You hear me again, as words
from the depths of me
rush toward you in the wind.

I’ve been scattered in pieces,
torn by conflict,
mocked by laughter,
washed down in drink.

I am a house gutted by fire
where only the guilty sometimes sleep
before the punishment that devours them
hounds them out into the open.

I am a city by the sea
sinking into a toxic tide
I am strange to myself, as though someone unknown
had poisoned my mother as she carried me.

It’s here in all the pieces of my shame
that now I find myself again.
I yearn to belong to something, to be contained
in an all-embracing mind that sees me
as a single thing.
I yearn to be held
in the great hands of your heart–
oh let them take me now.

Into them I place these fragments, my life,
and you, God — spend them however you want.

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Original Language German, English version by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

I’m conscious as I write that there are times in our lives where we can engage easily with positive ideas such as those often expressed in this blog, and there are times when this feels so very far away from where we are. At those times it can feel like the rest of the world are on another planet that is worlds away. It’s a very lonely place to be. Perhaps this poem is for those who feel this loneliness and devastation. It’s a gift from Rilke for anyone living one of those times now, from a man who knows that place.

The poem is incredibly creative and vivid in how it describes the feeling of this. A heartbreaking description of despair and the journey of compassion. The scattered pieces remind me of the story of the Tibetan Buddhist deity of compassion Chenrezig (Avolakiteshvara) and his moment of shattering into a thousand pieces at the foot of the mythical Mount Meru. After witnessing the suffering of countless multitudes of beings for eons, so it is said, Chenrezig was devastated and his body literally shattered. In the poem the brokenness, the scattering, the toxic, gutted and torn self is conveyed as the starting point, a ground zero – and also the ground of the prayer. In the story of Chenrezig he shapeshifts. His thousand shattered pieces become 1000 arms with an eye in the palm of each of his hands making him a supercharged force for compassion in the world.

On a more personal level Rilke is suggesting that, rather than clinging to a sense of self that is broken, perhaps we can surrender, placing the fragments of our broken self in the great hands of the Awesome One (or whatever name you choose).

For me it is the last few lines that pierce my heart. A feeling I know as compassion floods in. Deeply painful yet utterly and exquisitely human, a humble unbearably tender love that looks raw reality in the eye. I know how important it is to let myself feel this.

Questions are openings, beginnings and possibilities. Here are some questions that you may like to sit with:

Could you imagine placing the fragments of your life in the great hands of a Universal Heart?

Could you find yourself again, amongst the pieces of your shame?

Could you imagine letting go so deeply, that you allow the truth of your lack of control over yourself and your life to be as it is?

And from here, might a different kind of possibility for choice and action then come into view?

Ps. If you feel drawn towards compassion practice and have a previous training in mindfulness you may like to join our next Level 2 Responding with Compassion course.

If you’d like to connect with poetry in a mindful way there are two upcoming opportunities available. Mindfulness Meets Mystical Poetry 6 week course and Mystical Poetry for Slow Time retreat day.

The image is a detail from here.

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

Rumi, as interpreted by Coleman Barks

When I read the above poem (an excerpt from the full poem, one of the ecstatic poems collected in The Soul of Rumi) I recognise truth. It brings a soft heartbreak, a kind of love-based melancholy. It also brings fear of the potential devastation of crumbling. And then there’s also a longing to surrender that feels inviting.

If I follow the possibility of surrender there’s a delicious relief – a ‘Thank goodness!’ and a big sigh. There’s so much effort involved in assuming all this personal control. For me the jagged rock is a perfect description of the way my body feels in this maintenance of personal control. It’s as if I’m saying ‘I will personally hold back the continual Autumn’ on a moment-by-moment basis!

My struggle against the reality of life’s tragedies small and large could be given up. This often feels impossible, and yes, it’s sometimes possible. But crucially, I need to trust that it’s worth it.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer says of surrender:

Oh surrender!
It’s the surest medicine that exists.
There are infinite side effects.
Wonder. Freedom. Rawness.

I imagine a little wildflower of wonder, and one of freedom and one of rawness pushing up amongst the rubble of my broken-down control tower. When we let the truth be so, little blessings do push up from the devastation, each a poignant affirmation. Mindfulness practice invites us to trust and to gradually face the reality of how little control we actually have. It’s a long journey for most of us, but the little affirmations can bring the encouragement we need.

Have you noticed the little affirmations in your own practice? Can they become your motivation to practice surrendering to what is?

PS. Join our Level 1 Being Present training to begin your journey into life’s truths. Find out more here.

Photo by Tyler Mower on Unsplash

by Gretchen Haley

There was a lovely conversation about the meaning of surrender, during the Midwinter practice day with the theme of Grace. If grace becomes possible by getting out of the way and opening to something other than what I can conjure up, then surrendering to ‘what is’ seems an important ingredient to me. This poem by the Unitarian Universalist minister Gretchen Haley (more of her poetry can be found here) says it in such a way that hearing the words, I feel the softening and melting happen in my body like sugar dissolving in tea. Such a marked difference with that other possibility, the trying to make stuff happen with gritted teeth!

And giving ourselves permission to ‘give up the fight’ during a practice day can be profound. I was moved to receive an email with the words below from one of the participants, speaking of what she found when deeply listening in that stillness…

A Dream of Winter

Perfect
is
The Ghost of Christmas Past.
In this winter dream
I did not
deck the halls
nor
don my gay apparel.
I did not
strike the harp nor join the chorus.
Instead,
listening to
my heart
and
“the soft animal of my body.”
I fell silent
and still
and rested in grace.

by Karen Lerpiniere

More retreats coming up in the new year, I’m already looking forward to the next!

Photo by another participant of that day, the talented photographer Fiona Dodd on Unsplash