The clouds and mist cleared, the late afternoon sun shining from the west. We were standing in the Daman lookout tower I had stayed in some twenty four years before at the end of my Peace Corps tour in Nepal, a kind of 'self-retreat.' Spencer, Miller, and I could see shiny white Himaalayas in the distance. This remained our only glimpse during the entire Asia trip last summer.
"I can't meditate," some will say, "my mind just won't shut up," they may add. Now, before you think I'm starting to proselytize, you can calm down - this is not my intention. Rather, I would like to share some recent insights, and some facility with the contemplative path might be helpful. Meditation, at least as practiced in the Theravada tradition, neither begins nor ends with clarity of mind, necessarily, or some sort of blissful tabula rasa. The practice involves a good deal of watching just what the mind does on its own, moment by moment, returning from time to time to an 'anchor,' commonly the breath. Each time you become aware of having 'drifted off,' and return your attention to the breath, is a moment of awakening to the here and now. No matter that three breaths later you are adding to your shopping list, lamenting a recent altercation, or making plans for the weekend. These are three more opportunities from which to 'wake up.'
A kind heart, and patience with the messy process of mind, are quite helpful in this endeavor. We may be quick to judge ourselves, sometimes harshly, for the confused and muddy mind that presents. Even these judgments are mind states we can observe, let go of - if only for a moment - and return to the anchor. "Why did I waste a whole half hour planning and regretting, and now have nothing to show for it? Am I now more 'awake,' or 'Buddhish,' or something?" These are questions that may arise, and only you can answer. The empirical nature of the practice is clear: if meditation (or any other form of mindfulness practice - yoga, tai chi, qi gong, etc.) does not lead toward freedom, then let it go, by all means. It may not be a wise path for you right now - or maybe ever. However, it has been a path I have found quite helpful negotiating a rather challenging decade.
After getting lost in thought (which is bound to happen - to you and even to the Dalai Lama), can you return to the breath with a 'thank you' to the very thought process you were lost in? And without which you likely would not have noticed coming back to your breath? The jewel of your awareness - your clear view of the Himalaayas - is not just enhanced by the distracting thoughts which surround it - like the mist and clouds - but is in fact created by them. The luminous mind is only seen in contrast to the clutter surrounding it. Yin and yang arise in concert.
I'm attempting to let such a practice of gratitude enter other facets of my life. One area that has been particularly challenging concerns my symptoms of MS. Which you are likely aware, is a very big facet. What would it mean to thank these 'clouds'? There are times I can feel gratitude for the slower pace, but then there are lots of other times... Sometimes the MS feels like an animal trap. Unlike a mouse trap, which snaps and holds with a constant force, the larger animal traps used by professionals in the fur trade do this: after being triggered they clutch their quarry, and if the trap holds around any moving body parts - such as the lungs or heart - it will constrict tighter with each breath or pulse, narrowing to an intractable end. Some days my mind will go there.
Driving the other day I was having a more pronounced 'nystagmus' - the slight jiggling of my eyeballs in their sockets so that everything at rest seems to be shaking and pulsing. This is usually less pronounced in the morning, and gets more intense during the day. (Like most of my symptoms.) Anyway, I thought of Cat Stevens' song 'Moon Shadow', with a slight twist: and if I ever lose my eyes, if my colors all run dry, yes, if I ever lose my eyes, oh way ay ay ay hey...I won't have to [drive], no more. Because I've never much cared for driving. But the possibility of losing my license most assuredly gives me considerable pause.
Sure, there are taxis, busses, and metro, thankfully driving isn't everything. Yesterday I rode the metro back from downtown, the day was mild, even a bit too warm under the windbreaker I wore. There are many steps, however, between the bus and train doors. And coming back, I just missed the connecting bus, and needed to use the loo. Which meant it would not be well to sit and wait the extra half hour, so I decided to walk to the Giant, use the facility, and catch the bus from there. My early morning walking metric - the number of unassisted steps it takes to get from our door to the elevator - was the lowest number I've ever recorded (since noting this for maybe a year now), tying perhaps only two previous occasions. However, walking around town my legs - particularly my right one - were dragging something fierce, and my pace and balance were quite shaky. Fortunately, I have learned after all these years how to slow it way down.
Can I learn how to thank my shaking eyes, dragging feet, impaired balance, etc. etc. etc.? Are these dark clouds allowing me to appreciate the Himaalayan vistas in my life - my darling fiancée, strong and healthy sons, the guitar that feels gradually lighter and more facile in my grasp? The vibrant greens of the season?
"But teacher," I ask my inner Buddha, "these MS symptoms are always changing, and are mostly getting worse! How can I ever find peace with such a dire situation? Waaah!" On my good days, I can say, "lucky me! Impermanence is in my face, every day - no need to imagine a future loss and decline - just hobble down the hall!" But on the heavier days, oh my. Can I look at these clouds from both sides now?
