Slowing down, going deeper

Although yesterday’s incredibly mild weather belies the fact,  we have passed the traditional date for the start of winter. It  began on the feast of Saint Martin, marking the end of harvest, the drinking of the new wine, and the time for farm labourers to return home. Then the  ancient period of forty days preparation for Christmas, observed since the 5th Century, followed. Traditionally, these days coincided with a sense of the natural beginning of winter, and the body’s response in taking recovery time for itself. They were a time of reflection and a simplification of intake, of taking stock and winding down. In today’s world,  technology allows us to promote the opposite – longer  shopping hours and a  speeding up in preparation for the holidays, as  Thanksgiving and Christmas  advertisments begin to appear.  An ancient way of doing things and a modern  one. Thus we have a choice.

Nature has its periods of growth and its periods of rest. We are still somewhat in the bright and gentle light of autumn but we know that the darker days of winter are sneaking up on us. Soon all will go quiet and cold, with little seeming to stir. However, as yesterday’s post reminds us about the psychological sphere,  underneath much is going on. Nature becomes for us a model in its beckoning us to turn inward and look deeper, to rest, reflect and simplify. Thomas Merton reminded us of the value of “winter, when the plant says nothing.” There is a time for us also to slow down, to say little, to wait and watch.

Our task is to find a balance, to find a middle way, to learn not to overextend ourselves with extra activities and preoccupations, but to simplify our lives more and more. The key to finding a happy balance in modern life is simplicity.

Sogyal Rimpoche.

Leaves falling

A wild and windy Autumn day. The leaves are falling in earnest. Am reminded of Shelley’s words: O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being… The wind is related to the breath in many of the wisdom traditions, and the breath to the Spirit or the life force within us. In the poem,  the wind moves Shelley to reflect on his inner self, and see parallels between his life and that of the nature around him.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies  Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

An Autumn poem

One of the most beautiful in the English language. In ancient Celtic myths the swan was associated with music, faithfulness and with purity. They frequently symbolized the inner life or the soul. They were especially associated with this time of year and with the Celtic Feast of Samhain, celebrated at the end of October. In the poem they lift off dramatically, migrating and moving on, inspiring us by their beauty but always, ultimately,  out of reach.

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

The garden of love

The garden of
Love is green without limit, and yields many fruits other than sorrow
and joy.

Love is beyond either condition:
without spring,
without autumn,
it is always fresh.

Rumi

When we cannot see the way

Autumn is a “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” according to Keats. The last few days have certainly been misty, with low cloud obscuring the changing colours on the trees. Traditionally, mist has signified a difficulty in seeing and distortion in our understanding of the reality of things. Over the weekend I have being aware of some people who are coping with the descent of  mist, fog and darkness in their lives. And like driving in real fog, working with the fog of confusion and loss can be dangerous in our mental life, because I find it hard to keep an awareness of both aspects which Keats writes about, the presence of mist and the reality of fruitfulness. Often when the fog of my emotions are strong,  I tense around them, and lose the sense of my direction and goodness underneath them. I cannot see  my way, believing the truth of the story connected with the emotion and not the fact of my own inner goodness. I find it hard to connect with my heart and see the fruits produced by its simple acts of kindness. I always demand brighter, bigger truths in times of darkness. I try to strengthen and protect my sense of self.

However, some times we have to accept the passing of low clouds. They obscure but do not take away the reality underneath. Just as the trees and the vines give up their fruit under the mist, we too may be at our most fruitful. We see these thoughts for what they are, self-judging thoughts which keep us obsessed with ourselves. Have you ever noticed that we prefer to give our experience labels like “I am falling apart“, “I am a mess” rather than just staying with the experience? It seems to comfort us somewhat. Our practice is to stay with the experience as felt in the body, without adding to it. The fog is just fog. It comes and goes. Then there will be sun. Neither of them are the essence of the tree. We work with seeing the fog as a mind state which can be held in our awareness. When we do this we can see depression and suspicion, paranoia and fear as nothing more than changing weather systems in the mind. They do not belong to me and affect who I truly am in any way.

Can we realize that thoughts about myself—I’m good or bad, I’m liked or disliked—are nothing but thoughts, and that thoughts do not tell us the truth about what we really are? A thought is a thought, and it triggers instant physical reactions, pleasures and pains throughout the bodymind. Physical reactions generate further thoughts and feelings about myself—”I’m suffering,” “I’m happy,” “I’m not as bright, as good-looking as the others.” That feedback implies that all this is me, that I have gotten hurt, or feel good about myself, or that I need to defend myself or get more approval and love from others.

In using our common language the implication is constantly created that there is someone real who is protecting and someone real who needs protection. Is there someone real to be protected from words and gestures, or are we merely living in ideas and stories about me and you, all of it happening in the ongoing audio/video drama of ourselves? Can there be some awareness of defenses arising, fear and anger forming, or withdrawal taking place, all accompanied by some kind of story-line? Can the whole drama become increasingly transparent? And in becoming increasingly transparent, can it be thoroughly questioned? What is it that is being protected? What is it that gets hurt or flattered? Me? What is me? Is it images, ideas, memories?

Toni Packer, What is this me? Shambala Sun

Where we worship

It may indeed be phantasy, when I essay to draw from all created things

Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;

And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie,  lessons of love and earnest piety.

So let it be ; and if the wide world rings in mock of this belief, it brings  Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.

So will I build my altar in the fields,

And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,

And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields

Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee…

Samuel Taylor Coleridge