Learning to Cherish the World

My morning 'mindful' reading these days is The Blue Sapphire of the Mind, Notes for a Contemplative Ecology by Douglas Christie. Before I 'pop this mortal coil' I'd really like to feel increasingly connected to the natural world. Which is pretty much saying that I'm feeling too separate and distinct now. 

Sometimes the barrier comes down for a moment--maybe when I flush a grouse, glimpse a fox or see (and hear!) a V of geese flying overhead. Those moments are such a delight. But more often (I hate to admit this) the natural world is not much more than background music to my thoughts, my musings, my problems--even my camera. 

I sense a possibility and a kind of calling to become less separate and  more and more permeable to the life of the world. Which is way I picked up Douglass Christie's book. He's spent a lot of time thinking, praying and working with this same possibility and sense of calling. Here's an excerpt....

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Can ancient contemplative traditions help us in our efforts to learn to see and cherish the world more deeply? I confess that this question has come to have real personal importance for me. Over time, I have come to feel that the often-hidden work of contemplative practice—rooted in a simple, open-hearted attention—does have enormous meaning and significance.

The deepening of awareness that occurs through this practice really can change the quality of being, not only one’s own being but also the being of the world as a whole. This, I realize, is an audacious claim, and one that cannot be proven. Still, there is ample testimony from the contemplative traditions that such practice can and often does yield a deep sense of freedom and openness—to oneself, others, God, and the world as a whole.

This shift in awareness has meaning not simply for the one engaging in such practice but also for the larger community, however that community is understood. The contemplative undertakes this work not only for himself or herself but also for the sake of the larger whole.

My own experience of sitting in stillness, of waiting, listening, struggling in the silence of such contemplative space—whether in the company of my friends at Redwoods Monastery or as part of a more solitary practice—has given me glimpses into the kind of clarified awareness and deepened reciprocity that can arise when such simple attention takes root in the soul. It can soften the hard edges of one’s habitual perceptions, so that what previously seemed utterly distinct or separate from one’s own life now appears as intimately woven into the fabric of one’s very being.