Ringing

I use a small gong to begin and end my meditation.    For me it is more than a simple ritual to identify a beginning and an end.   The sound of the gong has for a long time been an audible voice “calling me home,” in the words of a Sangha member.  My experience of that call has taken an interesting turn.

It begins with my touching the gong, feeling the cold and silent metal forged from brass.   I lift the striker, feel its weight and hard handle.   I touch the gong lightly with the striker then bring it to life with a sharp blow on the side.    The metal sings out, flowing through my whole body.   I feel its vibrations in my head, in my torso, in my hands and feet.

The gong is inviting me to a home that use to be tiny and inside of me.   My home was confined to the space defined by my body.   Now my gong invites me to a wide and spacious world, much larger than tiny me.    I feel the summons to a limitless universe, an ocean of reality.    I enter the timeless world of no time.    The metal of my gong vibrates and I follow where it leads me.

The sound of my gong fills the room and carries me to a widening expanse beyond me and my room.   When it is finally quiet, I have expanded beyond the limits of my tangible world.   I find myself settled in a place far beyond my limited vision.   This truly is my home, and I have been brought here by my gong.

My home extends to all that is, and I am carried there by the sound of my gong.   This is where I belong.   This is where I let go of everything I think sustains me, all the things I think I need to survive.   Here I can abandon all my security, all my certainty.   I can yield to the lack of assurances that shape my past and future.

My gong allows me to find joy.  I love its sound and what it may bring.