Notice that you trust
This morning I was listening to a mediation with Jack Kornfield-- he told the story of a monk who had great love and appreciation for the teacup he used each day. He explained that he knows the cup is already broken, so each moment with it is precious.
I paused... then remembered reading this yesterday
Life does not accommodate us.
It shatters us.
Every seed destroys its container,
or else there would be no fruition.
-Florida Scott-Maxwell (writer & Jungian therapist)
Truly any significant loss brings the mirror up too close for comfort-- 'How have you lived?' it asks. 'Have you been embodied or are you living a short distance from your body?' The invading troops of the "could've/should've/would've" army look for an opening, a weakness in my defenses, and they are ready to attack the fledgling awareness and forgiveness that has sprouted in my heart. Grief is the ultimate course in mindfulness. Be present, notice everything, feel it all, or get swallowed up in the quicksand of regret.
...
I live in a parallel universe. In one world I am a mother, full of the memories of wanting, birthing, raising, and loving my child. In the other world, I'm present with this feeling of having my heart exploded/expanded/exhumed. I feel waves of grief and occasional flickers of joy, with the buoyancy of grieving out loud, witnessed, and welcomed by community. In this world I am studying the micro-movements of ants on the earth and tracking bird flight, knowing more cups will break. How can I drop the FEAR of the cup breaking and accept that it will? How do I treasure each moment more fully by listening quietly, kissing more deeply, allowing this, here, right now to touch me?
...
When I was thirty I found myself in Kathmandu. I didn't plan the trip for years or have dreams of ascending the highest mountains in the world. I was untethered at the time-- an artist living on the edge. My boyfriend and I followed the wind, the advice of fellow travelers, and our intuitive nudges. This is how we ended up hiking the Annapurna circuit -- 22 days, 18,000' at the top of Thorung-La pass, 125 miles from monkey infused jungle to bone-chilling, snowy peaks. We rented the basic equipment--down parka, boots, sleeping bag-- and headed out. Walking that ancient trade route, through Tibetan villages perched on the edge of impossibly, encountering Buddhist nuns that appeared to be centuries old sitting in their doorways reciting mantras, sharing meals with Israelis, Swedes, South Africans, Canadians-- this was life-altering. I felt like I had a new prescription for glasses, suddenly noticing the craters in the moon and the nuances of the shadows in the forest.
...
The blessing of this trek was that I'd read nothing about it. I didn't spend a year getting into shape (though it would have helped!). I didn't use all my savings to get the best equipment and clothing. I just showed up and started hiking. No expectations. What stunned me was the battle in my mind. A moment of mindful walking was overshadowed by hours of anticipating where we would have lunch or what kind of strange accommodations we'd find that night. I'd look up at the choppy sea of mountain peaks and catch myself thinking 'how in the hell am I going to climb that'? Fortunately, we were in the land of Tibetan Buddhists (living in Nepal because of the Chinese invasion in the fifties)-- and every village had prayer wheels at the entrance that you spin as you enter. There were stupas and temples and pilgrims, reminding me to slow down, pray, and be present.
...
When we made it to the top of Thorung-La pass, having started at 3pm and moving with excruciating slowness due to altitude and cold, I was stunned. Twelve days of hiking. 13,000' elevation gain. I was on top of the world. I didn't want to leave. I didn't know how to take it in-- the accomplishment, the landscape, the awe. Then, I looked down. There, an impossible distance away, was the village we had to get to before nightfall. My knees were aching, my head pounded from lack of oxygen, and my bones hurt from the cold. The only way out was down the steep snowy path. I tucked mental images of the glorious view in my mind, repositioned my forty-pound pack, and started down the mountain, one tender step at a time. This is when I realized that every dream, every goal has a downside-- quite literally, in this case. Eight hours later, when we had our feet tucked under a table with hot coals warming us and a cup of steaming chai, the challenges of each step faded away. We were fed by moon-faced Tibetan teens, swapping stories with hikers and leaning into the web of comfort woven by seekers for millennia. This reminds me of birthing-- how intense the pain is, how quickly it fades when your baby is placed in your arms. It reminds me of grieving. I walk up the vast switchbacks, sweating, swearing, wanting only to be at the top. And then I'm there-- A smile breaks across my face. The sun breaks through and illuminates the peaks nearby. A blessed relief from the arduous journey. And then, with a deep sigh, after resting and eating a snack, I return to the trail, headed downward once again. I remind myself there is no destination. This one step is all there is. Notice the underbelly. Notice the travelers as they pass. Notice the eagle and the mouse. Notice the magic in not knowing where you're going. Notice that you trust you are being held and guided. Notice that you trust.
