Spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.

by Matsuo Bashō, translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa

What a simple set of words by the 17th-century Japanese haiku master Bashō, and yet what a world they open into! A world of effortlessness, of non-doing, maybe even of no doer. Which seems very appealing in the face of busyness and the sense of things being hard work at times. But obviously, striving for effortlessness will only get me further away from it. What does seem to help, is occasionally dropping the question in: could I do less? or: can I use less effort? Can I trust the grass growing by itself, a little bit more? This may not exactly be transcending the ‘doer and deed’ as described in Buddhist teachings, but it can make a surprising difference.

Shall we sit for a while, quietly, doing nothing – and see what happens?

PS if you’d like to sit together quietly, doing approximately nothing, there’s a new level 1 mindfulness course starting soon… because although it’s simple, it’s not always easy, and it helps to do it together!

Photo by Валерия on Unsplash

When they’re at rest, they’re gone.
Evaporated. They don’t exist.
It’s only busyness, activity
gives them their visibility,
their realness in our eyes.

Maybe we think the same of us.
Without our work,
activity,
we disappear,
Or so we fear.

by Judy Sorum Brown

Ah, the old challenge of finding yourself more of a human doing than a human being… freshly offered by Judy Sorum Brown in the metaphor of a hummingbird that is either fully ‘on’ or ‘disappeared’ in the deepest stupor sleep. I came across the poem in the inspiring anthology Teaching with Heart, Poetry that Speaks to the Courage to Teach – where Judy shares a poem by Mark Nepo that speaks to her own priorities as educator, and further on another teacher shared the above poem.

Of course it’s not a rational fear, but nonetheless I think it’s something that may of us will recognise in some form or another. Around me I often see it cropping up around retirement – who am I if not my the identity I had in work? My dear stepdad would almost hum with pleasure when my brother affectionately called him ‘doctor’, 10 years after he packed away his stethoscope and completed his decades at the hospital. And even during holidays, days off or in the quiet moments there can be a flavour of it – is it safe to stop, to rest, to trust that being is enough? Could it be true that I don’t need to achieve and accomplish in order to be worthy of acceptance and love?

And this is where meditation practice come in, gently encouraging us to turn towards that discomfort, that fear of stopping. The stillness waiting with open arms, welcoming us to put down the burden of fearing not-enough and see what happens if we just come as we are. It will be worth it…

PS there’s a new Level 1 course starting soon, check out the dates if you’re interested in finding a group of people to make that journey with.

Photo by John Duncan on Unsplash

by Emily Pearce

I didn’t used to value rest all that much, if anything it seemed like an annoying necessity to keep going. If you google ‘human being, human doing’, you’ll find an endless list of articles, books, practices, and it looks to me like most are urging us to value the being more. Easier said than done, judging by all that output about it!

I recently came across a quote from Nicola Jane Hobbs, who has just written a book on the psychology of rest, which says

Instead of asking, ‘Have I worked hard enough to deserve to rest?’, I’ve started asking, ‘Have I rested enough to do my most loving, meaningful work?’.

It’s a privilege, of course, to be able to ask this question, and there may be many situations and jobs where that question might come across as a painful joke. But I also believe that there are many for whom valuing output and doing more has become an unquestioned habitual pattern, and where asking the ‘have I rested enough’ question could land as a wise wakeup call.

This poem by Emily Pearce (who I’ve not been able to find online to give a credit to) speaks of the deep rest that winter invites. Whether it’s my age and stage or practice finally sinking in or maybe my surroundings, I’m feeling it now… How precious to be able to pause and rest wholeheartedly, even if only in brief windows of time. Very worth practising, at least!

PS If you want to explore resting, why it may not be straightforward and how to access it more, our Level 1 course ‘being present’ would be a good place to start!

Photo by Ice Tea on Unsplash

by Brad Aaron Modlin

A couple of days ago I spent a whole day next to the beautiful River Monnow not far from where I live, in the most blissful solitude. These days solitude is something I long for more of, so sitting there by the river I felt myself melting and drinking it all in. When I first set off on my mini retreat I noticed anxiety at play in my chest – Will everything go ok back home? Where am I going? What will I encounter? So, for the first half hour my mind, body and heart were still staccatoing tightly at a high frequency. I found my spot on a tangled mat of roots inches from the flowing water, underneath weeping boughs of alder, and sat. And sat. And sat. And time stood still. I could have remained there indefinitely. The river gurgled and rushed, the sun sparkled and ran dapples across it, a grey wagtail bobbed by and then a kingfisher. Before long I noticed the anxiety had evaporated and I sank into a deep melody of being, staccato tightness gone.

Later I sat underneath a grand oak on a little ledge above the river. Again, I entered a flow allowing my awareness to rest into just being, enveloped in the solace of nature, vitalised by a gentle awe – I just loved the river. At some point a cockerel crowed from a distant farm, its voice carried free into the summer air. There was something about the sound of the cockerel crowing and of really being there to let myself experience it. I realised that over the past bunch of years I had not let this sound into awareness, even if I had supposedly heard it. My mind has been too preoccupied with a thousand and one things. It was as if every cockerel crow I had ever heard was held in a dream within this present one. And the bittersweet thrumming present touched deep into my veins and ran through me to flood my heart. I long to always hear a cockerel crowing in this way, free of the crush of inner and outer ‘stuff.’

In this moving poem I wonder whether Brad Aaron Modlin, a contemporary poet who teaches at the University of Nebraska, Kearney (find out more here), is saying something a bit like what I am trying to convey about my day by the river. There is something about the timeless span of the poem and its precious life lessons, reaching from now to that fourth-grade day and back. And there was something similar in that crow of the cockerel – as if all existence – both the beginning and end of it, had no beginning or end when encapsulated in a moment. It is something about living life mindfully, with humility and with feeling. It is about letting yourself be called towards what has meaning and soul for you. It is about allowing life to teach you of itself – the hard lessons and the good. It is about risking the significance of the moment and following through towards this and letting it be the way you live. And maybe it is about not getting lost in academics, technology, and stuff. And yet it is about getting lost – because we all do, and so finally it is about finding ourselves and each other and the world within an encompassing embrace of presence.

Ps. It’s not long until our next Mindfulness meets Mystical Poetry course begins on the 12th September. Sign up to enjoy the plethora of gifts that being with poetry mindfully has to offer towards living fully and with heart.

Photo by Jack B on Unsplash

by Jeff Foster

Well here we have the paradox at the heart of mindfulness and meditation practice. Jeff Foster (a British meditation teacher and poet – find out more about him here), is speaking of the difference between as he puts it ‘I used to meditate’ and ‘I am meditation’. In the first line there is a certain doing, in the latter only being. So as beginners or even those with a good amount of experience behind us – how do we negotiate this paradox?

For a start, meditating is a bit like tuning the string of a lute – we don’t want it too tight (too much striving) or too loose (a lack of focus and clarity). Sometimes we’re tense and unable to let go of doing, sometimes we’re sleepy, dreamy or in a daze.

Many of us don’t know how not to try – is this so for you? This was certainly the case for me at first. I gradually learnt to see the striving and let it go. There is a delicate balance here of holding a clear intention for the practice, while at the same time releasing the habit to do the meditation or try to achieve the intention of the practice. On top of this if we go off duty completely we’ll just space out! So where is the happy medium?

We’re given lots of forms and structures to guide us in our practice – Settling, Grounding, Resting and Support (S.G.R.S.) being the core one taught by the Mindfulness Association, and we’re also encouraged to practice formally and regularly. It’s certainly been my experience that the more I practice ‘on the cushion’, the more benefit I experience naturally in daily life. But I also think it’s important not to sacrifice our journey towards finding what is essential, what is there when there’s nothing added. The forms and structures may be a means to journey in this direction, but they are not the destination. The metaphor which is sometimes used here is of a finger pointing at the moon. The moon is our basic aware nature, the finger is all the signposts we need to point ourselves in its direction and not get lost too much on the way. S.G.R.S. is not the destination, it is a skilful means to facilitate ourselves towards something which is beyond the word destination.

Jeff Foster seems to convey how it would be to already be ‘there’, where the finger is pointing to, to already have stabilised this as a way of being moment to moment. I think this poem can serve as inspiration to us about how this might feel and I’m sure we all have glimpses of the wonder of the ordinariness that he speaks of here and there, which can serve as inspiration from within too. I also think the poem can serve as a meditation instruction. Which line would you like to take away with you as a mantra for living mindfully in daily life?

Ps. Spend 6 weeks immersing yourself in how poetry can teach us universal wisdom and guide us in our meditation. We have the popular Mindfulness meets Mystical Poetry course starting again in September. Find out more click here.

Photo by Melanie Magdalena on Unsplash