The Book of Awakening Read online

  Hold what they have in common before you, and breathing slowly, feel the spot of grace these dear things mirror within you.

  JANUARY 4

  Between Peace and Joy

  We could never have guessed We were already blessed where we are….

  —JAMES TAYLOR

  This reminds me of a woman who found a folded sponge all dried and compressed, and tucked inside the hardened fold was a message she'd been seeking. She carried the hardened sponge to the sea and, up to her waist in the deep, she watched it unfold and come to life in the water. Magically, the secret of life became visible in the bubbles being released from the sponge, and to her amazement, a small fish, trapped in sleep in the hardened sponge, came alive and swam out to sea. From that day on, no matter where she went, she felt the little fish swimming in the deep, and this—the swimming of the little fish that had for so long been asleep—gave her a satisfaction that was somewhere between peace and joy.

  Whatever our path, whatever the color or grain of our days, whatever riddles we must solve to stay alive, the secret of life somehow always has to do with the awakening and freeing of what has been asleep. Like that sponge, our very heart begs to unfold in the waters of our experience, and like that little fish, the soul is a tiny thing that brings us peace and joy when we let it swim.

  But everything remains hard and compressed and illegible until, like this woman, waist deep in the ocean, we take our sleeping heart in our hands and plunge it tenderly into the life we are living.

  With your eyes closed, meditate on the image of a hardened sponge unfolding like a flower underwater.

  As you breathe, practice seeing your heart as such a sponge.

  The next time you do the dishes, pause, hold the hardened sponge in the water, and feel your heart unfold.

  JANUARY 5

  Show Your Hair

  My grandmother told me, “Never hide your green hair—They can see it anyway.”

  —ANGELES ARRIEN

  From the agonies of kindergarten, when we first were teased or made fun of in the midst of all our innocence, we have all struggled in one way or another with hiding what is obvious about us.

  No one plans this. It is not a conspiracy, but rather an inevitable and hurtful passage from knowing only ourselves to knowing the world. The tragedy is that many of us never talk about it, or never get told that our “green hair” is beautiful, or that we don't need to hide, no matter what anyone says on the way to lunch. And so, we often conclude that to know the world we must hide ourselves.

  Nothing could be farther from the truth. It is an ancient, unspoken fact of being that blackmail is only possible if we believe that we have something to hide. The inner corollary of this is that worthless feelings arise when we believe, however briefly, that who we are is not enough.

  Sit quietly, with your eyes closed, and with each in-breath feel the fact that who you are is enough.

  JANUARY 6

  The Spoked Wheel

  What we reach for may be different, but what makes us reach is the same.

  Imagine that each of us is a spoke in an Infinite Wheel, and, though each spoke is essential in keeping the Wheel whole, no two spokes are the same. The rim of that Wheel is our living sense of community, family, and relationship, but the common hub where all the spokes join is the one center where all souls meet. So, as I move out into the world, I live out my uniqueness, but when I dare to look into my core, I come upon the one common center where all lives begin. In that center, we are one and the same. In this way, we live out the paradox of being both unique and the same. For mysteriously and powerfully, when I look deep enough into you, I find me, and when you dare to hear my fear in the recess of your heart, you recognize it as your secret that you thought no one else knew. And that unexpected wholeness that is more than each of us, but common to all—that moment of unity is the atom of God.

  Not surprisingly, like most people, in the first half of my life, I worked very hard to understand and strengthen my uniqueness. I worked hard to secure my place at the rim of the Wheel and so defined and valued myself by how different I was from everyone else. But in the second half of my life, I have been humbly brought to the center of that Wheel, and now I marvel at the mysterious oneness of our spirit.

  Through cancer and grief and disappointment and unexpected turns in career—through the very breakdown and rearrangement of the things I have loved—I have come to realize that, as water smoothes stone and enters sand, we become each other. How could I be so slow? What I've always thought set me apart binds me to others.

  Never was this more clear to me than when I was sitting in a waiting room at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City, staring straight into this Hispanic woman's eyes, she into mine. In that moment, I began to accept that we all see the same wonder, all feel the same agony, though we all speak in a different voice. I know now that each being born, inconceivable as it seems, is another Adam or Eve.

  Sit with a trusted loved one and take turns:

  Name one defining trait of who you are that distinguishes you from others.

  Name one defining trait of who you are that you have in common with others.

  Discuss how you cope with the loneliness of what makes you unique from others, and how you cope with the experience of what makes you the same as others.

  JANUARY 7

  We Must Take Turns

  We must take turns: diving into all there is and counting the time.

  The gift and responsibility of relationship is to take turns doing the dishes and putting up the storm windows, giving the other the chance to dive for God without worrying about dinner. While one explores the inner, the other must tend the outer.

  A great model of this is how pearl divers search the deep in pairs. Without scuba tanks or regulators, one waits at the surface tending the lines tied to the other who soft-steps the sand for treasures he hopes he'll recognize.

  He walks the bottom, watching the leaves of vegetation sway and sways himself till she tugs the cord. He swallows the little air left as he ascends. Aboard, they talk for hours, placing what was seen, rubbing the rough and natural pearl. In the morning, she dives and fills their baskets and he counts the time, hands wrapped about her line.

  Quite plainly, these pearl divers show us the work of being together and the miracle of trust. We must take turns: whoever is on the surface must count the air time left, so the one below can dive freely.

  Sit quietly and meditate on a significant relationship you are in with a friend or lover or family member.

  Breathe steadily and ask yourself if you take turns diving and counting the time.

  When moved to do so, discuss this with your loved one.

  JANUARY 8

  Feeding Your Heart

  No matter how dark, the hand always knows the way to the mouth.

  —IDOMA PROVERB (NIGERIA)

  Even when we can't see, we know how to feed ourselves. Even when the way isn't clear, the heart still pumps. Even when afraid, the air of everything enters and leaves the lungs. Even when clouds grow thick, the sun still pours its light earthward.

  This African proverb reminds us that things are never quite as bad as they seem inside the problem. We have inner reflexes that keep us alive, deep impulses of being and aliveness that work beneath the hardships we are struggling with.

  We must remember: the hand cannot eliminate the darkness, only find its way to the mouth. Likewise, our belief in life cannot eliminate our suffering, only find its way to feed our heart.

  Sit quietly and, with your eyes closed, bring your open hands to your mouth.

  Inhale as you do this and notice how, without guidance, your hands know the way.

  Breathe slowly, and with your eyes closed, bring your open hands to your heart.

  Notice how, without your guidance, your heart knows the way.

  JANUARY 9

  Life in the Tank

  Love, and do what thou wilt.

  —SAINT AUGUSTINE

  It was a curious thing. Robert had filled the bathtub and put the fish in the tub, so he could clean their tank. After he'd scrubbed the film from the small walls of their make-believe deep, he went to retrieve them.

  He was astonished to find that, though they had the entire tub to swim in, they were huddled in a small area the size of their tank. There was nothing containing them, nothing holding them back. Why wouldn't they dart about freely? What had life in the tank done to their natural ability to swim?

  This quiet yet stark moment stayed with us both for a long time. We couldn't help but see those little fish going nowhere but into themselves. We now had a life-in-the-tank lens on the world and wondered daily, In what ways are we like them? In what ways do we go nowhere but into ourselves? In what ways do we shrink our world so as not to feel the press of our own self-imposed captivity?

  Life in the tank made me think of how we are raised at home and in school. It made me think of being told that certain jobs are not acceptable and that certain jobs are out of reach, of being schooled to live a certain way, of being trained to think that only practical things are possible, of being warned over and over that life outside the tank of our values is risky and dangerous.

  I began to see just how much we were taught as children to fear life outside the tank. As a father, Robert began to question if he was preparing his children for life in the tank or life in the uncontainable world.

  It makes me wonder now, in middle age, if being spontaneous and kind and curious are all parts of our natural ability to swim. Each time I hesitate to do the unplanned or unexpected, or hesitate to reach and help another, or hesitate to inquire into something I know nothing about; each time I ignore the impulse to run in the rain or to call you up just to say I love you—I wonder, am I turning on myself, swimming safely in the middle of the tub?

  Sit quietly until you feel thoroughly in your center.

  Now rise and slowly walk about the room you are in.

  Now walk close to the walls of your room and meditate on life in your tank.

  Breathe clearly and move to the doorway and meditate on the nature of what is truly possible in life.

  Now step through the doorway and enter your day. Step through your day and enter the world.

  JANUARY 10

  Akiba

  When Akiba was on his deathbed, he bemoaned to his rabbi that he felt he was a failure. His rabbi moved closer and asked why, and Akiba confessed that he had not lived a life like Moses. The poor man began to cry, admitting that he feared God's judgment. At this, his rabbi leaned into his ear and whispered gently, “God will not judge Akiba for not being Moses. God will judge Akiba for not being Akiba.”

  —FROM THE TALMUD

  We are born with only one obligation—to be completely who we are. Yet how much of our time is spent comparing ourselves to others, dead and alive? This is encouraged as necessary in the pursuit of excellence. Yet a flower in its excellence does not yearn to be a fish, and a fish in its unmanaged elegance does not long to be a tiger. But we humans find ourselves always falling into the dream of another life. Or we secretly aspire to the fortune or fame of people we don't really know. When feeling badly about ourselves, we often try on other skins rather than understand and care for our own.

  Yet when we compare ourselves to others, we see neither ourselves nor those we look up to. We only experience the tension of comparing, as if there is only one ounce of being to feed all our hungers. But the Universe reveals its abundance most clearly when we can be who we are. Mysteriously, every weed and ant and wounded rabbit, every living creature has its unique anatomy of being which, when given over to, is more than enough.

  Being human, though, we are often troubled and blocked by insecurity, that windedness of heart that makes us feel unworthy. And when winded and troubled, we sometimes feel compelled to puff ourselves up. For in our pain, it seems to make sense that if we were larger, we would be further from our pain. If we were larger, we would be harder to miss. If we were larger, we'd have a better chance of being loved. Then, not surprisingly, others need to be made smaller so we can maintain our illusion of seeming bigger than our pain.

  Of course, history is the humbling story of our misbegotten inflations, and truth is the corrective story of how we return to exactly who we are. And compassion, sweet compassion, is the never-ending story of how we embrace each other and forgive ourselves for not accepting our beautifully particular place in the fabric of all there is.

  Fill a wide bowl with water. Then clear your mind in meditation and look closely at your reflection.

  While looking at your reflection, allow yourself to feel the tension of one comparison you carry. Feel the pain of measuring yourself against another.

  Close your eyes and let this feeling through.

  Now, once again, look closely at your reflection in the bowl, and try to see yourself in comparison to no one.

  Look at your reflection and allow yourself to feel what makes you unique. Let this move through.

  JANUARY 11

  Ted Shawn

  To know God without being God-like is like trying to swim without entering water.

  —OREST BEDRIJ

  Underneath all we are taught, there is a voice that calls to us beyond what is reasonable, and in listening to that flicker of spirit, we often find deep healing. This is the voice of embodiment calling us to live our lives like sheet music played, and it often speaks to us briefly in moments of deep crisis. Sometimes it is so faint we mistake its whisper for wind through leaves. But taking it into the heart of our pain, it can often open the paralysis of our lives.

  This brings to mind the story of a young divinity student who was stricken with polio, and from somewhere deep within him came an unlikely voice calling him to, of all things, dance. So, with great difficulty, he quit divinity school and began to dance, and slowly and miraculously, he not only regained the use of his legs, but went on to become one of the fathers of modern dance.

  This is the story of Ted Shawn, and it is compelling for us to realize that studying God did not heal him. Embodying God did. The fact of Ted Shawn's miracle shows us that Dance, in all its forms, is Theology lived. This leads us all to the inescapable act of living out what is kept in, of daring to breathe in muscle and bone what we know and feel and believe—again and again.

  Whatever crisis we face, there is this voice of embodiment that speaks beneath our pain ever so quickly, and if we can hear it and believe it, it will show us a way to be reborn. The courage to hear and embody opens us to a startling secret, that the best chance to be whole is to love whatever gets in the way, until it ceases to be an obstacle.

  Before work or during the day, sit quietly outside for a few moments.

  Close your eyes and be still. Feel the air on your closed lids.

  Let your love wash through your heart up your chest.

  Let your love breeze up your throat and behind your eyes.

  When you open your eyes, stretch and focus on the first thing you see.

  If it is a bench, say I believe in bench. If a tree, say I believe in tree. If a torn flower, say I believe in torn flower.

  Rise with a simple belief in what you feel and see, and touch what is before you, giving your love a way out.

  JANUARY 12

  Seeing into Darkness

  Seeing into darkness is clarity… This is called practicing eternity….

  —LAO-TZU

  Fear gets its power from our not looking, at either the fear or what we're afraid of. Remember that attic or closet door behind which something terrifying waited, and the longer we didn't look, the harder it was to open that door?

  As a boy this obsessed me until I would avoid that part of the house. But, finally, when no one was home, I felt compelled to face the unknown. I stood before that attic door for the longest time, my heart pounding. It took all my small inner boy strength to open it.

  I waited at the threshold, and nothing happened. I inched my way in and stood in the dark, even longer, until my breathing slowed, and to my surprise, my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Pretty soon, I was able to explore the old musty boxes, and found pictures of my grandfather, my father's father, the only one in the family that I am like. Seeing those pictures opened me to aspects of my spirit.

  It seems whatever the door, whatever our fear—be it love or truth or even the prospect of death—we all have this choice, again and again: avoiding that part of our house, or opening the door and finding out more about ourselves by waiting until what is dark becomes seeable.

  Sit quietly and bring to mind a door you fear going through.

  For now, simply breathe and, in your mind's eye, grow accustomed to the threshold.

  For now, breathe deeply and simply feel safe around the closed door, vowing to return when you feel stronger.

  JANUARY 13

  Why We Need Each Other

  A blind child guided by his mother, admires the cherry blossoms….

  —KIKAKOU

  Who knows what a blind child sees of blossoms or song-birds? Who knows what any of us sees from the privacy of our own blindness—and, make no mistake, each of us is blind in a particular way, just as each of us is sighted uniquely.

  Consider how each of us is blinded by what we fear. If we fear heights, we are blind to the humility vast perspectives bring. If we fear spiders, we are blind to the splendor and danger of webs. If we fear small spaces, we are blind to the secrets of sudden solitude. If we fear passion, we are blind to the comfort of Oneness. If we fear change, we are blind to the abundance of life. If we fear death, we are blind to the mystery of the unknown. And since to fear something is thoroughly human, to be blind is unavoidable. It is what each of us must struggle to overcome.