Tag Archives: strength

September, Discipline

Light and dark swirl.

Take refuge, my sweetness. I am here. I love you. I am full of tenderness for your pain. I will gladly cup your weak and panting doubt, and gaze upon it while it rests. I will be your strength and your voice. I will protect you. I will love you, no matter what. It is okay to let go. It is okay to let go of the brutalizing narrative that beats you hard enough for you to feel your edges. You’re choosing a merciless boundary because you fear that if you don’t, you will disappear entirely.

You will never disappear, because I am your center. I am your center and your light. I am the life in your breath, and the seam your feet and the floor conspire to make a thousand times a day, to remind you that it is safe, and you belong here. Safety is steady, gentle work, stitched together again and again. I am the empty edges, by which you feel at home in your body, and open in your heart.

Please, take refuge in me. I am the love of discipline, for which you are searching. Consider trying a different test. Consider what might happen if you are wrong. Rest, and ask your question. Stay, and listen.

The love that drives us to serve is the fruit of surrender. I love you. I surrender to you every day. I am here. My sweetness, please, take refuge in me. Let me hold you for a while. Let me touch you lightly and whisper to you. Let me show you the strength of stillness, and what love grows there. Let me show you that it is yours.

Sitting at the Alter of Mystery

May was a turbulent month of nothing. I felt a lot of loss. I felt sad a lot. I felt angry a lot. I had a reckoning with my own ignorance.

A few of my relationships shifted forms, and none of these changes happened in person. Learning about friends moving away, or moving on to new jobs; discovering that former intimates had broken the digital links of platform space – unconnecting, unfriending, without saying anything about it, or revived them, also with hardly a word. I encountered my dead sister in a stack of her clothing, and then seemingly everywhere after that, in the sunshine lacquer on the leaves of trees, and the caterpillar shit that rained down from them. It is hard to live inside the swell and break, the bump and jumble of relationships, when there is no one to reach out and touch amidst the churn. It is hard to be your own ballast, when there is not a hand to grasp as you catch you balance, or a chest to pant against as you catch your breath.

What all of these things had in common, was my urge to stabilize, to tell a story and create an explanation that gave me a clear and simplified experience, even if I didn’t like it much. I like to create an experience that embellishes the one I am already having, by adding a story line of my crafting. One that allows me to have an experience I have confidence in, can immerse myself in, and then leave behind. Except narratives stay. They capture the transitory nature of sensations and fortify them, compressing dust into the dense sediment of experience. This is the power of naming, the power of blaming – it blinkers out possibility. It makes it easy to commit to what we’re familiar with, and wallow in the comfort of righteousness.

Allowing things to be as they are takes strength. Feeling things, pleasant or unpleasant, is difficult. It takes effort. It takes concentration and attention. And so does listening to the narrative without automatically believing it. Sitting in that space between between following and resistance, is an act of strength, simply because it is immensely difficult not to preempt reality with expectation. I am so committed (or conditioned) to fantasy, that I won’t commit to just doing the work of experiencing reality. And this behavior, this resistance, became my invitation to sit at the alter of Mystery.

My most important exercise for May was sitting in attendance of my resistance. Nearly every month I have some sort of insight that blesses me with humility, but what I experienced through this practice was much more profound. The resistance to strength is strength itself, and it belongs to the realm of Mystery that is far beyond the human experience, yet still available to us. Sitting in attendance to Mystery made clear to me how immature my practice is, and how I have exactly what I have prepared myself for. It made clear(er) the proportions of the relationship between myself and the infinitely dense, invisible presence that creates all, and destroys all. Strength, like love, has impeccable discernment, and never gives itself to a form that isn’t prepared to receive it. It is not a question of worth, which is inherent, it is a question of readiness. The still attention required to make oneself fertile for strength, has very little to do with any particular type of formal practice. Practice structures increase the likelihood of training well, but building a house doesn’t guarantee anyone will move in. Strength waits – neither beckoning, nor rejecting – for the durable vessel of clear and total attention that the prepared will offer. It is this form that strength enters, for it only, and always, lives at home.

I don’t know why it is so hard to pay attention, but it is. Clear training is very intense. It’s physically exhausting. It requires so much commitment, so much energy, so much skill, it’s a monumental task. I feel too frail to sit that close, to let even just the edges of life and death pass through me, moment to moment. It’s too much. There is heartache, and throatache, there are tears. And because it’s an internal experience, living this way is lonely. Words fall away. But still I have the urge to scoop them back up, and wide-eyed, hold out the tangle in hopes that someone else might know know what I mean, might know what happened, and say, Yes. Having a relationship with God begins simply with sitting still, and attending respectfully. God does not reject us. God does not abandon us, we turn away, over and over because we find the company too difficult to keep. I wonder if God is lonely too.

I am closer to knowing how insignificant I am, and I don’t mean this in a pejorative way. Seeing my relative capacity and preparedness for strength, for Mystery, was very helpful. It frees me to step outside the constraints of fantastic desire, desire that is rooted in the pleasure of an imagined outcome, without understanding the significance and sacrifice of the work required to achieve it. Genuine desire holds no expectation, it is simply the force of action that elicits unconditional service. Knowing how small I am, how unskilled I am, gives me permission to accept my smallness, even while I continue to act. This is the gift of original sin. It allows us to attempt the impossible and work at the unachievable – not because we are fools, not because we deserve punishment, but because this work is the most important thing we can do, and allows the fullest expression of our humanity. It allows us to do our best, to endure the disappointment and failure of our efforts, and still have the strength and courage to try again. These are the terms of a contract with God, infinite failure, infinite desire, infinite strength, infinite love. I’m not ready. But of course, I will try anyway.

May, Strength

The most compelling lesson that came out of April’s practice was discovering the relationship between willingness and flexibility, and this has got me thinking about strength.

Intention:
In many ways, I’m simply trying to figure out what strength means to me. The more time I spend considering it, the more I realize how confused I am about this quality, and that I am also afraid of it. The conventional notions of strength that permeate our culture like might, dominance, and control are not what I’m going for. My ideas of strength are much more about holding a place, holding a relationship, holding shelter, than about using force to propagate anything onto someone else. I associate strength with quietness and nobility, independence and endurance.

My vague sense of strength is hard to articulate, in part, because it is full of contradictions. It is force held in dynamic suspension, so as to be constantly present, adjusting and determined without being aggressive. Strength has an element of conviction without needing anyone else to agree. It is controlled determination, used to enact one’s will, without controlling others. It is free from malice or fear. It does not intend to hurt others, but accepts that as a consequence. It’s hard to articulate what it feels like, beyond a sense of deep sureness, or knowing, that I will act from a particular intention. Strength defies regular form. It seems capable of taking on nearly every other quality – stillness, action, acceptance, aggression, pushing, following, waiting – and seems to be the ineffable force that underpins everything else, which all along I have been thinking of as love. Hmmmm.

My intention this month is very modest – it is simply to advance my knowledge, however small, towards becoming more skillful in understanding and using strength. And also to relax some of my fear about it. I have a growing sense that I am circumferencing my own power. That I’m ambling around and around, chattering on about every other thing I might set my attention to, and wondering from time to time, why I feel so ineffective and unfocused. It’s starting to feel naive. Timidity dressed up as amiability. Hurt masquerading as ditziness.

I pray for strength all the time, it’s part of my ritualistic closing at the end of every sit. So what a surprise to discover that I am unsure of what I am asking for, despite the fact I’m convinced that it’s critical for my success.

May Activities:

  • Strong determination sits, as my formal practice this month. I find this style of sit is so helpful for exploring the relationship between intensity and focus, and in particular, how to use those in opposition to each other to achieve a particular effect. When sitting in a great degree of discomfort, the intensity of that pain becomes tolerable by strongly focusing on something else. Until recently, this felt too much like denial for me to practice, but I’ve shifted. Acceptance does not have to mean embrace; there’s a subtly in the relationship between acceptance and attention that, I think, I’m starting to understand.
  • Weight training, three times per week. I really like having a body-based activity each month – I learn something from my body whenever I listen to it. I also like the literal simplicity of this task.
  • Check email twice a day, and if needed dedicate a block of time for writing and responding. This task is about exploring the discipline of abstinence. I get very little email, and even less that I care about, but I still check it a lot. I do this as a diversion from discomfort, usually boredom or irritation with my children, but it frequently turns into an unsatisfying and time wasting activity. I suspect I feel diffuse because I am careless with my attention, and this is intended to see if tightening that up makes a difference.
  • Since I am so confused about strength, spend six hours a week seeking information. This task is about exploring the discipline of activity. Six hours may not sound like a lot, but it is a huge portion of the limited time I have for quiet, focused activity, when I am able to concentrate without being interrupted.
  • Use the Heart Card again this month. I get angry, I use my strength carelessly. Nobody is better at creating this dynamic than my children. Sometimes life just demands certain practice.

Expectations:
I expect that I’ll (mostly) be able to meet myself where I’m at and actually enjoy the discovery process this month. There’s a certain amount of freedom in admitting my ignorance and being able to go forward without the judgment that accompanies presumption. That being the case, I don’t have a lot of expectations for this month – that’s how limited I feel in this space, I can’t even imagine an outcome.

What do I Value:
I value the ability to wield strength wisely. I value knowing how to access and regulate strength in skillful response to dynamic conditions.

What do I Want:
I want to uncouple my understanding of strength from my association of it with control and manipulation. So much of my aversion (or attraction for that matter) to strength is based on a muddied emotional reaction that I don’t understand very well. I want to trade this pattern for a healthy fear of strength, one that’s based on a clear and respectful understanding of the given force, like knowing not to wander around a golf course in a thunderstorm. I want to teach my children that strength is not just about dominating through force. They see plenty of this in our media, and also in how they are generally treated by adults, even ones like me, who love them, but aren’t more skillful.

Where is the Resistance?
Given the amount of confusion I have, I expect fear to be my biggest barrier. Naming it helps, accepting it helps open it up. My hesitation to understand and embrace my own strength is tied up in a sense of carefulness, of not wanting to hurt people. But there’s a certain dishonesty in that, or maybe more fairly, just an imbalance. Passivity born from denial of strength is weakness, not charity. I have turned my other cheek many more times out of fear, as a hedged sacrifice, than out of generosity for, and from, my own spirit.

What am I Willing to do?
(May 14) In my original post, I completely forgot to answer this question. It strikes me as a significant omission, especially since willingness was so central to the selection of this value in the first place. I have been thinking about this since Monday morning, when I realized I’d forgotten, and sitting down to write, I am continuing to struggle to articulate my willingness to engage in this practice. There is a huge amount vague, internal resistance, that does not want to do this practice. When I ask myself this question and listen for a response, I get these bursts of mental talk, that literally says things like: Nothing, I am not willing to do anything. I hate this practice, and I don’t want to do it.

So, I have hit a wall, it seems. A thick, tall, resistant wall that has an enormous amount of strength and determination to be both obstructive and influential. The irony is gorgeous, and funny, and humbling. So, under the circumstances, here is what I am willing to do: I am willing to listen to this teacher. This master of nearly transparent recalcitrance, and see what I might learn about strength. A new task for the month: Ask this question every day, and listen.

What’s Gained and Lost?

Gained:
Responsibility – I have, not surprisingly, very mixed feelings about this. It is a serious thing to take responsibility for one’s strength and power – to know it intimately and use it with care, purpose and intelligence. Strangely, avoiding my strength doesn’t feel frighteningly irresponsible, though logically it follows that it should. Perhaps it is my nature to be wary of responsibility, perhaps it is only my pattern. Or more likely, I am just as confused about responsibility as I am about strength.

Power – Strength and confidence seem closely related to me, both critical components in the alchemy of faith. I ache for more confidence in my choices, more comfort in my presence, and more energy in my hours. I’m guessing this difficulty is caused, at least in part, by concentrating so hard on ignoring the strength that I have.

Freedom – This, of course, is the upside of responsibility. The integrity of form that in honoring all the forces that combine to make the Way, unlocks openness by virtue of being whole. When everything is aligned, there is nothing left to do but exist.

Lost:
Safety – In avoiding my own strength, I inevitably seek and find it other places. In people. In circumstances. It’s hard to emerge from this protection feeling unprepared, but it is of course impossible to really grow without doing so. I don’t know how to be vulnerable and safe. I don’t know how to be protected and open. I am so scared to tread into this space.

Naivete – I mean this in the kindest way this word can be used. I mean the sweet, innocent simplicity of not knowing. It is hard, painful, to learn about the fuller spectrum of life. I don’t know exactly what I’ll discover about strength, but I suspect it will inevitably involve the mourning of innocence. It may be a correct and natural part of the maturation process, but it is not without sadness, and the finality that comes with changing in a way that is impossible to revert. I don’t know why this idea makes me so sad, but it does. Perhaps it is the grief that comes in accepting that some deaths are really permanent. That sweetness, that trusting wonder is beautiful, and to be cherished. Even when it is time for it to pass, I still feel a loss of loveliness in the world.