Unwording
A few people have asked me why I haven’t been sending regular newsletters/blogs anymore. I think it’s been because of a few things:
My priorities have shifted. I’m in semi-retired mode these days, and though I continue to teach classes, I haven’t been that concerned with growth.
I’ve been doing more volunteering and have been doing blog posts for other organizations. I’m contributing to a blog called The Whale. Please follow it (myself and the other contributors would appreciate the support).
These days I’m focusing on practicing more, and talking less. I’m tired of information-overload. Getting away from screens of all kinds leaves me feeling happier and more whole.
I’m just back from a week at Hogwarts (okay, a silent meditation retreat) where I had the privilege of doing seven days of uninterrupted practice. Nothing but practice! All the meals were taken care of. I surrendered my cell-phone so I wouldn’t be tempted, and I didn’t take anything to read or write with. We (thirty-eight participants plus two fabulous dharma teachers) agreed to be silent, follow a schedule (sitting meditation, walking meditation, exercise, and meals) and just work with our minds—no distractions. There was a message-board which I found myself checking compulsively, but otherwise no communication except for a once-daily session of instruction (techniques, how to work with difficult emotions etc) and an afternoon dharma talk (for context, rationales and what this practice is all about).
People are a little incredulous when I say how much I love doing this, but I always find it a mind-altering, world-altering experience. The practices are deceptively simple: choose an object (your breath, a sensation, sounds) and focus on it. Return to it over and over. There are four foundations we were working with, which I don’t want to get into, but the overriding goal is just moment to moment awareness of things coming in and out of consciousness.
It doesn’t take long to realize that your mind is a screaming cacophony of a multitude of voices, many of which aren’t even your own. Add in dozens of ear-worms, fragments of commercials, snippets of books you’ve read, news stories, old memories—you name it.
After a few days you get really sick of yourself. By which I mean the multitude of habitual voices that are reliably droning on. You see the recurring themes: the habitual stories, emotions, rationalizing and explaining. I found it helpful to name some of them: the explainer, the worrier, the soap box lecturer. And time and time again you let go of the noise and come back to what’s actually happening: birdsong, breath, a pain in the spine, a distant lawnmower.
Gradually, it starts to get quiet inside. The senses get more finely attuned. Everything is beautiful, and things you wouldn’t ordinarily notice or appreciate become front and centre. The voices are gone, or quieted at least. They can’t really contribute much to present moment awareness, and there’s just so much space. Space to rest. Space to unravel. Space to grieve.
This practice moves in the opposite direction to psychology. It’s not about re-writing the story of one’s life, it’s about unwriting it. It reveals the multitude of stories that we’re completely submerged in, especially the ridiculous ones, and gives us the opportunity to let them go. In the space of their absence there is so much possibility. There is great freedom in un-storying, un-wording, un-explaining. The self doesn’t get detached or diminished, it gets more whole. It gets more creative, more expansive and a lot less concerned about fitting some imagined mold. There’s incredible lightness in being without all the baggage.
Of course, the whole thing is temporary. One has to go back to being a self in a world full of greed and anger and delusional thinking. But at least you can go back rested, and ready to roll up your sleeves to do your best to try to preserve the parts of it you cherish, and love the things you love. And also you know that if you fail, the world will go on without you, for better or for worse.
Anyway, trying to put words to a wordless state is an exercise in futility. But I’ve found immense value in stillness, silence and space. To paraphrase the famous saying: to study the self, is to forget the self, and to let go of the self opens you up to the vastness and beauty of everything.
