Swimming Upstream

I remember reading once that the Buddha said the path to liberation is like swimming upstream. It's completely against the current. At the time I thought about this statement in an intellectual way. 'Okay, so it's against the norm. Sure, I can see that. Choosing to live your life authentically, to step outside of the herd, so to speak, yes -- that's swimming upstream.'

I can see now that this was small thinking on my part. It's good to remind myself that the Buddha always spoke from experience, not simply from ideas or opinions floating around in his head.

My goal this morning was to sit for an hour. I made it about forty minutes in, which is fine. I'm not so sure the amount of time really matters all that much right now. The fact that I am sitting, this is enough. But sometimes I get this dreaded feeling when I'm getting ready to sit. I know how hard it's going to be, and I start to dread it. Sometimes this dread leads me to avoidance all together, or excuse making, various task-doing until I simply run out of time. It takes a certain real quality of discipline to acknowledge all of that, and still do the insane thing -- sit anyway.

This is what is meant by swimming upstream. I sit anyway. And sure enough, for the first twenty minutes it's as if I were trying to paddle my way upstream, against the current. The current of the stream is the constant thought flow, the desire to go sleep or get up and wash dishes, get lost in thought, think about yesterday or tomorrow, create my grocery list. To swim against this stream is to let it all go.

What's particularly hard about this, what makes it truly swimming against the stream, is that it's also a terrific balancing act. There's a certain amount of effort required to tune into the present moment, to have the mindfulness to return again and again when the mind constantly, out of old deep habits, wanders off down stream. So, I push and I paddle. I get angry with myself. I feel frustrated every time the current takes me. I can feel myself tightening inside -- the breath constricting, my eyelids clamping down instead of easefully shut.

This is now trying too hard. One must let go. Relax. Release. Be gentle. But not too gentle, not too relaxed... because there you go, falling asleep. Where's the breath? Am I even awake right now?

Even though I sat today for forty minutes I could have sat for an hour and the "sit" would have been much the same. This is what they mean when they say the spiritual path is like swimming upstream. If I paddle too hard, I'll wear myself out and drown. If I don't paddle at all, I'll simply be swept down the river with all the other fish.

There are certain virtues that we need to take along with us on this journey. All of the great religions talk about it. To be close to God, whatever you concieve that to be, requires a lot of faith. Surrender. Devotion. And even patience.
(Note: Buddhism, however, is not a religion in this sense. It never speaks of "God" as it is more of an eastern psychology, than an eastern religion.)

I find the notion of taking refuge really helpful at this point in the practice. Taking refuge is like taking solace -- it's a kind of reassurance. For over 2500 years people have struggled, just like I am struggling, to meditate and they've made it through to the other side. When I think of all those that have come before me, who have made this struggle, I feel a sense of connection. This was hard for them too. When I think of Siddartha himself, I am especially encouraged and feel tremendous compassion, as well as gratitude for what he did. I'm fortunate to have the dhamma -- books upon books written by others to help guide me along, to tell me how and what and why. Siddartha had nothing. He didn't even have the method. He had to discover it all on his own. I can't hardly imagine having the insight that if I just sat in one place, with all of these particular qualities at work -- concentration and equanimity -- that this would be the way to liberate the spirit from the cage of the mind. What a miraculous gift he brought into the world! 

Getting Started

Beginning a meditation practice has it's real challenges. As I was sitting this morning, towards the end I began to reflect on the most essential aspects of what keeps me going. The single most important condition, both in my opinion and experience, is to develop a friendship with the practice.

What does it mean to establish a "friendship" with the practice? When you imagine friendship, what is the felt sense that comes up? For me it is warmth, kindness, happiness, joy, laughter, and love. When I go in the morning or in the evening to sit, the first things I say to myself is that I'm going to spend time with my friend. That friend is me. What a cherishable thing it is to have this time, right now, to be with my self! The very first thing I do when I sit is to check in. How does the body feel? Is it comfortable? Is there an ache? If something is hurting there is compassion for that hurting: "oh, my dear friend, you're hurting! That knee is really bothering you." One must develop compassion for themselves, especially at this early stage of meditation, because a neat thing begins to happen. The love in our heart opens. A connection between joy and meditation establishes itself, and if there is no sense of reward then the motivation to meditate will fall apart. It's simple Pavlovian psychology. But it's more than that, too.

We need this kind of love for ourselves early on because it provides a firm basis for compassion. As we go on in the practice of meditation, a lot of things will begin to come up -- a lot of things we may not like about ourselves. Having a sense of compassion and love will make our acceptance, and our letting go of these old worn-out patterns, easier and more fulfilling (and complete!).

As you read into the buddhist literature on meditation, you might come across the concept of anatta, or no-self. At this point, things can get really confusing and it's remarkably easy (and common) for us in the west to totally misunderstand and misinterpret this part of the teaching. My advice as your getting started is to not concern yourself with this aspect just yet. Anatta is a highly complex concept, one that tends to require a lot of practice, prior insight, and years of development to begin to understand.

For now, just focus on loving yourself. Cherish the twenty or thirty minutes you have to pay attention to your own body, mind, spirit. Give it love. Give it the healing beauty of a silent mind. Breath deeply into it. Feel its every feeling. Naturally, the experience of pure gratefulness will arise. And tomorrow when you might try telling yourself "I can't do this, what's the point, I don't have time, I'm not getting anything out of it," remember the feeling and it will naturally draw you back.

Tuning the Lute

Meditation is hard. Sitting, in one place, doing nothing, is perhaps the single most difficult thing to do.

But every day, I try it again. And every day, I am met with new challenges, and new discoveries.

The mind is different every day. Some days it's living in the past, others, the future. Some days there is a remarkable quietness to the mind, and when I close my eyes to begin watching the breath a wide open stretch of space expands. Everything feels deeper, sacred, beautiful, rich and full yet empty... like looking into the night sky. Other days, the mind is chatter chatter chatter, nonstop about this and about that. The breath goes out the window. Space has shrunken down. I'm suffocating in my own claustrophic mind.

Every day is different. Every moment is different. But all of it -- the good, the bad -- is just more discovery to delight in. More ways to know the self. Some habits I've come to realize: I think a lot about what others think of me. I examine myself from many different vantage points, a lot of the time. 'I wonder how so-in-so viewed me when I said yada-yada the other day.' Or, 'I hope so-in-so sees me this way, and if I do this next time maybe they'll like me even more.' I rework past experiences in my mind like they were clay. All of this working to support an ego that I know, deep down, doesn't really exist. Such wasted energy!

But when the mind quiets down, and this secret space begins to open up.... I'm so wonderfully intriqued. What's down there? It's exciting to come across, as if the door to Narnia is in my mind somewhere. It flickers in and out, like a candle, like a plane doing a touch and go. I'm learning to steady myself in this opening. It is so easy to lose the balance. Effort must be just right. The energy applied subtracted by the relaxation of letting go. It's such a precise configuration. Try standing on the tips of your toes like a ballerina for an hour. This is what finding the open expanse of the soul is like. Or, as Buddhas put it, learning to tune the lute. Not too taught, not too loose.

Something from Nothing

Our Nandina has this beautiful ice formation dripping down its berries at the moment.

This winter reminds me a little of New York... It still has a large part of my heart.

I whipped up a little something from nothing today. Roasted golden beets with sauteed swiss chard, smoked gouda, pepitas, and an orange vinagrette. I'm finally beginning to catch on to my creative side with vegetarianism. I get full, this is for certain, but not heavy full. My weight has gone down a solid seven or eight pounds, and stays right where it is now. This is the lighter side of where I was when I was eating meat. I take it as a healthy sign. And, to be honest, vegetables are just so much more interesting!

I've registered for Bhavana's women's retreat this summer and am already looking forward to it. Five days in the Virginia forest, meditating with women, living in silence and simplicity. It's going to be wonderful, and challenging! This is a wonderful article I read this morning on what I expect to be the greatest challenge, yet greatest bliss I'll encounter there in the summer. Ajahn Passano's dhamma talk today on encouraging the falculties of enlightment is bringing me much inspiration on these quiet, winter hours of solitude.

Winter Wonderland

Sledding when you're 27 and 33 years old is not as easy as it was when you were 10.

But the snow is just as beautiful.

Root vegetables have been a huge part of our sustenance lately. I've perfected the art of roasting beets and turning them into delicious little salads with arugala and spinach.

This season has also seen the perfecting of my now infamous White Bean Soup. I'll be incredibly generous with you and share the recipe:

Sautee two tablespoons of garlic with one overflowing tablespoon of smoked paprika, many sprigs of thyme, and two cans of rinsed white beans with olive oil. Once this has all cooked, slowly begin adding vegetable stock. I like to get up to 8 cups of liquid.. Add cherry tomatoes sliced in halves. Simmer for three hours. Throughout this process of sauteeing and simmering you should be adding personalized amounts of salt and pepper, and almost an entire little plastic bulb of lemon juice.  You should shrink your soup down to 4 servings by this point. Throw in a splash of cream. Add whatever chopped green you would like. My favorites are mustard greens and fresh kale. Serve a few minutes after adding greens so that they are still good and chewy.

Grow, Baby Bird, Grow

I wanted to add more wedding photos, but this darn thing wont let me. Oh well.

We're married now! I feel like I have post-wedding depression, though. Now that the excitement has come and gone I miss it terribly.... how beautiful everything was, how fun, joyous, scarey and exciting. A once-in-a-lifetime moment! And it's over. Just like that.

Actually, it's not really over just like that. The beautiful thing about being married is that it *does* feel different. You know how friends always ask you if you feel older on your birthday, and you don't ever really because it's just another birthday. Not that we don't feel older eventually, it's just that the birthday doesn't necessarily present us with that strong of a feeling of change. It's sort of, anti-climatic.

Anyway, when people ask me if it feels different being married.... the answer is a most definite "yes!" I wouldn't have told you a few weeks ago that this is how I expected to feel, but it really is different. It's special. The love really does grow, and deepen. I feel the butterflies in my tummy when he introduces me as his wife. I'm still getting use to the name change. But most of all, I love how I look at him now, when he doesn't know I'm watching... it's a thought, a realization, that catches me a little by surprise every time. 'Oh, this is my husband' I think. And suddenly I feel a rush of love and affection, a giggle too -- as if it's secretly amusing to my self.

We've been talking about saving up to buy a house. But where? Where oh were do we want to live? Atlanta is actually extremely appealing. I've thought about out west, but I'm not that drawn to the architecture. There's just something about these east coast craftsman style homes built in the 1920's that are so, so charming. I want to have a child. Yes, already. There's so much we want to do... it's hard to imagine how we're going to get all of our ducks arranged in the proper rows. I know that I don't want to rush it too much, though, because I want to be here now, soaking every moment in. I'm anxious to grow a family, but at the same time, scared of it because once that world beings it means we are slowly marching towards our own death, as our children begin to grow and eclipse us. Wow! What a thought. And it only seemed like yesterday that we were skipping class and riding around town with the freedom of adolesence at our feet.

Your Inner Contours

Some places we're not allowed to go. Some places have big, heavy, imposing gaurds with suits of steel armor and long, sharp blades standing at attention by their sides. They are the dark hallways. The places no one is permitted. It's where the No Trespassing signs get painted in bright red paint, strung up on wooden planks and bolted to the door.

Sometimes there are dogs on the other side of the walls. Ferocious dogs. Barking and sniffing, growling and scratching. I imagine them pacing back and forth. On the other side of your wall. Where the child who was hurt still lives. Where the angry oger squats in a corner, by a picture of himself. Or is it a picture of his mother?

There are moments like tonight, when I get just a little too close to one of these walls or one of these doors. And something leaps out from some small hole in the wall I hadn't known about, a hole a part of me brushed up against. I feel the sharp sting of a bite, a wound quick and deep into my unsuspecting thigh. Soft flesh. The vulnerable teeth of your fearful dogs.

I leap at the nip. Right out of bed. Right off my seat. Right out of the room, with you. Then we are both alone, and I wonder... if it is only suddenly that we are alone, or if it is again. Or maybe, we are always alone, and I only know it when I get too close to being near you.