Barry Garden Path

This month of isolation has introduced me to a surprising level of contentment. It seems that I am constantly being offered a chance to accept the fact that things are as they are. That repeated exercise has brought a pleasant feeling of contentment.

In some practices of concentration this might even be considered a mild experience of equanimity. I know there is something stimulating and even energetic about strong feelings of attraction or aversion. I am finding that there is a strange pleasantness in the kind of neutrality that is next to but not part of attraction or aversion.

This neutral realm of contentment is still very pleasant, even joyful. It just doesn’t have the same kind of drama I experience when I want something to keep being great or when I want something to stop and go away.

I’m not sure which comes first, the settling into relaxation or the yielding to contentment. Maybe there really is little difference in them. I know there is a point where I no longer resist the way things are. There is a point when I align myself with how things are, how they are unfolding. This is a pleasant place to be.

Contentment is my experience of no resistance, no trying to make things different, no trying to keep things the way they are.

Of all the things I have learned in the past four years or so, the most transformative has been my uncovering the power to relax. This is not the relax typically related to watching a good movie or lying on the couch in the afternoon sun. While these activities can be an introduction to relax, they are far more passive and low energy than the relax I now often do.

When I relax, it is something more. My relax is something that invites all of me to engage, and not to check out. I am at full attention.

For me, relax means letting go of all body sensations. At the same time, I have a vast sensory awareness. Relax can typically begin with a willed sensation in parts of my body, and that quickly shifts to a more expanded sensory alertness. All my pores might seem open to receive, but the physicality of sensory awareness has faded away.

Relax no longer means letting go of energy, but instead means possessing energy with a powerful vibrancy. Far from being energy-less, relax is marked by a wave of energy.

Relax for me sometimes begins with my intention to cocoon. I seem to relax in a more typical way of relaxing, surrounding myself with softness and warmth. Then the sensory stimulus vanishes as I shed the physicality of softness and warmth. Relax sends me into an experience not confined by my surrounding comfort.

Relax involves a release of control, a plunge without holding on. It sends me without direction, yielding to an unseen, unfelt reality.

Relax, for me, is like being on another level of experience. It is a reflection of what it typically means to relax, without all the physicality and other constraints. It is no longer what I might expect in relaxation and I immerse myself in a vast place of no-relaxation.

The entry points to this place of relax are varied for me. I have a number of ways to go there. Sometimes it is as simple as a body scan, guiding my sensations to specific parts of my body. Most often, this is focused on the sensation of breathing, and often settles just inside or outside my nostrils.

Trigger words also induce what I experience when I relax. Words summon a familiar experience and association. Mental forms come forward then quickly lose their shape and conceptual meaning. Short poems I associate with relax are a regular part of my daily routine. Words in my head remind me how to let go, how to become absorbed.

Certain kinds of music allow me to relax, especially music that has a past association with deep experiences of relax. Shapes, scenes and people have a similar effect of triggering my familiar experience of relax.

To relax in this manner is incredibly pleasant. It is filled with the joy of a rich , energetic and exciting experience. Yet it only happens when I experience a vast emptiness. It is highly sensual without the experience of physical sensation.

The real payoff is that relax is an open gateway to mindfulness. It produces an open mind that is not cluttered with formed preconceptions and personal notions of reality. Relax offers a free and unsullied experience of whatever presents. Relax may even be a readiness for insight.

I keep being surprised by the effects of my meditation practice. Not only does it seem a good, even pleasant thing to do. It is also pragmatic. It works by making my life “off the pillow” more grounded and less stressful.

I had the chance to talk about this last evening at our first virtual gathering of the Blooming Heart Sangha. I gave a talk on “Practice That Is Working ” and that gave me a chance to think about this issue in the days leading up to last evening.

Most of all, I became very aware of those moments when my practice was not working. Those were moments when I noticed that I was not at all grounded and I was unusually stressed.

I primarily noticed that, more than normal, my focus has been on the future this past month. I’ve been concerned about what is likely to happen, thinking about where things are going, how long this might continue. I have been paying less attention to the present moment, to what is happening right now.

Second, I noticed how often I’m involved in a projection of myself, my concerns and my anxiety. When I grabbed the olive oil bottle, I instantly thought “How long will this last, do I have enough?” When I got out the broccoli, I assessed “how much broccoli do I have left, do I have enough, how long before I have none.”

Survival skills are useful, and have helped make us the successful species we are. But my survival skills had become accentuated, and I have been challenged to keep them in balance. My consciousness that is a projection of self, mannas, has been especially strong as I repeatedly, habitually engaged in excessive planning.

A third thing I noticed was my habit energy, my strong inclination to do things I am accustomed to do. For awhile, I frequently thought about and planned to go grocery shopping. I struggled with a strong urge, a felt need to go to the grocery store. I was often drawn out of the present and what I needed to do at that moment.

I realized eventually that these things I noticed were obvious to me because of my practice. My practice has allowed me to notice that these things are happening. My practice of observing the operation of my mind made me more keenly aware how I was getting off a stable, helpful track.

Because of my working practice, I am more aware of what is happening in me. Not only am I aware that it is happening, I also have deeper insight and understanding of its nature. I also think I am more deeply aware of how I share a common experience with many other people. I am more aware of my connection with nature, one another, the world.

This awareness has helped me recognize that I have an opportunity to go in one of two directions: fear and anxiety or mindfulness and calm. I have a choice, and I have been doing a bit of both.

One practice that has helped is something I learned some time ago: pause and allow mindfulness to settle in my body. Thay teaches us that a bell sound is an invitation to pause, to allow mindfulness to settle in. For me, I began to recognize the moments of anxiety were an invitation to pause, to allow my body to relax.

After an initial period of anxiety, I learned that when I thought of olive oil or broccoli running out, I could recite a reminder: “Breathing in I relax my body; breathing out I smile. Dwelling in the present moment, I enjoy this wonderful moment.”

This recitation, this collection of words has created a momentary space where I can relax my body. The pause has become a space where I can look more deeply and kindly at my anxiety, my suffering. This is something my practice makes possible, even easy. I know how to not turn away.

This simple, four-line gatha helps me draw awareness into my body. It allows me to feel the stored sense of resilience, the storied experience of self-regulation. The gatha creates a moment of mindfulness, much like a sounding bell. It centers me in the here and now. It allows me to step back and observe my anxiety about olive oil or broccoli. It allows me to feel the sensation of a relaxed body. It allows my awareness to settle into my body.

My practice is more than the pleasant awareness that comes with sitting on my pillow. It also brings me moments of clarity and quiet during times of possible stress.

I am very fortunate not to have to live on the margin.

The pandemic has brought this into focus, that I have the luxury of being able to self-isolate. I have friends that help me to be safe, both by encouraging me to self-isolate and by bringing me fresh fruit and vegetables. I not only have a good and healthy supply of food, I also have a home that I share with only one other person, who is intent on self-isolating as well.

I do not live on the margin of an uncertain income. I am retired and have a monthly retirement benefit and Social Security to rely on. I do not feel the pressure of needing to “go back to work” so that my income and the GNP can be preserved. I don’t worry about paying the rent or mortgage.

I am aware that so many people needlessly live on the margin of adequacy. They are forced into that precarious, worrisome position because so much of the wealth of the economy has been drawn into the hands of a greedy few. There are adequate resources in our country, and the problem is that much of the wealth is being hoarded by so few, forcing a marginal life-style on the many.

I may not consider myself to be one of the hoarders, but I probably am in the “upper 20%” who right now do not have to live on the margin of adequacy. My discomfort brought on by the pandemic is small compared with all those who face the real threat of sickness and great personal need. They know the pain and real threat of being on the margin. I have a zone of adequacy some comforting distance from the edge where many people are forced to live.

I can take a deep breath and embrace gratitude.

Embracing tradition is a tricky matter. Sometimes tradition can refer to the broad, arms-wide-open gathering of a diverse and rich history of a social institution. On the other hand, sticking with tradition can mean following a very narrow and limited history of that same social institution.

I think that I spent a large part of my life with traditionalists who mostly chose the narrow path. I spent a dozen years living in a semi-monastic community that followed a rule of life that hadn’t changed much for over 700 years. In addition, that community had a loyal attachment to the narrow orthodoxy of the Catholic Church.

So I have have experience in following the narrow definition of tradition. Fortunately for me, there were a few departures from that narrow route. I had the good fortune to become aware of certain great thinkers, such as Duns Scotus, who lived in the Franciscan tradition, but notably never achieved sainthood, the official stamp of approval.

I also had one, perhaps two teachers, who had learned to see outside the boxed-in form of tradition. I also had close friends outside the monastic walls who kept me aware of the diverse reality of being human.

Those departures from tradition exposed me to a rich reality that prepared me for what would come later and continues to unfold. This change has happened only because I have stepped away from the narrow notion of tradition, especially that of the Franciscans and the Catholic Church.

At this time, I am immersed in the teachings that have come from the East, particularly the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh, or Thay. It is interesting, and a bit disarming, to visit the notion of christian tradition as presented by Thay, especially in his book, “Living Buddha, Living Christ.”

Thay employs the idea of tradition to capture not a narrow point of view, but rather the diverse richness latent both in Christianity and Buddhism. He credits Christian tradition with a diversity I hardly recognize, except perhaps through the writings of biblical scholars such as Elaine Pagels or censured writers such as Teilhard de Chardin.

I think Thay is both generous and marginally correct in his attempt to describe early Christian thought. He brings to light a spark of richness and diversity that was kept secluded and hidden from public view for much of the past two millennia. I’m not sure most Christians would share his observations of christian tradition.

The tradition of christianity I know and lived so well, is constrained to the narrow confines of orthodox dogma, to carefully worded expressions of faith. I think this is largely the tradition embraced by most christians today.

It took me a couple of years before I was ready to read what Thay had to say about the Living Christ in christian tradition. I simply didn’t agree with him. I can now see that he has an eye to see something that I was searching for during many of my years of being immersed in a restrictive, traditional view of the past.

Mostly because of scholars like Elaine Pagels, I am ready to accept Thay’s insight and description of what early christianity included. Those years, before orthodoxy, were rich with notions very similar to those found in Buddhism. This is the tradition I can genuinely own because it is mirrored in my own experience.

I can embrace a tradition that is like a huge net that is capable of gathering a wealth of rich experiences and a variety of insights. I’m not so appreciative of a tradition limited by orthodoxy.

I find it interesting how my thoughts in the morning suddenly go to my available food and a quick calculation of how long it will be before I do a grocery run. This has absolutely nothing to do with reality.

The reality is that I could eat for weeks from the food I have without having to go out grocery shopping. Even if I have to ration fruit and almond milk, I can survive for at least another week. But still my mind wants to plan and solve this new problem of scarcity.

I may have to adjust my eating pattern, but there is a lot of food to sustain both me and Lily for weeks. Yet I keep wanting to examine and plan. It feels like it does when I go camping and bring along a limited amount of food. I have carefully planned enough food for several days. But I seem compelled to keep checking mentally that I have planned correctly. I resist scarcity, and I have a difficult time yielding to an unbountiful tomorrow.

Today I am thinking of those homes where people have little food stashed away. They do not have a freezer with many left-over soups or a pantry with beans and rice, as I do. Their scarcity is real and not as imagined as mine. I am reminded of a friend I visited many years ago. She was fixing popcorn for her kids because that was the only food in the house.

Perhaps others are more accustomed to live on the edge of scarcity, and are more adjusted to this restriction of not being able to go grocery shopping. My limitation is self-imposed because of the virus danger. But I still have the habit of privilege, the habit of being very prepared to eat whatever I choose.

I am isolated and I am reminded that I have a habit of grocery shopping that calls out to me daily. Every day I examine, I plan, I think of when I might go shopping.

I hope I will be able to embrace the notion of scarcity, even before I have to address the reality.

This most certainly would not happen now because of the social-distancing recommended in the middle of the virus pandemic. But it did happen a little over a week ago.

I had just greeted a friend who immediately raised her protesting hands and said, “I have a cold, I may be contagious.” I immediately said, ” You are contagious in more ways than one,” and gave her a side-hug.

My response was simply spontaneous, but I reminded myself afterwards that I am affected in some way by every one that I encounter. Every one is an experience with a contagious effect. Likewise, I share who I have become with everyone I meet, and they are contagiously affected.

The awareness of contagion differs from time to time, from experience to experience. However, I believe that who I have become is affecting all that I meet. They are likewise contagious to me.

I am more aware of how others can be contagious for causing harm. What I often miss is how we also have the potential to be contagious for benefit and good.

Every morning and every evening, I sit and I unfold, spreading the wings of my mind. It is a very relaxed move of mind and body moving as one.

Without hesitation, I plunge like a falcon into the limitless space around me and slowly settle into an uncontrolled glide. As I relax, I release my senses and my mind.

I set the sails of my mind and catch the rush, the spirit winds of the universe. I become filled with the energy and exhilaration of all that surrounds me.

I rush forward, totally unaware of the direction I am taking or the destination I am hurtling toward.

It is a good way to begin and end my day.

I don’t remember the exact words they used, but I recently heard someone describe mindfulness as being mind and body in the same place. For me, the idea is the same, but I like to think of mind and body being in the same space.

I notice that the more I have been able to experience mind and body as being in the same space, the more I have a deep feeling of something I regard as mindfulness. When I am mindful, my body becomes full of my mind and my mind radiates throughout my whole body.

Becoming aware of my body in a deep and intimate way has allowed me to experience my mind in a way that is both deep and clear. I experience how my body and mind occupy the same space. I remember how I once considered my mind to be in my head, and there it seemed to be contained. Then I thought of my heart being the seat of awareness.

It has been true that this concept of my heart seemed to expand the realm of awareness. However, it is only since I have learned to think with my whole body that my mind and awareness seem to push away limits that confine awareness. By extending my awareness in the whole space of my body, I actually touch the realm of no-limits, no-boundaries.

My experience with Jhana practice, a practice of deep concentration, has changed how I see mindfulness. This practice of deep concentration has totally been in the space shared by mind and body. The experience of concentration is not solely an exercise of the mind. It not is an adventure, an experience of clarity and vibrancy that extends through my whole body. Body and mind share the same space. My whole body is aware.

With this kind of mindfulness, the sensory limits and input of my body diminish. I experience an awareness throughout my body that seems beyond the sensory limits and the space filled by my body. Body and mind are experienced as the same, they are are experienced in the same space.

I notice a similar thing when I am aware of others. There is an initial awareness that focuses on the physicality of their presence. I am aware of their body in space. Then that awareness quickly changes, when I am mindful, into an awareness of a deeper entity that is much more than bodily limits.

I don’t think I experience that more focused, mindful awareness of others without first encountering their physical appearance and presence. That first body awareness, that first physical encounter can be either a hindrance or an invitation to deeper awareness. Mindfulness of others does not always come automatically or habitually for me.

However, I am more inclined to routinely be aware that my mind and body occupy the same space. This is becoming a growing way of deepening awareness. It is also a way that I can experience deep pleasure and joy. It is an experience of mind and body in the same space.

As I began my seasonal gardening two days ago, I became aware how the experience of being in my garden lingers. I just began to really notice and experience it.

There is snow a foot deep in much of my yard. I struggled to plod to my destination plants. It was hard to keep my balance in the piled up snow as I reached to trim bushes. All the while, my lingering awareness of the plants around was being stirred and refreshed.

I began my seasonal gardening two days ago by trimming Hydrangea bushes back to my preferred height. I shaped them to a size from which they can now bud and grow very soon. They yielded to the hands of the gardener. I think they got the message as firmly as I felt it: this is how you will unfold and manifest your wonder. With that small trimming gesture my lingering role as gardener has been awakened.

Their urges to grow and mine to garden have been dormant for months. We have been alive, but not so vibrant as we are about to become. The remnants of growing and gardening have lingered, and the shared experience of being in this garden will soon be shared more actively by my plants and me.

Right now there is some stubble sticking out of the snow, still clinging to the experience of last year’s growth and aliveness. The dried stalks and wooden stems are solid and unmistakable signs of the lingering presence of plants all around me. Now there are boot tracks in the snow, indicating the lingering presence of a gardener.

I took a deep breath this morning and remembered that in every breath I take, there a lingering remainder of plants that grew and thrived in my garden last season. The oxygen and other substances from plants that filled my garden last year still linger. Some of those plant substances still linger and contribute to the air I take in with every breath.

It has been a time of dormancy for my plants and for me. It will soon be time for them to wake and arouse from their time of lingering. My time of awakening already began two days ago.