Sunday, September 30, 2007

Home again, so blessed I could cry

It's now the morning after arrival home, my final three days in the Prius across I-40 to I 44 to Indiana 46 fueled by Starbuck frappacinos and the audio version of Grisham's "King of Torts"—highly recommended, by the way, as a clear course on the corruption that fuels class action suits.

Both my kitties seem to have forgiven me, though they are hedging their bets by eating in both my house and the neighbor's next door and — sob — neither slept with me or even stayed in my house last night. (To my catsitter's anguish, they prefered my neighbors to him.)

A quick inventory of important things lost while en route: yoga mat (replaced); special pillow with pillowcase (twice! the first time replaced with a K-Mart version; the second one near the end); plus, my two favorite sun hats. A few more things lost too, which I no longer remember . . . Not bad, considering that I didn't lose my keys or wallet!

In 66 days I drove 8915.4 miles (averaged out to 50.2 mpg), slept in 33 beds, held 28 book events to start a deeper conversation around death, loss, grief, and their gifts, and sold (and usually signed) about 200 of my own books, one at a time.

Mostly stayed with friends, and loved it. I am still surprised that I loved this aspect of the trip, because of my perennial hunger for solitude. But after this odyssey, I realize that some of my habitual need for aloneness is an attempt to stay in my mind (and refuse all distractions that would drive my already too-busy mind into chaos)! In other words, some of my need for aloneness is fueled by Fear, not Love, and I now gladly let it go.

Indeed, I'd say I DID succeed in mostly staying present, surrendering to the flow of experience rather than attempting to control it. As a result, my mind felt much less busy than usual. This state of grace was in great contrast to last night, my first at home in my own bed, when I woke up at midnight and kvetched for three hours. It felt as if the great corpus of my various (self-created) "duties" that I had largely set aside while on the road landed on me with a great thud, and of course, started my mind racing, racing, racing.

What better moment than NOW to set my intention to stay in the flow of experience no matter what? I hereby vow to gain control of my mind so that I can direct where it goes, what it thinks about, how it thinks about it, and when. In this way my mind, rather than dominating my life, will function as an welcome servant, when called upon, within the larger awareness.

Meanwhile, to catch up: of the last several book events, one was somewhat upsetting, as my skills as a facilitator were no match for an active, extraverted alcoholic who thinks of herself as an entertainer and whose eyes betrayed a jittery terror of her own woundedness. Looking back on that event now, I see this woman as the person I would have become, had I not finally taken hold and begun to work with my "abandoned child." So scary, to be in her shoes. And so amazing how one person in long-held denied pain can hijack an event meant to be a group experience.

Of the final book events, the one I remember best was in Silver City, New Mexico, with a group of about a dozen Sufis who know each other well and are unusually open to exploring the wide range and complexity of inner feeling and experience that grief presents and can transform. Our two hours together after a great potluck in the Zikr Hall felt vibrantly alive.

After that event my dear friend Darvesha and I caravaned 13 miles (and 40 minutes) up a dirt road to the newly constructed straw bale, off-the-grid home that she shares with her husband Ishan in the Gila National Forest (or is it State Forest?). During our wonderful 36 hours together, Darvesha and I bushwhacked back to the source of the spring that feeds the small creek that runs past their home, and invited two Sufi women for a leisurely lunch on the patio Ishan had terraced in the shade near the creek. Indeed, my entire time in or near Silver City felt so exhilarating that during my drive between there and Albuquerque, over a seemingly endless winding, narrow pass to I 25, I was surprised my car didn't just take off and fly!

Once in Albuquerque, I walked along a strand of the Rio Grande, within a stone's throw of the lovely little casita in which I stayed while at the home of crone friend Amelia. That evening, after another potluck, we circled up for the final book event of the tour. This one happened to be the first to include a young person in very active grieving process over the recent death of her father, a situation, of course, which tended to direct both the course and the tone of the discussion. Our empathy for and nurturance of her replaced what might have been a deeper, wider reach of perspective that that I have grown to expect from these events.

But then, the point is, to let go of expectation. Let go of attachment. Let go. As I said over and over again during this tour, what we grieve is the "loss of form"— not only of our bodies and the bodies of our beloveds, but the loss of any particular way of organizing experience. As I let go of that, as I immerse myself in What Is, over and over again remembering to wake up to the present moment, I and others DO begin to enter the awareness that knows no bounds and that drops us into Mystery.

I do think something has been initiated with this epic journey; it certainly started something moving in me, and may have reached further. Each event, held in a circle with somewhere between 7 to 25 people, but mostly around a dozen, and mostly women, seemed like a seed that dug itself into the ground of our cultural space and set in motion an invisible spiralling of energy out into many dimensions, most of them both palpable and invisible.

One more story here before closing this chapter in my trip blog.

On the day when I experienced the rogue wave, at Goat Beach, on August 29th, I also experienced another unusual situation, very different in kind. I'm surprised that I didn't write about it. Perhaps because it felt so intimate, so private; perhaps because it felt so subtle that for the moment I almost forgot about it, especially compared to the rogue wave!

In any case, here is that story: as I was walking on that beach, after the exciting Edge experience with seals, pelicans and seagulls where the Russian River meets the sea, I had finally stilled my mind enough so that all that was happening inside was the ocean whooshing in and out. Then, suddenly, and very very soft and subtle, a kind, caring female voice seemed to enter in my right ear, on the ocean side. And this is what it said, almost in a whisper, just this: "I am with you always."

I am with you always! Just like that. No explanation, no before or after, just those words, infinitely comforting.

Had any thoughts been crowding my brain then, I would not have heard the voice.

20 minutes later, the rogue wave.

Always, she is with me always. She is with me in all ways. Through nearly 9000 miles and many many experiences, some of them dangerous and raw, some beautiful and overwhelmingly loving, she is always with us. I feel so blessed I could cry.

1 comment:

London reader said...

Interesting to read about your spiritual journey. It is a good example of the nature of modern-day spiritual evolution.
Striking observations for me: (1) the distinction between soul and spirit. You have described in a way understandable to the lay person - ie not in philosophical terminology from, say, Indian yoga. (2) the voice in the right ear - I would like to confirm that I have also experienced this and have read somewhere about it, but I forget what was said. But, it makes it probable that it is a universal truth of a kind.