ROVIN' AND RAVIN' WITH MIKE
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I
heard echoes of other Sundays: This is a
day that the Lord hath made. Let us
rejoice and be glad in it. And
then, the congregation replying, as meekly as an Episcopal congregation does at
an eight a.m. liturgy: Alleluia. It
was one of the most beautiful mornings I had ever seen, cool, clear, with less
traffic than I had seen along Interstate 75. |
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But,
this day, I was heading into a different tradition.
From a website about Thich
Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese meditation teacher who lives in France, I had
discovered a meditation group in my neck of the woods, and after swapping a few
e-mails, I was going to join them for their monthly session of sitting and
walking meditation. Although Nhat Hanh is a Buddhist monk, he encourages the
readers of his many books and the students who attend his seminars not to
abandon their own spiritual traditions but to add meditation practice to
whatever spiritual practices they may already maintain.
After
I left the Interstate, I realized that the host had provided me excellent
directions, just a different route from the one I had gotten off the internet.
(Hmm, many paths, same destination....)
I turned into the driveway, and around a bend, saw an assortment of
vehicles typical of exurbia today—SUV's, minivans, a lone station wagon.
Then, once I locked the door of my ancient SUV behind me, I saw the
largest Irish setter I had ever seen. With
every step he took toward me, he grew.
Then,
a tiny cat came running around the log cabin that the setter was guarding, and
the dog broke into a goofy, doggy grin, and as the dog ambled toward me, I
noticed that the little cat actually made stomping sounds as his feet hit the
ground. Yes, I know, we have been
rovin' through a lot of log
cabins lately, haven't we?
The
host met me at the door (only the second person I had ever met in this reality
whom I had previously met in the virtual reality of the internet), welcomed me,
and introduced me to his wife and the five other people in the room.
And what a room it was. Later,
he would explain that his grandfather had built the cabin over sixty years ago.
The room had obviously been worn smooth and made cozy by generations.
A fire crackled in the huge fireplace, although there was some discussion
about whether the air-conditioning was needed as well.
As a compromise, a door looking over a lake was opened.
Then, over the fireplace, I saw a yoke,
and I knew that I had an article to write.
I couldn't remember the last time that I had seen a yoke, and since my
reference to a yoke drew a curious expression from a friend of mine recently, it might be
good to see what the 1828
Webster's
dictionary says about it, a dictionary from a
time when people talked about yokes:
1.
A piece of timber, hollowed or made curving near each end, and fitted
with bows for receiving the necks of oxen; by which means two are connected for drawing.
From a ring or hook in the bow, a chain extends to the thing to be drawn, or to
the yoke of another pair of oxen behind.
2.
A mark of servitude; slavery; bondage. Our country sinks beneath the
yoke.
3.
A chain; a link; a bond of connection; as the yoke of marriage.
4.
A couple; a pair; as a yoke of oxen.
5. Service. My yoke is easy. Matthew
11
That is one of the problems in talking about spiritual matters
today. When he walked the earth, Jesus chose a simple, earthy,
day-to-day object, a yoke, as a way of illustrating his teachings.
Nowadays, however, a yoke is a sort of museum piece that, if we see one
at all, we find it as an ornament and family heirloom above a mantle.
I suppose nowadays, we might interpret the words of Jesus as "My
interface is user-friendly."
Yet,
the concept of a yoke is rich with possible spiritual meanings.
In fact, the word yoga is
nothing but the Sanscrit word for yoke,
referring to the discipline that practitioners of various sorts of yoga take
upon themselves. But, since it has
lost its concrete point of reference for us, it no longer clarifies an abstract
idea.
But,
I was there to take upon myself the discipline or yoke of meditation, at least
for half an hour. The group was
very relaxed, some sitting on the floor in various versions of the lotus
position, while others of us, less adventurous, enjoyed comfortably overstuffed
chairs.
And
so, we meditated. What happened? We
meditated. We
meditated.
On one side of me,
the hostess sat on the floor. There
was a blur of movement across the room, and she gestured to her daughter not to
disturb the group. The telephone
rang, and the host moved quickly to silence it.
On my right, a man sat in a chair, breathing deeply, almost, it seemed,
in rhythm with the crackling of the fire.
Breathing
is one of the yokes that meditation teachers suggest to keep the mind
disciplined during meditation, and later, as we relaxed with mugs of tea on the
back porch, different people talked about different ways of counting the
breaths. I don't think I've ever
read or heard of anyone using the breaths of another to keep oneself, one's
self, in focus. But, it seemed to
be helpful.
After
about a half hour, although I lost all concept of time, a bell sounded, and we
all slowly came back to life, to this life, and moved outside, for walking
meditation. Frankly, the grounds
were so beautiful and the setter so insistent, that I did not focus on
meditation. I simply was there, in
the moment, with the dog, on a beautiful morning, and somehow, that was the most
meaningful meditation of all.
We
human beings, it seems, live in a curious sort of spiritual ecotone,
"a transition zone between two distinct habitats that contains species from
each area, as well as organisms unique to it" (according to the Academic
Press Dictionary of Science and Technology). Are we physical beings, trying to be spiritual, or are we
spiritual beings struggling with our physical nature? Are we apes with pretensions, or angels gone slumming?
I just about had an answer, when I walked around the corner of the cabin
and saw hundreds of ginger lilies growing in the largest clump of ginger lilies
I had ever seen. None of them were
blooming in the middle of November, but one plant still held a dead flower,
striking in its dreary browns against the rich greens of the other plants.
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I
was struck by the puzzle in spiritual etiquette.
Should one break out a digital camera during a meditation session.
The dog was the only one nearby, and he didn't seem to mind, although
later he would not cooperate when I tried to get his picture.
So, I went back to my car for my camera and took a half dozen photos.
For me, photography and writing are forms of meditation.
By framing an object or a topic with words or a lens, one yokes it,
imposes some discipline upon the thing that the thing itself would not otherwise
have. By perceiving it, we bring it
anew into existence.
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This is a day that the Lord hath made. In meditation, it seems, we challenge ourselves: given this day, what will we make of it? Well, I made an article and some photos, perhaps some new friends, at least one on four legs. And I leave you with these memories of the experience and a wish that you keep your feet appropriately dry, as you step certainly through your meditations, but, just this once, your heart empty even of noble thoughts, open to the nobility all around you.
Religiously Rovin': Internet Pilgrimages
