Learning to Meditate Part VII

I can honestly say, I never know where
meditation will take me.
And for that I am grateful.

On this night,
I listen to my spiritual mentor and friend
as he leads our small group through a guided meditation
in the early winter darkness and quiet of the sanctuary.

A place where we are given permission to be still.
Where our breathing becomes the ryhthm of our souls.
Where we are invited to focus
on the present moment,
quieting ourselves and listening for the still small voice
that is not our own.

Tonight we are encouraged to take our worries,
our concerns, along with the physical manifestations of tension,
and place them in a boat
and then push the boat out into the water.

Sitting there with my eyes closed,
what I saw next was not what I expected.
(It rarely is.)

I saw somebody wrestling something into the boat.
It took a while for me to figure out what it was.
And then it came to me - that's my ego.
The being (I never clearly see faces)
was shaking his head and laughing
as my ego kept trying to get out of the boat.
Over and over.
Refusing to follow directions and stay put.
Thinking it was in charge.

Then something on the shore caught my eye.
It was me, or the shell of me,
without my ego.
Filled with light and love
(I know these things as God).

Standing there on the shore
shoulder to shoulder sharing sacred ground,
smiling at the ridiculous antics of my self
out there in the boat, as it drifted slowly away.

Amazed by the feeling of fullness
that emptying yourself can provide.

Buried Sadness

Perhaps this is what happens, over time,
when you lose someone you love, little by little.

(My story is of my dad's Alzheimer's.
Your story might be similar but different, yes?)

You learn to stuff the grief deep down inside
as far from the heart as you can,
compressing it into the smallest version of what it was,
until you can no longer recognize it,
or even feel it because all the sharp edges are tucked in.

It is what you do, it's what you have to do,
for days and then years,
until eventually death arrives
and suddenly you become aware
that you no longer have to hold it in.
Now you have permission. To grieve.

But by then the sadness is buried so deeply
it becomes impossible to find the tears.

Well meaning people say things, in love and kindness,
like "he's in a better place" and you know it to be true
but the words leave you feeling selfish
because you miss the person
here and now.

So you nod and smile and don't explain
because you don't know how.
Not yet anyway.

For now, you close your eyes and smile,
like your dad used to do when he could no longer put sentences together,
recognizing that someday you will cry.

Just not yet. Not today.

A Short Story (for dad)

There was once a man on a journey that took him many places on an amazing adventure.

Some of the paths the man took were planned in advance and well thought out. Some were a complete surprise, even to him. Several turns held challenges. Much of the journey held happiness.

The man collected things on this journey. Mostly memories. He carried them in a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

At the start of his journey, the bag was empty. As he grew older, the memories came faster and faster and the canvas bag began to fill.

The man was often accompanied on his journey. Strangers turned into friends as their paths crossed and as they traveled together. He grew into a young man and married the woman he loved. They joined their memories together.

Further along the way, the man became a father and then a grandfather. More memories were collected, some by him and others by his children and grandchildren. They laughed. They joked. They talked of serious things.

The journey continued. New memories were made. Eventually the canvas bag became filled to the top. And although the man could not see the end of the road, he knew the journey itself was a gift from God. He knew that he never traveled alone. He encountered God along the way, through the people he met, the beauty he experienced, the love he felt, and the peace he encountered.

But with time something started happening to the canvas bag, which by now was dirty and worn. The seams, stretched by a full and meaningful life, began unraveling. One at a time, the memories began falling through the holes. The man could sense his loss as the memories slipped away.

His wife saw what was happening. She lovingly picked up all the memories that she could and held onto them like treasures, sharing them with family and friends. People whose lives had been touched by his.

At first it feels like a tragic end to a beautiful story. But maybe not.

Maybe, in a place beyond time and understanding, there is a battered and worn canvas bag that is right now at this very moment being mended by heavenly hands.

A gift from strangers

With the Westside Road closed,
it's a long way to get to Lake George.

I took off with my hiking buddy, with the lake as our goal.
We walked through explosions of golden leaves
set off by the green of the Douglas fir, western redcedar and hemlock,
watching leaves drifting down individually and sometimes in a mass exodus.
Enjoying the solitude and the sun on our faces.
Talking about things of the heart.
A perfect fall hiking day.

When we reached the trailhead we took a break,
and a group of men appeared down the road, heading our way.
We took off, hoping they had a different destination in mind.
The trail disappeared into the forest
and we regained our solitude.

At the lake, we found a log extending into the water
and climbed out on it to have lunch.
Enjoying the peace and beauty of the mountain lake.
Then the group of men appeared. You could hear them
before you could see them. They were loud.
And obnoxious. It amazed me that they seemed to have
little regard for our presence nearby.
I have to say, it made me mad.

They made their way (did I mention loudly?)
along the shore until eventually they were across from us.
And then something happened.
They broke into song, amazing harmonies that carried across the water.
"How Great Thou Art" drifted toward us in an unfamiliar language.
It was beautiful and surreal.

I had to put down my anger and self-righteousness
in order to receive this gift from strangers.
We learned later they were all from Ukraine,
now living in America.
They sing in church together.

A lesson from strangers. A gift of song.
Thank you.

I can do better

Stop and think, I tell myself.
None of this feels right.
So little makes sense anymore.
Are other people feeling this way?

Finding it more and more difficult
to feel at home, not in this place but in this time
when the loudest voices are those of
greed, hatred, violence and power.

The house I grew up in looks the same,
but the neighborhood feels so different.
You notice that too?

Finding it hard to speak the language of truth
when the dialect is dishonesty,
manipulation, power, pride, ego and self.
Flex your patriotic muscles.
Keep out the riffraff. You know the drill.

Since I speak of dishonesty, I should try
to be honest, recognizing that all of us -
you, me, them - are all part of the problem.
It is not a new problem,
it has been around for a long, long time.
Fed by every selfish decision we make,
everything we make into a misguided priority.
As individuals and as a community.

Sure, I'll love my neighbor as myself,
right after I make certain I have everything I need.
Better yet, everything I desire.
(Did I step on you trying to get here? You'll be okay.)
Here, help yourself to my discards.
My leftovers. What a generous person I am.
(Did you see me do that? Good, huh?)

Short-term gain has its hands on the wheel
taking a shortcut across the landscape,
leaving behind devastation and deep, muddy ruts.
For my children and their children.
(I really, really am so very sorry.)

None of this feels right.
What does it look like to live gracefully?
To respond appropriately?
To let go of things that don't matter?
To desire and seek things that do?

Here I am, looking at a page that was blank,
now filled with words. Thinking out loud.
Hoping you will join me.

Knowing I can do better.

Learning to Meditate: Part VI

Sitting in the stillness of the sanctuary,
in the community of friends,
wondering where tonight's journey
will take me.

Breathe in. Breathe out... release.
Pre-established rhythms
guide me along, almost trance-like,
breathe in, breathe out... release,
until I become aware there is more.
This time another word edges in.

Receive.

Suddenly, or perhaps finally,
I become aware of the invitation.

With my breathing, my thoughts carry me
to a high ridge, where I am sitting with my daughter
watching a bird playing with the wind
as the clouds roll over the landscape.

Soaring, then diving, once again climbing
with wings outstretched, higher and higher
only to tuck its wings and dive again.
No visible purpose, no clear destination.
Simply what appears to be the playfulness
of the Spirit, made visible by the wind.

I hear the same message, high on the ridge
and in the quiet of the sanctuary --
"you have my permission to release your worries
and receive my joy."

Breathe in, receive.
Breathe out, release.
Intertwined and connected.

Experiencing the Spirit,
my heart soars.

But what if?

Rarely speaking openly about his faith,
he chose instead to live it.
His choices and priorities
giving definition to what he believed.
The very core of who he was.

Now, when his eyes stare off into the distance,
when his words no longer make sense,
it's easy to imagine that he has lost that center.
That the disease is in control,
giving shape to who he is now.

But what if,
with words gone
(and perhaps no longer needed)
his very breathing becomes his greatest prayer?

What if,
the forgotten memories,
the lost abilities, the total dependence
actually help push aside the ego self,
making room for the indwelling Spirit?

What if,
it becomes a gift to bypass the brain
(which so often leads us astray)
and move directly to the heart
with God, not the disease,
writing the ending to his life story?

What if,
the years of decline
do not feel like years to him?

What if,
when we are saddened by what he has lost
we are the ones who are missing what is still there?

Faith...
the very core of who he is.

Thanks Dad.