THE BEGINNING OF DEVOTION
Attention, paying attention.
It’s the beginning of devotion.
And when you see? When there is seeing?
Well, seeing is praise.
When we see, what we see,
is God.
Not the god, or this or that god.
There aren’t lots of gods,
or so it seems.
And in the end, there isn’t even one god:
there is only God.
So it was said by the sages.
About a year or so ago I stopped keeping a journal. And, when I say stopped keeping, I mean keep as in both senses of the word. Let me explain.
I began writing my life in a journal in my teens. I stopped for a while in my late teens and early twenties, then later in my twenties, took to it again. I then kept my Journal going ever since. That is, until last year.
Of course, some periods saw a more intense, even daily journal keeping. And then there were periods where the journal only saw me every now and again. On the whole though, I’d been completely dedicated to my Journal for more than 40 years.
So, why suddenly end it? What prompted me to just stop keeping it – again in both senses of the word – after almost a lifetime committed to it?
Yes. A good, good question. First of all, it wasn’t a sudden decision; I didn’t ‘just stop’. For some time I hadn’t been feeling quite so committed, quite as excited about keeping a journal (as in using it to write my feelings, ideas, and essentially my life). And, just as with so many of the decisions we make thoughout our lives, this one had a practical, even a pragmatic ‘seed’ as well:
See the picture above? That’s my journal. The rest of the Old blue tin trunk would get itself filled with all kinds of stuff not needed on rhe road. The trunk lived with my cousin for a few years, then it was my sister’s turn; she had it on and off for many years.
As you are no doubt beginning to guess, this arrangement began to wear thin. We (the hermit pilgrims) were constantly asking ourselves, what’s the point of storing this stuff for years? Do we really need it?
My answer had always been yes. I needed my journal. I might read it again someday; I might need it to write books or whatever. So, we’d keep the trunk, filling the remaining space with stuff and things.
Then, on the penultimate occasion we had the old blue tin trunk shipped to us in our latest (then) current roadside cave, I looked at it, and thought: What’s the point?
Somehow the attachment – the compulsion to hold onto my Journal – had gone. It was a liberation, a freeing of my mind. I suddenly realised that the prospect of me ever rereading the thing, or needing it for some other purpose, was remote. Actually such a prospect was also extremely unappealing.
I should add here that that particular aversion and disinterest in rereading my journal, seemed to cement my already growing disinterest in keeping a journal in that sense I mentioned earlier of writing down feelings, ideas and so on. Now, both the idea of keeping the journal in the sense of storing the physical volumes for a rainy day, and that need to keep a journal by constantly writing my life, collided. Time to stop keeping!
So, I sat and leafed through every volume, more as a kind of farewell ritual than anything else. I did ‘rescue’ the odd bit and piece, most of which have since gone the way of their host volumes. Then I simply set the lot on its way to oblivion.
I mentioned that this whole chain of events happened on our penultimate reunification with the old blue trunk; what about the ultimate time? Well, we’d kept it full of various pieces of art by both of us; with various household things; ornaments; and other stuff I can’t remember.
Repacking it to ship back to my sister’s as we got ready to move on from that particular cave, we both just said, let’s leave it all behind.To cut a long story short, that’s exactly what we did. My son, a couple of charity shops, and the house we’d been sheltering in, were all recipients of the last of the contents of that old blue trunk – and the blue trunk itself.
Now, do I miss my journal? Well yes and no.
No I don’t miss having the thing as in owning it. Or maybe it’s better to say I don’t miss always having it in storage and out of reach the great majority of time. Like I said, I went completely off the idea of holding onto it – keeping it – just in case someday I might want to read it all again or use to for research. Now I think, why would I ever want to do that? (okay, I think I might have already said that)
The yes is kind of qualified. Yes, I miss writing in it. Yes I miss having a vehicle for expressing feelings, thoughts, and ideas.
I say that this yes is qualified because while I say this to myself from time to time, I don’t actually seem to ever really feel it. So perhaps it’s less a yes and no than it is an unequivocal no.
Besides if I have the urge to write, to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, then there’s nothing to stop me.
After all, that’s precisely what I’m doing now isn’t it?
The inclination to seek knowledge is, for me, a gift, a blessing. And we live in a time when there are so many sources, so many resources available, and many are freely available too. There seems to be no limit to what the genuine seeker of knowledge can uncover.
Yes, of course, we’re swamped with information from all sides. We are deceived by fake news. And everything these days is a commodity, a thing to be bought, sold, acquired, or otherwise used for profit in the material world.
All true. However, this is where one’s discernment comes into play. It’s up to each of us as seekers of knowledge (on whatever topic or subject) to discern for ourselves the truth or otherwise of the information we use to form the knowledge we are seeking.
In my last post, I began to talk about two notes that I made in my notebook. These notes were quickly jotted down while seeking knowledge from two different sources about two distinct topics. Feel free to have a look at that post here if you happened to miss it.
Do your duty
Follow Dharma
Live a righteous life
These three lines are the sum of what remains of a session with my teacher, Swami Tadatmananda. It’s his short, succinct summary of the teachings I was trying to absorb from him that day.
You’ve probably guessed I am not a great note-taker; I like to just let sink in what wants to sink in, absorb what resonates for me. Perhaps on that day, I felt the summary was all I needed as a basis for later contemplation.
With that in mind, I would like, in this post, to reflect on these three injunctions, try to work out how I’m doing when it comes to taking notice of them, and actually where I’m at with actually living by them.
What does it mean, ‘Do your duty’? And what does it mean, for me, to do my duty?
Firstly, let me try to define duty. Not from the dictionary meaning, not from some outside ‘authority’. No, this is me talking about how I define duty.
Duty, for me, is defined by the activities I choose to prioritize in my life. These are the things that I believe best serve my true, essential nature. Acting in accordance with this true nature includes responsibilities such as taking care of my physical, emotional, and mental health. While this may not always be easy and sometimes feels impossible, it is my duty because my mind and body are manifestations of my true self, of the divinity.
Duty, again for me, means persuing activites – in the world as well as within myself – that nurture, protect, and grow, who or what I percieve that Self to be.
This Self I refer to is not restricted to the apparently separate entity I call ‘me’. That apparent separation is just that, an appearance: Self is all there is; I am not simply bonded or joined with all other living (and non-living) beings: I am those beings, just as they are me.
As such, my duty is to act in ways that benefit (or at the very least do as little harm as possible to) all beings, all life. Here, I guess, we could talk about Karma. But let’s leave that for now. It’s enough to say that nobody can tell me – or you – what is our duty. In fact, the truth is I already know the full extent of my duty, as we all do.
The only thing lacking for me is what I might call a full disclosure of what that duty is. That full disclosure can only come from me – as in the Self. As they say, I might know in my head what my duty is, but I’ve yet to fully realise it in my heart. And if I’m honest with myself I can say that my aspiration to do my duty is a constant reminder and motivation to do always the best I can to fulfill my duty.
In some areas I think I do my duty pretty well, but in others I have a long way to go.
In my next post (and the final one in this series: there just seems to be such a lot to think about when contemplating this topic), I will look at what it is to follow Dharma. Once again, it’ll be a very personal, subjctive answer because, to put it perhaps too simply, I like to think that I know right from wrong.
I hope this post has been of at least a little interest and value to you. I will look forward to seeing you here for my next post.
Thank you and I wish you peace.
‘Looks like a comfy chair’.
That was the first thing my partner said when I showed her this photo. Her eyes – and perhaps even her heart – had found that which is illuminated by the sun, even though it’s surrounded by wreckage and ruin.
The wreckage by the way, of an abandoned and trashed store front. One of several in a small arcade, that’s long sat empty.
Ah, I thought: one more illustration of a metaphor I’ve been hearing a lot lately in my studies about consciousness.
Allow me, please, to adopt our teacher’s metaphor which, for me, really clarifies this concept of consciousness, or Atma as it’s called in Sanskrit.
Is the brilliant light streaming into this room and onto this chair affected in any way whatsoever because the chair is sitting amidst all that wreckage?
Is the sun shining any less brightly on the chair than it would if the chair was sitting in a luxuriously decorated space instead?
Of course the answer to both questions is no. The sun, and its brilliance remains undimmed, and completely unaffected, untouched, regardless of what it shines on.
The ‘I’ that photographed this scene, and my partner’s ‘I’ whose eyes were drawn to the chair in the scene, are both consciousness. Not ‘my’ consciousness; not ‘her’ consciousness. Consciousness is all; all there is. Boundaryless, infinite, all pervading. We can’t even say there is one consciousness, because there is only consciousness.
Ah, I hear you say: there is one sun shining on our world; and the sun isn’t ‘all there is’. Well, as our teacher likes to remind us, all metaphors are flawed: you can only take them so far.
Metaphors, are only meant to illustrate, to show us the way, point us in the right direction as it were. In our little example here, the metaphor is meant to help us gain some knowledge.
The knowledge that we are not what we see, hear, taste, touch, think or feel. We are that light – consciousness – that allows us to know what we experience with our senses.
One more thing: The light of the sun, flooding the chair with its brilliance, enabled my partner to see that it was comfy, even though it was sitting in that wrecked, abandoned and lonely place.
Just as in our lives, when everything seems to be crashing down around us and we feel we are the ones stranded in that wreckage, we can remember that the light of our own consciousness, is the way in which we may shine our attention on the truth of our unchanging eternal, and true nature, that is who we really are: perfect, eternal, absolutely unaffected by anything at all.
Peace and love
What a piece of magic this is!
No, it’s not a quote from Shakespeare. Mind you, now I think about it, there’s a line in Hamlet, where the man himself is monologuing about the human condition and declaims a strong-felt sentiment:
What a piece of work is man! [sic]
The reality is that first quote is from someone far more mundane than the bard: me. The occasion on which I uttered this equally impassioned statement was as I sat holding my smartphone and listening to the music flowing from it through bluetooth fairy land and into the headphones I was wearing.
The truth is I was at that moment just awestruck and a bit overwhelmed with what I was hearing, and just as significantly, with how I was hearing a particular song.
Not being a materialist by any measure, my phone and headphones are nowhere the latest or top of the line models, but still, to me, what I was hearing was magnificent. It’s the only word that fits really.
Anyway, that isn’t exactly what I want to write about today. Reflecting on the experience described above, got me thinking about the actual song I was listening to. And that’s what I want to write about now.
The song in question is written and sung by Australian singer-songwriter Cyndi Boste (died 2018) and is called Cry Down on Me. Here are the lines that have struck me particularly:
I’m not afraid of your tears.
Cry down on me
I’ll make sure nobody hears
Cry down on me.
Before we go on, a short note. Until I started research for this post I had my own idea of what ‘Cry down on me’ means. Seems I got it wrong. However, for this post I am choosing to believe that the songwriter agrees with me. If you look up the meaning and then listen carefully to the lyrics, you’ll see that perhaps I didn’t get it wrong after all.
Essentially here we have the singer/protagonist reassuring another person (friend? lover? sibling? We don’t really find out, but if I had to guess, I’d say they are lovers) that they are safe to share their tears, their sadness, anger, fears and so on. Most of us at some time or another (or always?) have been afraid to express or share our emotions, to show our tears.
So, why is our protagonist going to make sure nobody hears the other’s tears? Well, she is obviously aware that the other is at the very least embarrassed, perhaps afraid of being ridiculed, rejected, or perhaps they’re worried about appearing ‘weak’ or making themselves seem vulnerable.
And how did she come to that awareness? I think she has seen this other with the eyes of her heart, seen their need. And now she’s telling them: ‘Look don’t worry, I am listening to you with my heart and I can hear you.’
We are exposed to so much ‘noise’ from everywhere all the time. Even the tears of a loved one can be lost in the overall din that sometimes threatens to smother us all.
And of course we’re not just talking about literal tears here, and the sound the shedding of them makes: anything said, written or otherwise made known that is of substance, or real importance and meaning, is threatened with annihilation by all the trivia, gossip, advertising, round the clock news, and what I often call the general blah blah, that passes for life in the modern materialistic world.
Of course to protect ourselves from all that noise, it’s no surprise that we so often only listen with our physical ears, see with our physical eyes. Actually having said that, I know from my own experience that even that level of engagement and attention can be a struggle sometimes. And doesn’t that struggle sometimes lead us to closing down altogether?
I guess the answer lies in what Buddha call The Middle Way or Path: The bottom line is that we can choose what we listen to (or look at) and what we don’t. No need to switch off and isolate ourselves completely from the ‘outside’. Nor is it necessary to leave ourselves wide open to all that noise.
Like our protagonist in the song, we can listen with the ears of our hearts; we can see with the eyes of our hearts. It is in our hearts that love lies, where Truth lives. We can say to that other that we are listening and seeing with our hearts, while at the same time reassuring them that nobody, including us, is going to simply be hearing or seeing you only with physical ears and eyes.
The last time I listened to the song (yesterday: it’s become a big favourite) I had the thought that maybe our protagonist is reminding her Self that she’s listening. Sometimes our ‘real’ self can feel like a stranger, as if that Self is someone unknown, and living as a separate entity outside of us can’t it?
It’s at that heart level where we can truly listen, truly see, the other. And whether that other is one’s Self or another person, the truth is there really is no difference: your heart is truth, the other’s heart is truth, and it’s the same Truth.
We’ve all had this experience I think. I’ll be reading something, and right away I’ll come to a conclusion, become either sure of something or the complete opposite; I can be confused, force myself to ask more questions. I can even have brilliant insights or realizations.
No? Well, maybe it’s really just me then. But, wait there’s more: this is a two part experience. When that second part happens we will come to realise that what we think we read is nothing at all like what the words on the paper (or screen) actually said in a factual sense.
Yes, you’ve probably guessed by now that there’s a story coming. In fact this exact thing happened to me this morning, all the way to the brilliant insight or realisation bit.
In fact it was a brilliant realisation, the only problem was that it was based on only on what I thought I read, not what was actually being said.
Anyway, I was reading the verse quoted below, from my Bhagavad Gita and a sudden flash of insight hit me.
Despite these five lines saying a particular thing in a clear and precise manner, I somehow misread the first three lines to say:
All beings ensue from Me.
Bhagavad Gita Ch 7:12
Somehow my mind skipped the ‘states of’ bit and made a leap that actually lead to a great realisation: Of course, I thought; God is not in us (as in living beings), it’s we who are in God.
Which to me means that we are all part and parcel of God. I’m not saying, I’m God; I’m not saying you are either. What I am saying is that all creation as one, unified whole, is in God. And if that one unified whole does indeed ensue from God, then it follows that all of creation is God.
As individualized, embodied entities, we (along with all life everywhere) are simply manifestations in the material form of that divine energy, that life, that truth; that which we often call God.
Now, this is an instance of a flash of insight leading to a truth, when the receiver of the insight (that’s me) is engaged with what you might call some other factual reality, that is, the actual words on the page.
At first I thought, that’s weird: how did I misread all those words related to states of being? I mean they are pretty clear right? But then I thought, no, maybe not so weird. In fact, it makes sense.
How can my material mind and intellect possibly be expected to always keep its millions of thoughts, ideas, impulses and the rest, in perfect order each thought or whatever following completely logically from the one before and to the one after? It’s never going to happen is it? Not for any of us (Well maybe I’m overstating my case here, but you know what I mean).
And if mind does indeed operate on what seems on the face of it to be a random basis, then it’s perfectly reasonable to suppose that one might be prompted to some momentous insight by, well by anything really. Even if it’s a conclusion jumped to after the misreading of a text.
In this case though, that jumping to conclusions, even though based a misreading, has turned out to be a genuine realisation that I feel on an intuitive level; my instincts tell me it’s Truth.
Jai Gurudev
All that I am today is by your grace.
Welcome dear reader
Have I shared with you my Bhagavad Gita? Well, I know I’ve mentioned a few times that it’s one of, if not the primary resource for study and guidance for me.
As you’ve probably guessed, this is a quick photo of the inside of the front cover. And, again as you’ve noticed, I like to stick things in my books, especially this little one. (Actually now I mention it, this is the only book in the traditional format as in made of paper, I own). It’s an old practice and for me adds multiple dimensions and depths to what is already a treasure.
Sometime I’d like to go through and describe to you all that I have added, but for today, do you see the little green section with the words Dominus Est printed?
In the religious tradition I was raised in, these two words have a specific meaning and use. However, it’s only recently that I’ve come to think of this little Latin phrase (well technically it’s a sentence, but …) in the sense of the literal meaning of the words themselves: God is.
That’s it. Or the Lord is, or the Master is. If we change the Dominus, we can use this tiny sentence to define our conception of the divine, the holy, in any way that seems right: Truth is, Beauty is, Art is. For me, God is, sits right. As do the others in this list. Same same.
So, God Is. What else could possibly be said that would add to this already very emphatic and simple statement? Nothing at all. It’s stand-alone, complete in itself.
Why? Well, if we were to add anything at all to these two words, such as God is Truth, or God is Love, or God Resides in …, or God is called … , then we are in fact stating only a little of the truth. Sure, God is truth and love, and goes by many names and is found in many forms, but once we say what something is, we are actually making more of a statement about what it is not.
Mind you, it’s perfectly natural, and for many of us helpful, even necessary, to ascribe to God a name and or form. We are ourselves material beings, living in a material universe; it’s logical that we would choose (or need) to see God in a word, a physical object, or attribute some other kind of materiality to our notions of the divine.
I must say that I am one of those who find it difficult to envisage an invisible, non-physical, and impersonal ‘God’. Of course, our little statement, God is, does indeed say just this doesn’t it? Isness is pretty non-corporeal, certainly not in the least physical. And isn’t even a ‘spirit’ or ‘entity’ of any kind; Isness just is. The moment we label something (including ourselves) we miss that isness, that essence.
You see my picture of Krishna and Radha? This form, or forms, is one of the several that I feel right in having as a kind of focus, or centre of my devotion to and love for the divine; for love, for truth, and for it all.
You might be saying, this guy does believe in a personal God. He just told us. The truth is I don’t believe or not believe that Krishna (or any of the myriad names and forms we’ve invented) is God. God simply is. And my heart tells me that this is enough.
There are a pair of theological ideas known as Cataphatic Theology, and Apophatic Theology. Cataphatic describes or approaches the divine by stating what God is, while Apothatic (you guessed it) describes God by speaking only of what God is not.
My guess is that pretty much everybody, from whatever tradition, would approach the divine (and not only the divine) in one or other of these ways. But for me it was such a relief to realise that there was no need to go there at all. I could stop with the definitions and the descriptions, the what is and what is not. I have the freedom to not have to believe or not beleive. None of it matters. Dominus Est. God is.
Am I there yet? Have I let go of dualities? Hardly. Maybe the odd glimpse, but it’s rare. And it always will be for as long as I live in a physical body. But to paraphrase something Swami Ramdas said:
I’ve set my feet upon the path, so I am already at the goal.
Peace and love from me to you
Namaste and Welcome to you.
I can’t remember when I wrote my last post. And of course it isn’t relevant at all is it? I mean to say that in the contemplative life, time sometimes seems to take on some other kind of character.
Or at least I should say that one’s perception of the passage of time shifts; nothing unusal there I hear you say, and of course you’re right. Just thinking out loud I suppose.
For me, having a right perception of time is an important aspect of my Sadhana, my practice: yes, it’s true: time is seen to fly, or it is frustratingly felt to drag. But my aspiration is to see time as simply a human construction that we use to limit, structure, bind, define, and place all kinds of restrictions on our lives.
Which for me, simply means that there is only presence or Presence; only the ongoing continous moment (what we often call The Now). Easier said than done mind!
In any case, here I am, just where God would have me be. Feeling strongly to reach out to you, I remember the poem (it’s not really about time in the sense we’re discussing it so far) that emerged the other day after reading a quote from Swami Ramdas that seemed to be an answer to some thoughts I’d been having.
I’m grateul for this, all of this. And for you too, the reader of these musings offered with humility and thanks.
Peace and love from me to you.
Thinking thoughts
as if battered by demons.
Memories arising of my own evil deeds, selfish and cruel.
Right away I turn to God:
God is my all;
Hare Krishna
Forego repentance,
relinquish regrets;
you are filled with God,
the supreme essence of life.
God is my all;
Hare Krishna.
Through Papa Ramdas
I hear the Universe speak:
Forgiveness is from God;
and it has been granted.
God is my all;
Hare Krishna.
Broken Hill, Australia
9 July 2022
Eventually.
Greetings friends. I welcome you from my new hermitage in desert country.
You know, it’s an old idea, a cliché even, to say that we, all of us, are on a pilgrimage called life, a Hero’s Journey as it’s called by the Mythologists. And, on any such journey there is what those same scholars call a Call to Adventure.
They are the times when we are challenged by life to commit to an action that will stretch us somehow, take us out of our comfort zone, change our life; to make a move; take a risk; embark on a journey either internally or out in the physical world.
So, when I tell you I got a call to come out here to the desert, and that I answered it, why the necessity to add ‘eventually’? What happened to delay that journey? Well, that’s what our Mythologist friends call The Refusal of the Call.
They’re the times when, once we’ve heard the call, and when we’ve felt its rightness, we still say no. Not now. And we come up with all kinds of perfectly reasonable explanations for our refusal.
In my case, I said, hey, it’s fine here; I’m near the beach; I really have no reason to move; there are plenty of ‘other places’ to check out first. The excuses went on and on.
All along though, there was this place, this country, calling. Of course ‘the desert’ isn’t always or for everybody the literal sand covered land, that gets very hot, and is generally thought of as barren and even hostile. It can also be a metaphor for any place – or no place in particular – that is a place of retreat, a quiet place, a place for living apart from the mainstream of human life.
For some people inclined to a life of contemplation and solitude, this place might be a small hut in a forest or a wood, or a camp on a remote beach on an even more remote island. Then there are others who are called to an actual cave high in the mountains, or on the banks of some sacred river somewhere.
And, equally, the desert, the place of retreat, quiet, solitude, and living apart, may well be an apartment or house in a suburb, or even in the centre, of a big city.
Then there’s me: called to this desert town of Broken Hill, almost but not quite in the centre of the continent of Australia. It is deep in the arid zone: it’s very far out back here in the Outback, 1500 kilometres inland from the east coast to be precise.
Yes, well this is all well and good, but shouldn’t I be answering my own question: why eventually? Well, we’ve covered the excuses, but really isn’t that just plain old procrastination? Yes indeed. If we get back to our Mythologist friends once more, we learn there is a stage in this Hero’s Journey that follows on from the Refusal: The Supernatural Act.
These are the times when things happen that seem to come at us out of the blue, from no rational, logical, or explainable source. Something that we might find hard to beleive at first because it’s way out there; supernatural like it says.
But that supernatural bit doesn’t have to take a spooky form, it might be that the ‘supernatural act’ is an internal insight or realisation triggered by a perfectly natural occurance. That’s what happened for me. What was this non-spooky, natural event that prompted such internal insights and realisations in me and got me moving?
Rain. Yes, rain. It rained almost every day for over six months. I am very very blessed that I wasn’t affected by flooding as so many in nearby area were, and I am thankful for that. But it’s safe to say that rain, mud, no sun, and limited or no access to the outside for days or weeks at a time, soured my romance with the coastal lifestyle.
You could say that through the sound of rain on the roof, I could still hear the call of the desert. In fact it got so loud that, eventually, I could no longer ignore it.
So, eventually, I answered the call, and here I am. Here is a small miner’s cottage and my new hermitage, my new safe haven by the side of the road. The cottage is situated in a mining town that sprung up in the 1880s. So this cottage has been home to miners and their families for generations, including the current owners.
In a sense it’s quite likely that I am the first occupant who hasn’t been or isn’t a miner. Though you might say that my excavations, rather than being in the dark underworld beneath the surface of Mother Earth, are taking place in the equally dark, hidden interior places of Self. A mining of another sort you might say.
Before flying out here, I was thinking about what was actually calling me to the desert (putting aside the rain for a moment). After all, I lived in a small cabin in a park like setting literally five minutes walk to a pristine Pacific Coast beach; I had trees and forest like spaces all round, as well as a small river two minutes walk. And that’s not even thinking about the abundance of wildlife.
And it occured to me that it is the stillness of the desert that was calling to me. This town of Broken Hill is a mid size town (actually a small city with about 15000 people), with the usual shops, cars, people, and the rest.
Yet there is a stillness. No longer can I hear the constant sound of seawaves crashing. No longer can I sense the never stopping coming in and going out of sea tides. And out here, it seems like even the people are moving quite a bit slower too. I’ve yet to see a single person rushing about. And they seem to smile a lot as well.
The street I live on is extremely quiet, and even on the so-called ‘busy streets’ there isn’t the mad acceleration and braking we’d see everywhere on the coast. Of course there is the odd driver who thinks every car is a racecar, but where don’t you get that?
But, actually it’s more than this. There is, beyond the actual literal quietness, a silence that seems to exist as an entity or state of being in its own right.
A stillness that is a solid thing, just as on the coast there was (is I suppose) a constant frenetic atmosphere that seemed to overlay everything. People rushing – on foot or in cars – even when there seems to be no reason for hurry (though of course you can never tell can you?). And not so many smiles either.
Contemplative people, those seeking solitude, and peace and quiet in which to pray, to live slowily, and to explore the divine, have been drawn or called to deserts (in all its forms) for thousands of years or longer. And I am fortunate enough to have finally (eventually) heeded the call myself.
Here, away from the incessant acceleration and braking (I do like this expresion), and in that stillness that envelops this land, perhaps I can dig a little deeper, uncover a bit of quiet, and discover a piece of solitude.
Out here, in the Outback, life can be harsh for all living beings, often dangerous in its aridity and isolation. It’s a long way from major cities, food and supply chains are extended to extreme limits, and the human hold on the land is precarious at best.
Yet, the paradox exists: out here far from the fertile coasts, the soft sandy beaches, the major urban centres where the mainstream of (human) life goes on, there is a quiet, a peace, a stillness that seems to pervade the very air one breathes.
A wise person wrote something short and sweet that sums all this up for me:
There is a stillness in the wildness.
Greeting and Welcome to you
Quite a long time ago now I half wrote a book. I mean to say, I wrote half the thing before giving up. The book was going to be called When a Pet Dies, and was about, well exactly what the title suggests. All the practical stuff that you’d expect, as well as ways to deal with the grief over the loss of a companion animal .
I thought at the time that the reason it was only half written is that, once I got through that practical stuff and was ready to tackle the grief and loss parts, some kind of lethargy set in, or I got lazy. Or perhaps, I was thinking also, the muse for that particular project had simply left and was gone. So it remains half written.
So, why am I musing over this half done, half forgotten project from long ago? Well, let me tell you about a visit I had this morning.
I was sitting, focusing on chanting my mantra. Suddenly I felt an absolutely overwhelming sense of loss and sadness. I don’t recall thinking of anything in particular beforehand, but the sense was overpowering. Flooded with grief is what they call it I think.
And then, just as powerfully, I sensed the presence of Lofi, my cat who died in my arms over ten years ago. Immense feeling of presence is what I wrote in my notebook. Now, I’m not saying he was literally there with me. I’m also not saying he wasn’t. All I can say is that it was among the most intense of similar experiences I’ve had over the years. Anyway, that’s most likely what got me thinking about my incomplete book.
Later this morning I was sitting with my partner on a benchseat overlooking the sea, the bit of the Pacific coast I’ll be leaving behind next week.
Actually, now I’ve mentioned that, you might remember from my last post how keen I am to get out there to the desert. That excitement and anticipation doesn’t mean for a second that I’m not feeling quite sad about leaving the coast.
Anyway, we were just sitting there and chatting on and off, when suddenly a thought seemed to push its way to the surface. I all of a sudden knew why I stopped where I did when writing that book. I realized in a strong and convincing way that you can’t build a structure to define what grief is or how or if it should be experienced, by whom and when.
I’m not talking about the ‘truism’ that one hears all the time that says that the ‘stages of grief’ are in a set order, until they’re not. Actually come to think about it, I’m not even sure this is true. I mean, I’m not sure it (grief) is a thing to be labelled, quantified, recorded, predicted, analysed.
I mean, who’s to ever say how any other individual, or even oneself, will feel about anything at all? Sure, there might be a ‘typical’ set of responses to any given circumstance, such as a loss, but even the proponents of such theories will tell you that none of us is typical.
Which kind of leads me back to my feeling of oneness with my Lofi earlier in the day. Obviously I’m not alone in having such feelings. How often has any one of us heard other people say, after they’ve lost a loved one:e, ‘S/he was really here. It was so real’.
Such experiences can occur anytime, even decades after the loved one has left. I’ve mentioned somewhere else that I’m reading (in little chunks) a great book by Joseph Campbell, the renowned scholar of myth. Let me share with you a quote from the section I’ve been reading today where he’s talking about how art in India seeks to portray the divine in all things:
This is the wonderful song that one hears when one reads the Bhagavad Gītā or any of the great texts of Eastern philosophy. This is the song of that immortal spirit that never was born and never die.
Of course this isn’t meant to be a consolation to myself or anyone else. After all, we are physical beings, living in a material, solid and apparently ‘real’ world. So, naturally, we experience loss, like everything else in that context.
Our bodies react (or don’t) as do our minds, creating physical sensations and emotional responses. Or not. These physical and emotional responses, or lack of them, are totally unpredictable, unexpected, and most definitely unclassifiable by anyone outside of oneself (myself)
Anyway, there are no rules. Even the grief and loss experts will tell you this. Mind you, I can and will only speak for myself, and my experience. Basically that experience has taught me that I have an intuitive resistance to ever thinking in terms of there being a ‘roadmap’ for grief.
Or a statistically valid ‘pattern’ or ‘process’, or that there are even such things as ‘stages of grief’.
My grief for my Lofi is unique, just as everyone’s is. I’m pretty sure I don’t even want to define it, label it, ‘try to get closure’, ‘come to terms with my loss’. No. None of that. It’s like I’ve said someplace else, or at some other times:
Sometimes we make way too many words for something for which there are no words.
Thank you for allowing me to share these words with you. I pray that they are not ‘too many’
peace and love
Notes from the Hermit's Cave 