Sitting Still

Madison, WI, Botanical Gardens: The Thai garden is the image of stillness and peace.

 

Until this week.  About halfway through the sermon, I noticed I was still.  Back straight, head up (awake!), feet on the floor still.  And silent.  I was awed. 

I’d spent the previous two days at a workshop/retreat led by Russill Paul, a teacher of spiritual chant and author of The Yoga of Sound and Jesus in the Lotus who leads similar sessions around the world, promoting interspirituality, meditation, and enlightenment.  I blogged four months ago about my first experience with Kirtan, a call-and-response Sanskrit chant experience that’s gaining momentum in the United States.   Since then, I’ve been to another local Kirtan evening, listened to chant CDs for more hours than my children would like, and found a mantra that works for me.  When the Russill Paul weekend of Kirtan and retreat opened, I was quick to sign up. 

What a weekend.  The Friday night chant soothed me, but it was Saturday’s spiritual practice that touched my soul deeply.  Admittedly, I was a bit unsure about so much meditation and chant in a single day. I opted to stick to a chair, since my experiences sitting on the floor for longer than an hour or so have been far from comfortable (upper back and shoulder pain commences within minutes).  I felt, well, a bit wimpy with the chair option, at least for the first session.  Surely meditation would be more meaningful if I’d brought me cushion and blanket and seated myself properly on the earth.  I wasn’t the only chair-dweller, however, and I quickly let that go. 

Granted, some of the meditations and chants involved movement, so it’s not like I sat the whole 7.5 hours.  But the room was just so still during the sitting parts.  Still and silent.  I don’t think I’ve ever been somewhere (that contained people) that was so still.  Not wanting to disruptive, I worked very hard at not moving when we were to be still.  And, to my surprise, rather than getting harder as the day progressed, it became easier.  My mind still wandered and fidgeted away, but my body stayed put. 

I didn’t give that much thought until Sunday morning, when I noticed mid-sermon that I was still.  And quiet.  Although seated next to a dear friend, I was quiet.  For the sermon.   And did I mention my focus?  With that still body came a more quiet mind, one that listened with more intention.  Hmm.  

Since Russill Paul visited, I’ve returned to quiet sitting and meditating each day, generally twice a day.  Not for long.  Russill encouraged just sitting for a minute, which always seems manageable, and assured us the minute would grow.  He was right.  While some sessions are interrupted by a child or other distraction just a handful of minutes in, others go longer.  My mind is still leaping around, although I’m content to notice the leaps and return to my breath, again and again.  My body, however, is still, still in a way I’d never experienced.  There is a peace in that, and I’m certain my mind will learn to follow suit.

Riding the Waves of Change

Like most folks, I generally don’t look forward to Monday.  But after this last week, I’m ready to hit the reset button.  Now, as weeks go, I really shouldn’t complain.  The boys and I are healthy and whole.  We have a roof above our heads and food for our bodies.  The cats are back to the shelter, and the shower is relatively clean.  So why the funk?

It’s been an emotionally charged week, and I’m spent.  The boys helped their dad and his partner move into a new home this weekend, and while I’m glad to have the kids in a house and wish my ex well in his new relationship, I’m feeling rather fragile.  As my boys work their way through their rather intense and varied feelings about these coinciding changes, I’ve been picking up the pieces and trying to be a stable support.  That’s my job, after all. 

But I’m tired, sad, and a bit envious.  Tired from the emotional surges in this house as the boys prepare to start a new chapter with their dad and his girlfriend.  As much as they like her (and she seems quite kind), it’s a new relationship manage.  Just as the loss of their father from our home shook our structure two years ago, this change shakes the ground for them now.  It takes time to adjust when family size changes, and while my house isn’t the one directly in flux, the change occurring a half mile away is shaking my home.  We’ve all lost some sleep over the past few weeks, but strong feelings are more draining than the short nights.

I’m sad.  When my kids struggle with change, it’s hard on me.  I know they’re resilient creatures, but it’s hard to see my older son so anxious and angry (although he quickly admits he likes his dad’s partner, he struggles mightily with any change, especially such a personal one in his new home).  He’s cried himself sick this week, vented his rage at me repeatedly, and generally been moody, even for a thirteen-year-old.  Also, I’m sad at the loss of extended family that’s occurred since my divorce, although the relationships were never terribly close.  The loss is still painful.

Finally, and most bothering to me, is my envy.  I’m envious of the new start they share, of the excitement about forming family.  I’m envious of the rather carefree relationship they seem to have with the woman they’ll share a home with.   For my two years solo with my boys, I’ve been the one to remind them to practice piano and do their school work.  I’ve told them to brush their teeth, put away their dishes, mow the lawn, pick up their socks, get ready for church/karate/piano/errands/appointments/bed.  While their father puts them through some paces, the bulk of their responsibilities occur here, at home, under my charge.   In comes a new woman, not mom, not nagging, and, from all reports, fun.  What’s not to like?  And I do want them to like her, but I’m feeling a bit stale and boring in comparison. 

So I’m trying to just ride the energy of my feelings, allowing them to come and go like waves in the ocean.  The seas will calm, both in the boys’ emotions and in my own.  Like my boys, transitions are hard for me, and so many transitions have entered my life in the past few months.  As I’ve experimented with chant and have been reading Russill Paul’s book, The Yoga of Sound, I’ve learned the technique of picking a core mantra, a repeated phrase that I can use to enter meditation and to focus.  After some consideration, I chose Om Namah Shivaya, a Sanskrit phrase basically opening one to change.  So I’m trying to be open, to see these changes and inevitable and even welcome parts of life, which is personally challenging. 

But tonight I’m worn.  I’ll ride the wave, but I’m wishing for rest of body, spirit, and mind.  I’m looking toward Monday for a week with ordinary happenings but knowing that change will continue to stir our waters.  And that’s how it should be, even when I’m tired, sad, and envious.  Om Namah Shivaya.

Tender and Exposed

I’m suffering a bit of tenderness lately and feeling rather exposed.  Vulnerable exposed, not the other kind.  A credible source warned me that the price of opening the soul was a shedding of the shell that protects us from the harsh world.  He was right. Two weeks after kirtan, I’m finally sleeping (mostly) and finding the energy inside more manageable.  I’m able to move it a bit more easily, increasing it when desired and lower it when needed.  I’d call it containable now, although not controllable.

I doubt the energy of the universe, of the divine, of love, is meant to be controlled.

I’m further along in my exploration of chant, reading Russill Paul’s Yoga of Sound slowly, re-reading often, allowing this magnificent work sink into my mind and heart.  I’m sure more than one reading will be necessary.  Russill Paul explores chant from a Hindu and Christian perspective, which he pulls off authentically, since both are part of his religious tradition.  While I no longer consider myself Christian, I appreciate his use of the teaching of Jesus, as this is a religious man I know something about.  Leaving the Catholic church did not mean abandoning the teachings of Jesus, as his message of love and acceptance, his teachings of loving kindness and compassion, continue to shape my theology and spirituality today.

But I’m so raw and tender.  Harsh noises and smells still strike me in ways discordant with the continuing vibration of my soul.  Since my children and our foster kittens produce both in abundance, I’m challenged on both fronts to manage the irritability that comes with this discord.  More difficult is my tender heart.  Last night, while flitting between Facebook and an email while listening to chant, I found myself in tears.  For the past several years, tears have been a common companion as I struggled through my separation and divorce, but these tears were different.

After posting about a delightful meeting with new parents and their 2 1/2 week old daughter (as a La Leche League Leader, I occasionally meet parents face-to-face).  I’d spoken with the mom several times, and she needed more reassurance than could come through the phone.  The couple and child came to my house, and I spend an hour and a half giving some breastfeeding advice, chatting about their transition to parenthood, and encouraging them to trust their own growing knowledge about their child.  I think the visit helped them, but I know it touched me deeply.  I’ve always felt honored to enter people’s lives at this precious point of welcoming new life.  I’ve listened to many a mom cry in despair in those tender weeks after birth and listened to countless concerns, advising some but encouraging moms to listen to their intuition and trust their ability to parent.  This visit was different.

Perhaps it was the circumstances of the past few weeks, entering their lives at such a raw time for them when I was raw as well.  Perhaps they seemed familiar, facing challenges together with a new baby, so much in love and so overwhelmed at the same time.  Likely it was a mixture.  I posted a blurb about the encounter on Facebook, my social network of choice, and the response from my co-leaders blew me away.  The love started moving in my direction.  Tender and raw, heart already full, I overflowed with tears.  Not the tears of pain, anger, loss, and sorrow that had been my companions the past few years, but tears of joy.  Tears from a heart bursting with love for this family, for my friends who give me their love, and for, well, everyone.

Mystic Poet Rumi

Chant still playing, I read some Rumi.  This did nothing to stem the tears, of course.  Rumi, a mystical poet from the 13th century, writes prolifically about divine love, using romantic love as metaphor.  Almost a millenium later, his writings strike to the core of love — love from one soul to another, love with the divine.  So of course, my weeping persisted.

Sleep brought rest, and morning soon followed.  Still tender and raw, feeling completely without shell or shelter, I went through the day, yet still utterly exposed.  Tears sprung forth at seemingly random moments.  We’ve had some busy days lately, and today continued the trend.  While running errands with my younger, I turned on a Krishna Das CD and let the music and Sanskrit roll over me and into me.  The energy turned, and my sense of balance returned, yet I feel as vulnerable before.  I’d somewhat disregarded my friend’s warning about this tender sense:  I’m largely among friends and family, after all.  How could the world blindside me?

And now I know.  The magnitude of the soul, the divine, of love, our the true essence of each of us is nearly unbearable yet bear it we must if we’re to live fully.   It’s all louder now:  the sounds, the scents, the heart.  I’ve no desire for the music to cease, for despite the discomfort, I’m experiencing the world on a more intimate level than I ever had.  And that’s worth some tears, some pain, and a tender heart.