Working with the Life's Pressures

Jon Kabat-Zinn tells us in the following 6 paragraphs what meditation is and isn't. It's a helpful read.

It is a commonly held view that meditation is a way to shut off the pressures of the world or of your own mind, but this is not an accurate impression. Meditation is neither shutting things out nor off. It is seeing things clearly, and deliberately positioning yourself differently in relationship to them.

People who come to our clinic quickly learn that stress is an inevitable part of life. While it is true that we can learn, by making intelligent choices, not to make things worse for ourselves in certain ways, there are many things in life over which we have little or no control. Stress is part of life, part of being human, intrinsic to the human condition itself.

But that does not mean that we have to be victims in the face of large forces in our lives. We can learn to work with them, understand them, find meaning in them, make critical choices, and use their energies to grow in strength, wisdom, and compassion. A willingness to embrace and work with what is lies at the core of all meditation practice.

One way to envision how mindfulness works is to think of your mind as the surface of a lake or of the ocean. There are always waves on the water. Sometimes they are big, sometimes they are small, and sometimes they are almost imperceptible. The water’s waves are churned up by winds, which come and go and vary in direction and intensity, just as do the winds of stress and change in our lives, which stir up waves in our minds.

People who don’t understand meditation think that it is some kind of special inner manipulation which will magically shut off these waves so that the mind’s surface will be flat, peaceful, and tranquil. But just as you can’t put a glass plate on the water to calm the waves, so you can’t artificially suppress the waves of your mind, and it is not too smart to try. It will only create more tension and inner struggle, not calmness.

That doesn’t mean that calmness is unattainable. It’s just that it cannot be attained by misguided attempts to suppress the mind’s natural activity. It is possible through meditation to find shelter from much of the wind that agitates the mind. Over time, a good deal of the turbulence may die down from lack of continuous feeding. But ultimately the winds of life and of the mind will blow, do what we may. Meditation is about knowing something about this and how to work with it.

--John Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are

A Lot Happens On a Mountain

One of the first things I remember about bringing 'spaciousness' into mindful practice came from Pema Chodron. It was simple: "A lot happens on a mountain."

The way I remember it, she was advising new meditators to picture ourselves as a mountain--solid, big, imperturbable.

I took this picture on a hike a week ago. On one side of the mountain, a whole valley was under low cloud. The other side was completely sunny. I was about a mile high--high enough to see that even above the cloudy side, the sky was a brilliant blue (though the folks in Waynesville were still having a gray day).

What often perturbs us are our strong feelings and insistent, sticky thoughts.

And here's the thing--the reason we're perturbed is because we're identifying with these thoughts and feelings, wrapped up in them. We're feeling somehow defined, named, circumscribed, fogged in.

But a lot happens on a mountain.

Clouds on one side, sun on another. Icicles growing long at a creek's headwaters, the same creek flowing freely a couple of miles down.

A lot happens on a mountain. A lot happens in us. Practicing spaciousness invites us to see beyond the in-your-face perspective of strong feelings and sticky thoughts. Not to ignore or repress sticky thoughts and feelings, just to hold them in a roomier way.

When we don't identify with these thoughts and feelings, when we can see them for what they are and what they're not, then there's somebody home to hear their messages.

"Meet them at the door, laughing," says Rumi. "Invite them in. Each has been sent as a guide from beyond."

When we regularly meditate with this in mind, even for a few minutes a day, we discover we have more capacity to hold stuff, to keep tricky thoughts and feelings in perspective than we've realized. We begin to learn that becoming familiar with the things that make us small is part of a natural process of becoming bigger.

Basic Training for the Great-Hearted

There are lots of ways our hearts grow. Loving as a partner or parent. Stepping up for work that makes a difference. Taking God's love into us and trying to embody love in our particular neighborhoods.

There are ways to train in heart growth too. For years I never imagined meditation could be such a powerful way of growing the heart.

One of the qualities that insight meditation recognizes and cultivates is something called spaciousness. Just by slowing down and allowing our thoughts and feelings to come and go, noticing them without judgment, cultivates spaciousness--room enough to hold whatever comes.

Several years ago I was driving to a very important meeting. The car's check engine light came on. Then the low oil light came on. I figured it wouldn't hurt to go another 25 miles. I was wrong.

After 20 miles the engine began to 'knock'. To go clunk, clunk, clunk.

After the meeting I drove to the dealer. A mechanic told me it didn't sound good. 20 minutes later he came back to tell me I'd pretty much ruined the engine, melted the rods--or something like that.

Sitting there, waiting for my wife to pick me up, I was so angry at myself. Worried about the $5-6,000 butcher's bill, too.

I'd been practicing mindfulness for 3 or 4 years. A 'check engine' light was flashing somewhere in my head--but I didn't want to go there, didn't really think effective mindfulness practice was possible for me in a circumstance like this. Yet after stewing a bit more, I at was least willing to try.

I began to breathe. Doing nothing at first but following the breath and trying to not listen to all those overheated judgmental thoughts slamming around in my head.

I began to recall what spaciousness was all about--making room for our thoughts and feelings. It was an ironic moment. No ****ing way to make room for this mob of tyrants.

But I kept trying.

"Just let it ventilate," I remembered. "Where do you feel this in the body? Breathe right into this very place. Breathe into it and through it and all around it. Sense the space this creates."

I did. Lots of clanging around still going on. But I kept breathing. Kept imagining. Continued to sense wild feelings & thoughts, breath & space.

After awhile my mind and heart seemed nearly able to hold all that hot, difficult energy. To hold it--not repress it or resist it--and be reasonably at peace at the same time. What a lesson.

    Welcome and entertain them all!  (says Rumi)
    Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
    who violently sweep your house
    empty of its furniture,
    still, treat each guest honorably.
    He may be clearing you out
    for some new delight.


Having our hearts swept empty is very underrated. This being cleared out for new delights is an amazing gift. Practicing spaciousness is good training for those who want bigger hearts. 


Making room in our hearts to deal with our own crap also reveals that we have more room than we knew for other people's crap. For life's crap. More room for life's delights, too. 


Cultivating spaciousness is a wonderful kind of spiritual formation.


    Be grateful for whoever (or whatever!) comes,
    because each has been sent
    as a guide from beyond.

Opening the Door--a Key

We've been following the thread of an inscription carved in stone over a church door in Iran. It reads

    Where Jesus is, the Great-Hearted Gather.
    We are a door that's never locked.
    If you are suffering any kind of pain, stay near this door.
    Open it.

Though the door is never locked, opening it is not exactly something we control. Perhaps, remembering what Jesus said is a key:

    Knock and the door will be opened.

And there are other doors, related doors, practice doors, that we do control--or at least doors that we might learn to open (and open, and open).

The author of those 4 lines above the church door in Iran is the poet Rumi.  His poem, The Guest House, offers some of the best door-opening wisdom a person can get.

Many of us know this poem--we see it quoted a lot. I hope its familiarity won't dull another reading. It's a poem of the Great-Hearted. And a perfect poem for us Great-Hearted folks in-traning too.

    This being human is a guest house.
    Every morning a new arrival.

    A joy, a depression, a meanness,
    some momentary awareness comes
    as an unexpected visitor.

    Welcome and entertain them all!
    Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
    who violently sweep your house
    empty of its furniture,
    still, treat each guest honorably.
    He may be clearing you out
    for some new delight.

    The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
    meet them at the door laughing,
    and invite them in.

    Be grateful for whoever comes,
    because each has been sent
    as a guide from beyond.

If we take this to heart, if we welcome and entertain and meet and laugh and are grateful for whoever comes, pretty soon we'll know what it's like to be a door that's never locked. Our hearts will grow. We won't really notice who's on which side of the door anymore. 

This 'welcoming and entertaining them all' is at the heart of mindfulness practice and centering prayer and spiritual formation of all kinds. Learning how it works, practicing this non-judgmental kind of welcome, is one of the things that makes a heart literally greater--bigger, more stretchable. 

We practice on our own, sitting or walking quietly, welcoming whatever comes. Seeing thoughts and feelings clearly for what they are without judging or shooing them away. Welcoming whatever comes with honesty and warmth.

We practice with others, watching how our minds resist or ignore people we interact with, noticing--and then letting go of--our own clutter in order to make room for another person's clutter! And beneath that their unique and precious self.

    We are a door that's never locked.

    Welcome and entertain them all. 

    Come to me all you who are weary and burdened.

Who says this? Who practices this? 

Who opens the door that's never locked?

On the Fourth Day of Christmas

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me--the last line of an amazing bit of wisdom carved into the stone above a door of an ancient church in Iran. So now we have the whole quote:

    Where Jesus Is, the Great-Hearted Gather.
    We are a door that's never locked.
    If you are suffering any kind of pain, stay near this door.
    Open it.

Is it that simple--Open it?

Remember in the Lord of the Rings when the nine companions get to the door of the Mines of Moria? Where's the entrance? They can't find the entrance.

Then the moon peeks out from behind a cloud and the intricate mithril silver design etched in the door is revealed on the great cliff face. Written in elfin are the words, "Speak Friend and Enter."

Gandalf is thinking, 'Piece of cake.' So, knowing that he is a friend of both elves and dwarves, he confidently begins to speak every arcane incantation for 'Openings' he knows. All of them.

The mountain is unmoved.

Tired, baffled he sits down, exasperated.

Then...he laughs.

Ah! He's realized the door will open of itself when he simply says the word 'friend.' He says, Friend. The door opens.

Following the advice carved above the church door in Iran is like that. It's so simple. Yet it's never something to take for granted. It's a process that we can absolutely trust, but it's never a process we control or command.

Not that we don't try to open the door.

How long can we sustain being baffled? How long can we sustain deep trust? How long can we hold trust and bafflement in our hearts? How long will we stay near a door we can't seem to open?

Well, maybe not that long--at first. Yet holding frustration and trust in the same heart enlarges that heart. And it is the Great Hearted who are gathering here. It is in the company of the Great-Hearted we want to be.

How do we open the door?

The inscription doesn't tell us 'how.' It tells us 'to.' Nobody can tell us how.

Yet I think we can trust that the inscription is telling us everything we need to know.

The Third Day of Christmas

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me--the next line of an amazing bit of wisdom carved into the stone above a door of an ancient church in Iran. So now we have three lines:

    Where Jesus Is, the Great-Hearted Gather.
    We are a door that's never locked.
    If you are suffering any kind of pain, stay near this door.

This is the third day of Christmas--are you still here near this door?

If you are, something better than 3 hens seems to be promised (even if they are French hens).

If you are suffering....

If?

Hah!

Who is not suffering in one way or another? And if we're not suffering surely it's impossible to be among the Great-Hearted. Anybody whose door is never locked suffers.

The old King James Version of Jesus' quip to those who would shield him from the annoyance of children comes to mind: "Suffer the little children to come unto me." Modern version: "What? You think I can't tolerate the chaos of kids? Kids are a window into the realm of God!"

Jesus can tolerate a lot--even us: "Come to me all you who are weary and weighed down and I'll give you rest." This invitation can only come from a heart that has been stretched a lot.

I'm pretty sure the only way hearts grow is by being stretched. And being stretched always causes suffering. New wine bursts old wine-skins.

And (this may be the greatest most ironic majestic heart enlarging laughing out loud truth of this life) not being stretched causes the most profound suffering of all.

So, here we are, reading these three lines, pondering what they may have to do with us. And then we realize the reading and the pondering have actually allowed us to fulfill the first bit of advice the inscription has:

Stay near this door.

On the Second Day of Christmas...

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me--the next line of an amazing bit of wisdom carved into the stone above a door of an ancient church in Iran. So now we have two lines:

    Where Jesus Is, the Great-Hearted Gather.
    We are a door that's never locked.

The immediate thing I want to know about this second line is, who is the WE?

Who do you suppose is the WE?

Is it the congregation of the church that bears the inscription?

Is it the Great-Hearted?

Is it potentially anybody who happens to stumble into places where Jesus Is--Jesus, God, Buddha, Sophia, Creator, Mystery, Ground of Being?

As I imagine myself wandering through an unfamiliar town and winding up standing in front of this inscription, I recognize how I've always wanted to be among the Great-Hearted. And I recognize how very often I have not felt I belonged.

So I see myself reading these words and feeling two things--smallness and longing.

In the smallness part, I recognize the many ways my heart has been locked, protecting itself from what it fears.

In the longing part, I recall people I've recognized as great-hearted and realize there's nothing I want more than to be among them, welcomed, recognized myself, un-locked myself.

I can imagine other things, too. Other people coming up to the door, a small throng standing in front of these words, curious, intrigued, having their own experience of the inscription.

I can imagine conversations springing up--and an eagerness both to speak and to listen.