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

then —

why spend a moment more refusing,
worrying about who might disapprove,
measuring every move
as if there is some fixed formula you must
find? Why hold tight to anything?

Why not, instead, love every honeyed drop of yourself,
why not leap into life—belly-laughing
and light, light like the soft kiss of moonlight,
light like the light that you are,
have always been, will always be—

why not take this quickly passing day
by the hand and dance
like there’s no tomorrow? And if you’re too tired
to dance, why not rest lightly here
just as you are?

by Julia Fehrenbacher

I remember as a teenager the Christmas speech of the Dutch queen including the following sentence: “It is the approach of death that makes life even more precious”. It was the first time that this idea landed with me and it hasn’t left me since, although there have been times it’s been more, or less, in the foreground.

Recent events of loved ones being closer to that passage into the great unknown, have brought it very close to home again, and so the poem by the wonderful mindful poet Julia Fehrenbacher struck a clear chord. And the poignancy of the first lines touches my heart directly – it’s real, and it includes absolutely everyone I know and love… It also made me smile to see the link with the poem Fay shared a while ago: The Dakini Speaks. Same theme, different tone of voice, similar invitation: to dance!

Or to rest. And I don’t find it easy to value rest as much as ‘dancing’, or doing in some way… and I think I may not be alone here. Recently I’ve received no less than three recommendations for the book Rest as Resistance by Tricia Hersey, you’d almost think the universe is trying to tell me something! I guess it’s the same principle that leads many people to struggle prioritising practice: it seems like doing nothing, and therefore can’t be much valuable or important. But what if dancing and resting was like the in- and outbreath, and a full, well-lived life included a good balance of both… indeed, why not?!

PS if you’d like to explore how to live well so that in time we can die well, there’s a course on that very topic, you can read more about it here…

Photo by Maksym Kaharlytskyi on Unsplash

between “green thread”
and “broccoli” you find
that you have penciled “sunlight.”

Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning—to cheer you up,

and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,

that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds

of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue

but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,

—to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.

by Tony Hoagland

Who can find the time to sit out in the sun and listen? Can you? Can I? Do I remember often enough that ‘among my duties, pleasure is a thing, that also needs accomplishing’? Often I find myself with the sense of not enough time, with a to-do list that is longer than the hours I’d like to (or feel I have to!) accomplish it in. In fact, there are days when time feels like the biggest gift, the most precious luxury.

But is it really time I feel a lack of – or is it attention? The sunlight is there whether I remember or not, but it’s the remembering that makes the difference. For I also know the experience of a full busy day which is somehow spaciously full, where I remember to look up and out, and in – connected to the bigger picture even while also being present with this spreadsheet, that pile of laundry.

So maybe, inspired by this poem, I’ll take a leaf out of the poet Tony Hoagland’s book, and write the remembering into my list!

Photo by Kylie Paz on Unsplash

PS If you’re feeling a bit (or even a lot) overwhelmed and stressed out, there’s a weekend in December on Mindfulness and Stress which explores basic mindfulness tools to deal with that stress differently…

When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
And the yellow-red clusters of rowan nod,
I compose happy verses
About mortal life, mortal and beautiful life.

I return. The fluffy cat
Licks my palm and sweetly purrs.
And on the turret of the sawmill by the lake
A bright flame flares.

The quiet is cut, occasionally,
By the cry of a stork landing on the roof.
And if you were to knock at my door,
It seems to me I wouldn’t even hear.

by Anna Akhmatova
English translation from Russian by Judith Hemschemeyer

Anna Akhmatova was born in Ukraine in 1889 and went to college in Kiev. She then moved to St. Petersberg, where she became a cult figure of her time. Her life was marked in multiple ways, many of them profoundly painful, by the history and politics of her part of the world. Particularly poignant is that she chose not to emigrate, but remained in the Soviet Union.

In this poem, she seems to me to speak of the wisdom of mindfulness in a life laced with suffering. In the midst of it and in spite of it all, Akhmatova is bestowed myriad gifts in each moment from life’s simple continuation – sky, walking, burdocks, the fluffy cat, the sound of a stork landing on the roof. And she knows how to walk off her anxiety and take time to restore, away from the complexities of the human world, symbolised by the imagined knock at the door.

‘We must risk delight…we must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world’ said philosopher Jack Gilbert. There are a thousand reasons to be joyful right now and a thousand ways to be nourished by living simply…even after listening to the news. Can you experience them?

I find myself swinging between joy and horror – they seem so close together at the moment, sharing airtime within. The astounding insanity and brutality that human beings are capable of brings disbelief and incredulity. Right now for me mindfulness, which is always so available and close – just a breath away, seems to be almost a political act (as one of my teachers Lama Rinchen, once described it to be in a talk on Holy Isle in Scotland). And if I add to the mindfulness a flavour of appreciation, which only requires me to lift my eyes and let my soul be fed by beauty and all that is right and good – it feels like peaceful rebellion.

PS. If you want to find out more about how mindfulness and gratitude can boost resilience for engaging with the troubles in the world, check out our Engaged Mindfulness course https://www.mindfulnessassociation.net/course/compassion-in-action/ beginning in September.

Photo by Olivier Darbonville on Unsplash

by Mary Oliver

This poem brings me down with quite a bump, with the question ‘…or have you too turned from this world?’ What could be more tragic than turning our backs on the ineffable, beautiful, life-bestowing majesty of the sun, which is given to us each day!? If we could remember to feel blessed by the sun’s warmth (or even just by the modest appearance of not-quite-darkness peeping in through curtains on a winter morning) and if we could remember this many times a day, think of the transformation!

For me, this is the bread and butter of my daily life practice. It is a mixture of mindful presence and heartfelt appreciation of life. In the Buddhist tradition there is a contemplation called ‘Precious Human Life’ where we reflect on just how privileged we are to simply be sentient and alive,
appreciating the basic potential of being human. The wonder of life is offered to us every day on a universe sized platter, but we still turn our backs. What insanity! ‘Have you too gone crazy for power, for things?’ Well, I confess I feel I’m still preoccupied with things a little too much for my conscience to rest easy, but I’m working on it!

Ps. To find out more about Mary Oliver who wrote this poem, you can have a look here
Pps. If you want to join others in a contemplation of how to bring mindfulness to how you consume, check out the Mindful Consuming course with Kristine Mackenzie-Janson and Pam Candea

Photo by Muhammad Akhir on Unsplash