” I want that space, that solitude, that clearness and quiet for myself, too. I want to step out of the busyness of my days, the dis-integration of this world where we resort to cruelty and killing in the name of freedom, independence, righteousness, democracy, and peace. We are fighting for peace! I am fighting for peace within me. Every inch of me is tugged by someone(s) in need and my compassion is spent. I long to be with one Mary Oliver poem all day, stare at an uncluttered pine paneled wall, be still, just be in quiet, simple grace. I am certain that is not an accurate description of Char’s days, but from my weary vantage point, I imagine her life in a diaphanous ease. My heart, mind and soul are jammed with horrific news of each day, crisis management, reaching, grasping longing for communion, opening my heart only to have it slashed and burned as a result of someone else’s fear of intimacy. Anger rises in me and I am desperate to turn that anger into change, into slashes of red paint for frescos of enlightenment; I am desperate to turn my anger into action toward justice, into slaps of a kayak paddle through the river, making waves, into fierce loving, fierce rightness, fierce loyalty, fierce prayer, but where do I begin? Iraq? The orphans in Darfur? The undocumented workers interned in Tacoma? The hideous repetition of our shadowed pasts? The liars, the cheats, the combusting egos, the abusers and users, the game players, the politicians, the Pharaoh in the White House, me? There are just too many notes in my life and I long for a singular bell tone, one focus. Of course, I know I must begin with me, the violence within me, the self-abuse, the avoidance, addictions, fears, cravings, ego-driven actions. Char’s practice, as I perceive it, is that beginning with self, reintegration of self so that we stop contributing to the off-centeredness that threatens to destroy us.
A friend told me that her overall impression of my blog postings was that there was an unquenchable longing, thirst, desire for intimacy. Her take is accurate. I am seeking intimacy, ultimately with the One Creator God. I do seek at-One-ment. But so much of my journey has been about a mediated experience of atonement, seeking intimacy with other mortal souls to reach an ultimate intimacy with God; I have neglected to sit for too long in intimacy with myself. Perhaps that is what is so attractive to me about Char’s practice and the photographs of her mediation space.
I trust that Char is performing invaluable work in her practice and I wish to do the same in mine. She asks me how my “word work” is going. I have neglected and avoided the word work, detoured through a superficial dating relationship that circled through a whole lot of nothing, exhausted myself with menial tasks at a less than challenging job, worried about money, only sang on Sundays, barely wrote, barely gave a nod to my higher purpose. (Okay, I know I am being a bit hard on myself, I am doing good work, have been doing good work, but it just doesn’t feel like enough right now.) Char reminds me to get back to my practice of centering myself, listening for the care-full words, being courageous in new ways of being, shedding my fear, and donning the sheer, gossamer poetry of truth.
Garden Beds on 54th Street
