“Trust in what you love, continue to do it, and it will take you where you need to go.” – Natalie Goldberg
In the mirror of my own experience I can say that writing is a spiritual practice, similar to and perhaps as profound as the spiritual practice of Buddhism. When I started writing in earnest back in 2016, it all began when I wanted to try writing a poem. It turned out pretty good – the poem wasn’t half bad, and I found a surprising pleasure and joy in the act of putting words together in a meaningful way. I had no idea at the time that within two years, I would discover two profound truths: the relative truth of the joy to be found in creating unique poems and stories, and then the greater truth of writing is a Way of liberation.
The form of Buddhism that I studied and practiced for around five years is Vajrayana Buddhism. In that path, you take everything that you experience– good, bad, neutral – and receive it into your practice. All these bits are tools for you to pull yourself out of a dull, painful life of bouncing blindly from one conditioned reaction to another. Using attention and awareness, you gradually realize the innate freedom that you already possess. In this way, the pain of being a trapped being is liberated, and joy and freedom become more the rule than the exception in daily life.
Beginning a committed study of the buddha way is celebrated in the act of taking Refuge. I took refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha on a stormy day in September of 2005. The late afternoon we gathered, the sky threatened rain and winds began to blow as we took our seats in the shrine room. I looked out the window, and immediately became nervous – though it was only around 3 or 4 pm, the sky had become pitch black and the elm branches whipped and swayed furiously.
Even though I felt apprehensive, at the same time I was strangely amused, a bit exhilarated even. I thought – intrepid spiritual sojourner Self has more than a bit of a diva inside her! It seemed this dark and dramatic staging was a very physical presence of what Refuge is – taking safe direction, trusting in the spiritual process unfolding from the darkness and drama of an unenlightened life.
I turned and looked at the Rinpoche who was leading the ceremony and would give the Refuge. He sat totally unconcerned with the incredibly wild weather scene unfolding just to his right, outside the window glass. The juxtaposition was eerie. Just outside, hell-black sky and lightning backdrop to wind thrashed trees and shrubs whipping houses and cars. While inside we perched on our cushions in an intimate, colorful reality – sitting cross-legged and packed in hipbone to hipbone with the 25 other “refugees” on the floor, the bright reds and oranges of the shrine room, the impassive Rinpoche giving the reading instruction on what refuge means, and his skilled translator sitting to his left. Trusting in the stable presence of the ceremony, I set aside the wiggy fear of the storm and let all unfold as it would. While I no longer travel this spiritual practice, the experience of persevering despite turbulence has been a memory that I can rely on to see me through most challenging times. I remember to depend on it, but sometimes my attention wanders. What remains is the knowing of experience, and that is unshakable for me.
In May of 2016, I decided to write a poem for the first time in my adult life. I had just come out of the stormiest, most depressed April that I had ever known. Many situations in my life at that time fell to shit at the same moment – business deals fell through, four friendships I counted on as stable were ripped away, and I was dumped via text message by a current lover. All throughout that month, the yammering of a darker voice, urging me to take action, became more insistent. For all my 50-plus years of experience, this voice was beginning to make sense to me as I went through the motions of my so-called life.
I got through that April somehow, and after nearly a month, I decided to attend one of the local writing events – a book release performance – and had a wonderful time. I had a sense that this poetry writing was something I might try my hand at. Even if I sucked as a writer, it wouldn’t hurt to put some words down. Maybe even perform them? That might be fun.
One afternoon a couple of days after the reading, I sat down at my dining room table, in front of my computer, and began to listen. Words came to me and I wrote them down. I continued to listen, and more words came, and then more. Some hours flew by and when I was done –
Not too shabby, I thought.
In fact, damn good, in my opinion.
In FACT, I LIKE this poetry stuff. I think I will do it some more.
So, I continued to write, trusting in the excitement I felt in this work of setting words to paper or keyboard. I continued to do this more and more regularly. The more I paid attention, the more I realized everywhere I looked, everything was unfolding like a beautiful and strange terrain. What is this world that I’m even finding myself in? Each glance, color – how to describe it? My ears were bathed in the most soothingly intense and intimate silver tones of leaves moving, of wind, of traffic in the streets.
I was falling in love, I realize now. In fact, I got to the point where I named my notebook Bella – Beauty. On the very same page as her name I wrote that I was falling for her. Every bird song, every piece of grit beneath the soles of my shoes, every scent (Burning or sweet? Pungent or delicate?) and all the shades of grey and the texture of the buildings on the road as I walk by. I wanted to describe these to Bella, and she, the most Faithful and Clever of Lovers, would immediately mirror them back to me.
Pay attention, pay attention, and then pay attention some more. Take it in, take it in, take it in closely, look at all this before you! Man, what does this apple *really taste like, anyway? Pretty soon, I’m realizing that all parts of me – inside, outside, relationships, impulses, consciousness – these are all gathered into my writing, just as on the cushion in the shrine room, all events are taken up into the path of meditation.
The work of attention is the work of remaining awake to every geography, aware of each sensory input, and attentive to ongoing spiritual ebb and flow. Writing turned, for me, from a desire to write a poem about birds outside my window into a source of refuge. It’s become a Way to get free from the petty revolving thoughts of pity, of self-aggrandizement, of longing, of anger and loss. Setting my mind to the work of how to describe this world “in here” and this world “out there” has become a shield against confusion, and a constant joy. It’s also a wild, bucking horse that is becoming more responsive to me daily.
And this is how writing saved my life, and how I discovered, all dark voices to the contrary, that I really loved what I was. I discovered this treasure cave of worlds, both outside of myself and the internal, purely fantasy images and thoughts of my own mind, opening to me in ways that I’m still trying to fathom. I may never find the end to the cave or to these mysteries, and that fills me with hopeful peace and a calm excitement about the future. Writing will take me where I need to go.
“…One of the most calming and powerful actions you can do to intervene in a stormy world is to stand up and show your soul. Soul on deck shines like gold in dark times.” – Clarissa Pinkola Estes
Do not be ashamed of the fear, the worry, the anxiety. Do not feel that your heartbreak over what is happening is misplaced, or wrong, or out of line. These promptings are voices from your inner compass, the gyro that keeps you stable, the inalienable center that is YOU. These feelings of injustice and outrage against the seeming shamelessness of those who engage in the fearsome practice of eating from the table of our sisters and brothers, of our children. These inner promptings are invaluable, and the seed of power. They will carry you far, if you will have courage in your thoughts about how to respond.
I would encourage you to lean in, see what the most insistent fear is for you right now. Listen to this turmoil in your heart – not to be overwhelmed or swept away, but to lean into the most bright spaces of fire. Look calmly, take time to listen, then experiment with the idea of putting yourself at it’s service. Give some time to hear and understand the message. Find your unique way to answer the prompting at the center of your fear.
Find a bucket, a basket for this and begin to carry it with you, A gesture, a word, a poem. A walk around the block. Use any way that occurs to you spontaneously to begin to move with it. You are finding your personal way to answer the call that is hammering away within.
Attend to the places where it seems your fear becomes lessened, where you feel it brighten and the flame steadies in peace. Those are the forks in the road, the little outcroppings where you can set up camp. Unexpected treasure caves may be revealed, for you to discover work to be done to liberate this energy into purpose. When you do, a gesture of power will come to you. This gesture will begin the process of moving your energy to the best direction for you to do the most good.
Don’t get hung up – there is time, although not too much of it to be sure, so begin moving. By leaning into what the energy is telling you, and moving with it, you become a container for the force that will serve to free us all. The energies are shaking you, perhaps because you have the exact convergence of powers and loves to respond. It’ll be bumpy at first. But you will gain precision and finesse as you move along with it. I would love to hear what you are doing to help keep this world, as Keats would say, “a vale of soul making.”
“Preciosa te llaman lo bardos que cantan tu historia, no importa el tirano te trate con negra maldad…” – Rafael Hernández
I just made it back from visiting my home country of Puerto Rico. It is the first time I get to visit since hurricane María swept through, almost exactly 5 months after. It was an incredibly emotional and difficult trip. I found myself fighting the tears more times than I can recall. Five months after the hurricane and my island, my people, my family still carry open wounds from that horrendous day.
During my visit I gathered so many terrifying stories from my friends and relatives about their experiences during and after the hurricane. They told me about how they stayed up all night holding doors and windows for hours as the wind was about to burst into their homes. About how the extreme heat wave…
Bent over, hobbling,
each step a new kind of pain
dark and bone-deep,
like the scraping metal of a spoon in an empty bowl,
like the crush of the crowd
stumbling over the homeless body in the street.
This world will steal the purple joy from my heart, if I let it.
But then I feel the sun warm on my face.
This will break the spell,
and the bad dream recedes.
The landscape rolling,
a healing flowing
known and unknown –
St. Croix, Mississippi,
and the swimming pool of my childhood home.
Despair blown away with delight,
remembering the way I felt,
eager and free
wind blowing in my hair
eyes streaming in sun and happiness,
gazing over the cottonwoods
laid out in endless sighing green.
Thinking about broadening dimensions of what can be considered liturgy, the sanctification of Life, Time, and Space. This is the symbol-making side of expressive life, put into a space/time and made bigger, more intense, more significant. Paying attention to the Icon we want to mark, to pull us into the space and heart of the moment chosen, signifying the underlying profound mystery of what we see. Icon is probably the best image to stand for this process of going within some life/time/space to draw attention to what is going on there. My teacher Wendy had said we are made for story, and liturgy seems to be this kind of story that tells us of our body, speech, and mind interacting with the Body, Speech, and Mind of the space we find ourselves in.
Outside/Inside are invoked and recognized. Like forming an alembic that will capture and condense new stories which distill out of us after interacting with Attention to the Moment we’ve chosen to liturgize. This is done consciously, as with a religious ceremony, or unconsciously, as with preparing to go to one’s job.
The quality of attention is the path to what some religious traditions term “paradise.” Focused mind can sanctify any space, for the Sage who is paying attention.
Sanctuary. Longing for peace; impulse giving rise to and forming a space, in place and mind. Like slipping into water, going under and finding, to your surprise, that you can breathe freely for the first time.
A dream, from high school, I was in my mother’s garage with a handsome boy. He was smiling, blonde, perfect skin and body. Looking at me, his gaze invited me to join him as he suddenly leapt into the air and began swimming in the space. Delighted, I jumped too, and found I could do the same. I flew and dived, in great spiral arcs. I saw the wooden walls in vivid detail, and I flew faster and faster, swimming through air as I followed the boy. Exhilarated and free, I still feel how powerful and present I was, spiraling movement in the air. This dream of the garage space, a secret sanctuary even now.