Month: October 2019

Last evening, two members of my book group described their recent experience of looking into the night sky. They were each in the Southwest and in an area protected from lights. Their descriptions of the richness of the experience awakened in me the memory of sitting on the end of my dock at the cabin and being drawn into the vast expanse of the Milky Way.

I am lucky that there are so few lights around my cabin, and the night sky can glow with a deep, inviting splendor. On nights when there is no moon and no clouds, the night sky is magnificent.

Last evening, all three of us spoke of the feeling of being drawn up and into the night sky. For me, it has been the closest thing to the experience of being absorbed. The three dimensional aspect of the sky is highly inviting, and I remember having the feeling of leaving the ground and being in the midst of all the glowing, distant stars.

This is the same night sky that my ancestors saw and were drawn into. I suspect they had a similar experience of awe and attraction. Yet, it is also different. I am also reminded that it is not exactly the same night sky that must have enthralled ancient people.

Our sun and its planets rotate around the Milky Way once every 250 million years. Since its formation, our solar system has made that journey around the galaxy something like 18 times. So our position in the Milky Way has changed since the time of the first humans, and the view of our companion stars has shifted. But I suspect that the experience has changed little.

I am fortunate that I was able this morning to resurrect so vividly the memory of looking deeply and plunging into the night sky. Today, the enthralling, captivating memory became the focus of my concentration practice, and I once again was able to experience the wonder of the night sky stored in my memory. The awareness of the night sky became the object of my meditation, and the experience of absorption in its vastness flooded my heart.

It is relatively easy to remain focused on realities that seem close at hand. But there is another dimension hidden more deeply. Being able to focus on the night sky draws me into a reality that invites me into a place where there are no limits, where the possibilities are infinite. It is so good to have the experience of the night sky residing in my memory.

I like to think that I am self-motivated, but that is not always the case. I am constantly affected by the people around me, and that often influences the motivation I have to do the things I think I want to do. I am encouraged to do what I want when I experience a positive response from other people. Conversely, I am discouraged from doing what I want to do by negative reactions.

It takes more energy to overcome discouragement. And my energy is reinforced and amplified by any encouraging support I receive from other people.

I thoroughly enjoy my garden and I spend time fussing over so many aspects of my garden. Left totally to myself in isolation, I am convinced I would indulge in the delight of gardening. However, the positive reactions I get about my garden from strangers and friends adds to the motivation I have to fuss over my garden. I don’t know if it makes gardening any easier, but it clearly channels my energy to know that others will react positively and encouragingly to it.

I put up a lot of decorations for Halloween, and I do this because I enjoy having my house and yard decorated. The many positive reactions I get from adults and kids certainly encourages me to put in the effort it requires to make my home Halloween-festive.

A similar thing happens in conversations and in relationships. Encouragement helps draw out more energy and invites deeper insight and adventure. It is my innate social tendency that makes this so. It is the way I am made, as are all humans I think. There is a natural link that we have with one another. As much as I am aware of my aloneness, I am also aware how much others can reinforce who I am or, conversely, cause me to draw back from who I think I am.

I suppose I am capable of doing what I want to do all by myself. It sure is easier and more enjoyable if I have the encouragement of others.

I am a true son of the South. I can see that I have been trained well. I know what to expect when I meet up with others whose skin is darker than mine, whose features are unlike mine or my family.

I have learned what to expect, and much of my expectation has to do with my skepticism and their inferiority. What I expect of people with darker skin affirms and supports my enjoyment of being white. My experiences selectively confirm that my expectations were valid and helpful.

From my youth, I have learned to expect a dialect different from my own and reflective of an impoverished use of speech and thinking. I have learned to expect something more guttural, something lacking a rich vocabulary, something without much imagination. I have learned black speech to be less than the rich nuances I have associated with intelligence.

I am surprised when someone with dark skin speaks with the practiced skill of one who has grown up in an environment of reading and spoken language. I am surprised when I hear language that flows with ease, with familiarity and without crudeness.

I have learned to expect behavior that goes contrary to social norms, and I expect to feel uncomfortable, even assaulted. It is no surprise to walk past black young men smoking in the non-smoking area of the train platform, punctuating their conversation with spitting on the sidewalk. This is what I expect, this is what I notice, this is what I pull away from. Once again, my expectations are confirmed by experience.

I am not very surprised when black school-aged kids peer into the open door of my garage, when they stop and stare. I expect investigating looks of mischief and not simple curiosity. I expect loud and boisterous talk at the bus stop. I have learned to be uncomfortable with a behavior so unlike the respectful, subdued exchange I expect because I am white.

I am white to the core, and I expect my experience with black people to be alien, and so it is. I feel as distant and unfamiliar with their presence as if I had found myself in an asian fish market. The sounds, the smells, the sights are all alien and confirm my expectations of discomfort, strangeness and otherness.

My expectations guide me. They confirm who I am. My expectations make it easy for me to wrap myself in a satisfying sense of how much better it is to be white.

Something has changed. A little over a year ago, I was on a retreat with a group of gentle Earth Holders. A startling experience from those few days was the ease with which my tears began to flow. I found that when I allowed myself to feel anything at a deep level, I would begin to cry. It was totally spontaneous and uncontrolled.

It was something that stayed with me for weeks after the retreat. If I allowed myself to go to the deep feeling spot, I would involuntarily tear up. I sometimes sobbed and became unable to speak. It happened at live concerts when I allowed myself to sink into the music of Beethoven. It happened when I talked about my experiences at the retreat. It sometimes happened when I sang.

It is now over a year later, and the tears no longer happen so readily. There are moments that I feel near to tears, but I don’t have a tearful response to hearing Beethoven’s music as I did months ago. I don’t so easily cry.

However, something else is happening. I may no longer venture into that deep place with an upwelling of tears. However, I do go to that adventuresome place more easily and frequently. I experience the same deep wave of joy that surges through my body, but it comes without tears. There is no uncontrolled rush of tears. I find myself in that same wonderful and lovely place throughout my days, but without tears.

I find that I can choose to settle into that deep experience without the tearful overflow. When I remember to go there, there is no surprise of tears. Instead, I can sustain for extended moments the embracing rush of excited joy, and then slowly let it go. There is no interruption of tears, there is no release or overflow. The joy simply hovers with me and attaches to whatever I am doing.

I now seem able to contain the experience and reside in that lovely place without losing the feeling in a sudden rush of tears.

I am aware that something happened last spring when, one morning, I accidentally surrendered to the feeling of plunging into a deep well of undefined awareness. It was a brief brush with a feeling of emptiness. It was so startling that I was concerned that I might have had a small stroke or seizure. I checked in with my doctor who assured me that my body was likely OK. But I remained startled.

About a week later, I summoned the curiosity and courage to allow myself to follow the path to that same formless place. It is now a familiar route.

Ever since then, and with some practice, I seem to be able to take that same uncontrolled plunge with little resistance. It has become a familiar pattern, but without tears . My mind becomes light, buoyant and bright. A ripple of contentment surges through my whole body.

I feel the same surging energies that were unexpectedly released during and after the retreat. But now there are seldom tears. Instead I typically feel a calm that accompanies, perhaps channels, the enthusiasm and delight.

Now I am curious to find where those tears make their future appearances.