If I were brave enough, I’d tell you how my heart
has raged for love, stretched thin as a high wire.
If I were brave enough, I’d tell you
how my body has been fighting to stay upright
on every precipitous downhill the city
throws at it. If I were brave enough,
I’d climb into your lap and weep with longing.
All I can say is that any attempt at beauty and hope
is land-mined with failure.
And so the dangerous track-making begins.
Wending our way through,
there are possible clutches at sunlight, at windows, at yes.
We are each of us inches from death.
We are each of us inches from life.
We are each of us inches from each other.

by Maya Stein

What does it mean, make an alliance with anguish? Making it your ally? Or even: to ally with it? That definitely sounds counterintuitive at first, yet it immediately makes me curious. What would happen if I tried more of that, rather than the habitual wrestling with anguish, trying to avoid or somehow conquer it?

Poet, writing guide and adventuress Maya Stein talks about what she would do if she were brave enough – daring to be more truthful, more vulnerable, risking the many varieties of failure. It inspired me to make my own list: if I were brave enough, I would… and yes, if I didn’t mind anguish as much, more choices would open up and I might inch my way closer to beauty and hope, to life and the important others in it…

But then of course, the question of how arises. How do I make an alliance with anguish? I guess that’s where the dangerous track-making begins, one step and one moment at the time, aware of the risk of the landmines of failure. And: maybe failure isn’t the end of everything, maybe that would just mean some more anguish which I can also be with, breathe with…

Although mindfulness is usually associated with becoming more calm and peaceful, it definitely also supports me towards living more courageously. Sitting undilutedly with myself, especially for longer periods in a retreat context, has undoubtedly required and further grown my braveness. Chogyam Trungpa said that “ultimately, that is the definition of bravery: not being afraid of yourself.” So here is to more practice!

PS. I love reading about brave and inspiring people, as if their courage and ability to think out of the box could be contageous somehow. Reading a bit about Maya’s adventures was definitely inspiring, and it made me wonder what adventures I could provide for myself…
And if you feel ready for an adventure in mindfulness and discovering what that can bring you, we have a four level pathway plus a number of themed courses to choose from!

Photo by Valentina Stanoaie on Unsplash

No longer trying to make sense of pain,
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.

These are the irritations that rub into a pearl

So we can talk awhile
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea

And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions down,
and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel alone. but seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it is a door
into the endless breath
that has no breather
into the surf that human shells
call god.

by Mark Nepo

Ah, this poem from Mark Nepo’s collection ‘The Way Under the Way’ moves me in so many ways, and I’m not the only one who feels it. I found a beautiful short video inspired by it, and when I read it out to others recently, I loved hearing how people were touched by different elements of it.

Partly it’s what opens itself within me when I’m wondering – what would it be like to search less and open more? to no longer try to make sense of pain? to listen the way rocks listen to the sea? to face my aloneness squarely enough to recognise it as a doorway into the sacred? I love it when poets name experiences that I recognise in ways that wouldn’t have occured to me, like the ‘endless breath that has no breather’ or the ‘surf that human shells call god’. That longing, do you have that too? Do you give it enough space to be able to face it, to realise it as a door?

Even in this moment, a songbird in the garden, life happening around me and the possibility of that doorway right here…

But the day is full with pre-planned Things-to-Do and while I will endeavour to face all that’s in my day squarely and kindly, I know that I benefit from the space that at this point in my life requires a formal meditation (or even better, a retreat) context. Whether it’s an hour or a practice day or a longer retreat in a special place, the gift of space to lay distractions down and watering every seed is priceless…

And, writing from the morning after the longest night of the northern hemisphere, may there be plenty of those gifts of space in the year to come!

PS if you’re longing for some practice or retreat space, there are free daily meditations and plenty retreats to choose from…

Photo by Andy Styn on Unsplash

At times I wish I could crawl in,
Because there are things
No one should bear alone.
I have to trust
That holding
Is enough.

At the end of the day,
I set the bowl down,
Returning it to something
Or someone
Who holds us all.

by Martha Postlethwaite

At times, we all walk at the cliff edges of pain. I first read this poem when feeling close to overwhelm at the pain of someone dear to me. It was a tonic. When I imagined listening to the pain in this way, receiving it in my ‘beautiful bowl’, it felt very tender, like honouring the pain as precious. This helped me to stay with it, rather than rejecting the pain to protect myself.

The power of listening and presence, rather than answers and advice, is something I’ve come to trust profoundly. I find that if I’m able to receive someone’s truth into the bowl of my listening, I learn more and more deeply what it is to be human. This is a great privilege. It is humbling and awakens the heart.

I still notice though, that I can have a habit of carrying the burden of pain, whether my own or a dear one’s, more than is necessary. I also hear a lot, especially of late, of how people are holding the pain in the world as a burden.

For me pain can get into my shoulders and jaw, chest and arms, showing up as tightness. The last stanza of the poem feels essential, but putting the bowl down is easier said than done. I imagine putting it down and there is a whisp of lightness, but the tightness is still there. Perhaps those who feel this, like me, are going to need to commit to a long, slow road of teaching our body/mind/heart to put down the burdens. So, this is a stanza to take with me as a mantra, to return to in my practice and to nurture as aspiration.

I’ll close with a little quote which I think is so very poignant. It points to the essential goodness of human beings, that we often miss if we forget ‘the bowl’. It is from Martha Postlethwaite’s book that contains the above poem Addiction and Recovery – A Spiritual Pilgrimage:

‘Once a person tells you their story, it is hard to see anything other than beauty.’

Ps. If you’d like to learn more about how to bring poetry into your mindfulness and compassion practice, take mantras from poetry to live out in your life and absorb the wisdom in both ancient and modern poetry, come along to our Mindfulness meets Mystical Poetry course beginning at the end of October.

Photo by Esra Afşar on Unsplash

blows terribly here,

the moonlight also leaks

between the roof planks

of this ruined house.

by Izumi Shikibu translated by Jane Hirshfield

This poem by Izumi Shikibu, who was one of the greatest female poets of the Heian period in Japan, captures what is, I think, one of the biggest lessons life can teach us.

But sometimes we don’t see what is right in front of our nose.

At each crisis point in our lives we so easily remain convinced that it’s a total disaster. We love to jump to conclusions and have endless fixed opinions express themselves with finality. Why is ‘Full Catastrophe Living’, as the grandfather of mindfulness Jon Kabat-Zinn called it, so hard to actually ‘get’? In Buddhist teachings we are encouraged to not believe in the duality of good and bad experiences. It’s a tough lesson when difficult emotions are coursing through us and our nervous system is going haywire.

When we have seen umpteen times that things are not what they seem, does this eventually change us, though?  A family crisis such as one that happened a couple of weeks ago in my life (different needs clashing and big feelings being triggered and acted upon) feels like an utter mess on the face of it, like identities and worlds are crashing into ruins.

Now, sometime later, there’s fresh air in the space between us all and all is well! But even at the time, the possibility of ‘moonlight’ was mentioned. So yes, I think we do get it, but very slowly, our preferences worn down by mindfulness practice and maybe also by age.

When a strong reaction or feeling sweeps through our inner environment like wind or fire, how might it be to not hold on so tight to the way you think it should be? Not trying to hold up the roof and all the walls in a great struggle against reality. Letting the ruination, that might be as much a clearing and opening to fresh air and moonlight, happen…because it is happening.

When I listen to my body’s response to this idea, I feel lightness, softening and the possibility of grace. I’m reminded of John Kabat-Zinn’s well-known phrase ‘you can’t change the waves but you can learn to surf’.

Ps. If the possibility of a more graceful surfing of the waves calls to you, try joining our Level 1 Being Present course here.

Photo by Jason Mavrommatis on Unsplash

Donna Ashworth

The poet Donna Ashworth hopes (in her own words) to “provide words that can be used everyday, as well as in those moments life hits hardest”. This particular poem made me think about the goodness of neutrality – the ordinary moments that may not be spectacular but are also not particularly difficult. Easy to overlook – but how wonderful it is in this moment to… not have toothache, for example, or to breathe freely without having a blocked nose! I’ve been glad at particularly difficult times where it felt hard to connect with something really good, to be able to relish the absence of particular challenges that would have made whatever was going on, harder still.

And the biggest one of all is of course the simple fact of aliveness. How very lucky indeed, to have another day of life!

PS if you’d like to wake up more to the wonderfulness of life, there is a new Mindfulness level 1 course starting before long, as well as a shorter course more focused on daily life, called the Wonder of the Everyday…

Photo by Jamez Picard on Unsplash