Buddha seriously found me in the past year, at first via the simple and beautiful words of Thich Nhat Hanh, and the recognition of Truths I couldn't see for all the internal fog blanketing my inner ocean. I'd discovered yoga many years prior, and splashed about a bit in the calming waters of meditation during class, but lacked context and foundation to dive deeply. I also lacked any real discipline and motivation for a daily practice.
What ultimately brought me to my meditation cushion regularly . . uh, instilled some "discipline" in me, was the demise of my marriage. I admit it, I was desperately seeking something to comfort me in those seemingly rootless and stormy times. Did I say "those?" I also meant "these", because I'm still in the midst of great internal and external change, and it's frankly awful sometimes. I felt, and still feel at moments, like a small weak branch at the top of a tree . . .flailing about in the storm, spinning this way and that, appearing disconnected from my own trunk and roots, which penetrate so deeply into the soil that I could never really be uprooted (tornados and bulldozers aside).
Meditation has become my roots and my anchor. But it's not easy. How can something be so simple and yet so damn hard? Why can't I just meditate every day for 30 minutes or so and voila! Instant calm and equanimity 24/7, right? Silly, silly woman. As I write this, I can't help laughing at myself. As I'm so fond of saying, "at least I still have my sense of humor."
But some days I don't have much of a sense of humor, or I can't find it. I can't meditate for all the tears. I can't draw a deep solid breath. It's all I can do to read some of the soothing, centering words which drew me to Buddhism. The words are a cool balm for my wounded, broken heart.
What's that? What's that you're thinking? Her heart is broken but now it can open wider? Yeah, but I'm afraid for now, I'd still prefer my heart be unwounded, even if a little less open. Pain isn't fun. Oh, life isn't all fun? Well, that's not what some teacher/gurus say. I've assembled a lovely buffet of many delicious and beautiful insights from various teacher/gurus who seem to think Life is a Cabaret, or something akin to it. Their insights often seem better suited to life at the ashram than real life. It's abundantly clear some of them have never had a real job, mortgage, or children. But I do.
Mine is not the life of a guru. I live in this world, with a child and a business and bills, dark days and pain, and also, thank you, cherished and plentiful moments of heart-filling light and love and joy so big I can't articulate it.
Living in this world is how we really grow and love and learn. (Gods please note: My life is filled with more learning lately than I sometimes desire.) In my better moments, though, I embrace it all warmly and without wincing.
What ultimately brought me to my meditation cushion regularly . . uh, instilled some "discipline" in me, was the demise of my marriage. I admit it, I was desperately seeking something to comfort me in those seemingly rootless and stormy times. Did I say "those?" I also meant "these", because I'm still in the midst of great internal and external change, and it's frankly awful sometimes. I felt, and still feel at moments, like a small weak branch at the top of a tree . . .flailing about in the storm, spinning this way and that, appearing disconnected from my own trunk and roots, which penetrate so deeply into the soil that I could never really be uprooted (tornados and bulldozers aside).
Meditation has become my roots and my anchor. But it's not easy. How can something be so simple and yet so damn hard? Why can't I just meditate every day for 30 minutes or so and voila! Instant calm and equanimity 24/7, right? Silly, silly woman. As I write this, I can't help laughing at myself. As I'm so fond of saying, "at least I still have my sense of humor."
But some days I don't have much of a sense of humor, or I can't find it. I can't meditate for all the tears. I can't draw a deep solid breath. It's all I can do to read some of the soothing, centering words which drew me to Buddhism. The words are a cool balm for my wounded, broken heart.
What's that? What's that you're thinking? Her heart is broken but now it can open wider? Yeah, but I'm afraid for now, I'd still prefer my heart be unwounded, even if a little less open. Pain isn't fun. Oh, life isn't all fun? Well, that's not what some teacher/gurus say. I've assembled a lovely buffet of many delicious and beautiful insights from various teacher/gurus who seem to think Life is a Cabaret, or something akin to it. Their insights often seem better suited to life at the ashram than real life. It's abundantly clear some of them have never had a real job, mortgage, or children. But I do.
Mine is not the life of a guru. I live in this world, with a child and a business and bills, dark days and pain, and also, thank you, cherished and plentiful moments of heart-filling light and love and joy so big I can't articulate it.
Living in this world is how we really grow and love and learn. (Gods please note: My life is filled with more learning lately than I sometimes desire.) In my better moments, though, I embrace it all warmly and without wincing.
I'm learning to accept things the way they are. And instead of trying to beat back the strong emotions that accompany upheaval and change, I'm learning to name my feelings and look them in the eyes. Sometimes I even smile at them. (Though I still think of this as making friends with the enemy.)
I'm learning to surrender, to give up the fight.
I'm learning to surrender, to give up the fight.