And you know
too well
by now
the body’s
hesitation
at the invitation
to undo
everything
others seemed
to want to
make you learn.

But your edge
of darkness
has always
made
its own definition
secretly
as an edge of light

and the door
you closed
might,
by its very nature
be
one just waiting
to be leant against
and opened.

And happiness
might just
be a single step away,
on the other side
of that next
unhelpful
and undeserving
thought.

Your way home,
understood now,
not as an achievement,
but as a giving up,
a blessed undoing,
an arrival
in the body
and a full rest
in the give
and take
of the breath.

This living
breathing body
always waiting
to greet you
at the door,
always
no matter
the long years
you’ve been
away,
still
wanting you
to come home.

by David Whyte

Well, here we have a poem to inspire meditation if ever I found one. This verse bears repeating:
Your way home,
understood now,
not as an achievement,
but as a giving up,
a blessed undoing…

Practice is the refuge to which we can take our ‘edge of darkness.’ In the sanctuary of practice the parts of us we turn away from can find welcome (sometimes!). In the rhythmic breathing of mindful presence the darkness can, over and over be blessedly undone. The dear body, who has the extraordinary patience and loyalty to always, after everything, still want and wait for our return, might celebrate this arrival with warm easing and opening sensations.

The ‘edge of darkness’ in the early verses is spoken of by David Whyte with a gentle and redemptive acceptance. I love the idea that an edge of darkness is, by definition, also an edge of light.

The great paradox of practice though is that if now, on reading this, you set to with the blessed undoing in mind and turn it into a goal or measure of success, then you’ve coopted the gift that can only be received, the blessing that cannot be pursued, only bestowed. Watch for under the radar inner missions to manufacture or hunt out a good meditation. So, next time you sit how can you form an intention which undoes the aim to do the blessed undoing and instead surrenders to the flow of now?

One of my meditation teachers once said ‘How can you fall in love with your practice?’ I find joy in allowing myself to ask this question and for me this poem provides an answer.

Ps. If you’d like a weekly immersion in the experience of receiving the wisdom of poetry into meditation practice check out our six week Mindfulness meets Mystical Poetry online course beginning in May.

Photo by Gabriella Clare Marino on Unsplash

by Linda Reuther

Isn’t this poem a consolation! I think Linda Reuther puts beautiful words to the idea that the Earth can be our refuge. In Buddhist teachings the idea of refuge is key. When you commit to a Buddhist path you ‘take refuge’. I think that on some level we all long to be unconditionally supported and we all want to feel that all of who we are can be welcomed within a more vast, loving presence. In this poem, the Earth is that welcoming presence. The feeling from the poem is that all of what we experience emotionally – tears, rage, tiredness, hopes, dreams, is mirrored in the Earth’s elements of rivers, oceans, thunder, volcanoes, meadows. We are given the invitation to know that we are made of the same elements and we are not alone. Zen Buddhist teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh has written a wonderful little book called Love Letter to the Earth, which explores Mother Earth as the ultimate refuge. He says ‘The Earth is not just the environment, the Earth is us.’

As mindfulness practitioners we remember this every time we practice by letting ourselves find our home in the body on the ground. Many of us also love to practice mindfulness in nature, which is another way to feel this profound belonging.

Through experiencing the Earth as refuge, we may begin to feel the depth of our care for the environment and we may also become more acutely aware of the urgent need for change in how we, as human beings, relate to the Earth. Thich Nhat Hanh goes on to say that everything depends on whether we realise that the Earth is us.

How can we use our mindfulness practice to empower us to take actions for the sake of the Earth? We will address this question in our Engaged Mindfulness course beginning in May. We will explore our connection with nature as a basis for engaging with whatever small or large things concern us. Whether it’s the climate crisis or social injustice, whether it’s on a local level or global level, whether it’s through hands on action, donations or through practicing kindness. Do join us in this essential inquiry.

Ps. If you want to know more about the course, please see here.

Photo by Elena Mozhvilo on Unsplash

by Theresa of Avila

It surprised me to find that these were the words were written by the 16th century Spanish saint. On reflection, I realise that somehow I – clearly wrongly! – associate Christian mystics with something more meek and mild, or austere and obedient. Nothing wrong with that either of course, but I appreciate the independent daring and the close, accessible splendour these words invite to. Makes me curious about what other misconceptions I carry around, and what ‘mindful poetry’ of cultures and religions/philosophies other than western and Buddhist I may not yet know about.

Sitting here this morning, the words themselves lead to a still place and a soft longing for magnificent refuge St Theresa is talking about. So I guess it’s time to ‘be bold. Be humble’ and see where it leads…

Photo by Javier Miranda on Unsplash

But the miracle had come simply
from allowing yourself to know
that you had found it, that this time
someone walking out into the clear air
from far inside you had decided not to walk
past it any more; the miracle had come
at the roadside in the kneeling to drink
and the prayer you said, and the tears you shed
and the memory you held and the realization
that in this silence you no longer had to keep
your eyes and ears averted from the place
that could save you, that you had been given
the strength to let go of the thirsty dust laden
pilgrim-self that brought you here, walking
with her bent back, her bowed head
and her careful explanations.

No, the miracle had already happened
when you stood up, shook off the dust
and walked along the road from the well,
out of the desert toward the mountain,
as if already home again, as if you deserved
what you loved all along, as if just
remembering the taste of that clear cool
spring could lift up your face and set you free.

by David Whyte

This poem found me, rather than the other way around, on the day after I came back from a deeply nourishing retreat with Alistair Appleton on Holy Isle. It spoke exactly to my experience of deeply drinking from the well of embodied heart practice, where I felt ‘you no longer had to keep your eyes and ears averted from the place that could save you’.

It’s curious how this path of mind-fulness practice seems to lead me – and many others – more and more to the body, to the heart. And when resting in the rich and textured awareness of the body, our ‘careful explanations’ are no longer necessary because there is the direct experience of true “knowing what is happening while it’s happening, no matter what it is” (as Rob Nairn would say it).

During this retreat, it was particularly the intimate re-acquainting with my own heart that felt like ‘the taste of that clear cool spring’ which could ‘lift up your face and set you free’. And yes, I am deeply thankful for it.

I’m aware that this poem connected very directly to this particular retreat experience, that it was the silence, the people, the meditations and the teachings on the island which brought me to this well from which I drank deeply. I wonder what experience led David Whyte to write it, or how it speaks to others. Do you feel you’re walking ‘out of the desert toward the mountain, as if already home again, as if you deserved what you loved all along’? Or are you feeling ‘the thirst that caught in your throat’, the ‘hard pilgrimage’ that the poem speaks of? And if so, what is it you need to allow yourself to know that you had found that well and to not ‘walk past it any more’?

There may be tears. And prayers, and memories, and a long and hard pilgrimage. But right now, I know this well is here, right here, welcoming us to drink as soon as we’re ready. Let’s drink deep.