Tag Archives: practice

Having walked through the fire

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The period of early Christianity is one of the key building blocks in my lineage of faith. It’s an overlooked area for much of the Roman Church and its child, Protestantism. With the self-sufficiency and arrogance that has often characterized the West, we have proceeded as if the first centuries of Christianity were unimportant, or not part of the essential Christ mystery. The very things the early Christians emphasized—such as the prayer of quiet, divinization, universal restoration, and the importance of practice—are some of the most neglected parts of the Western Church. 

After the legitimation and, some would say, the co-opting of Christianity by the Roman Empire in the 4th century, many Christians fled to the deserts of Egypt, Palestine, Syria, and Cappadocia (Eastern Turkey). We call these men and women the desert fathers and mothers (or abbas and ammas). The desert Christians emphasized lifestyle practice, an alternative to empires and their economies, psychologically astute methods of prayer, and a very simple spirituality of transformation into Christ. The desert communities grew out of informal gatherings of monastics and functioned much like families. This tradition preceded the emergence of systematic theology and the later Church councils. Since the desert monks often lacked formal education, they told stories, much as Jesus did, to teach about ego, love, virtue, surrender, peace, divine union, and inner freedom. 

Richard Rohr, A Radical Foundation

During the period of pandemic lockdowns, I wrote, in one of the early posts on this blog, of

…my growing sense that the contemplative life is once again moving out from the monasteries and ashrams into a new desert, that of the world, or at least of places set apart within the world…

Time and again contemplatives have broken away from the apparent corruption of state churches on the one hand and religion-inspired revolutionaries on the other, sometimes forming loose communities, and retreated from formal organisation almost altogether. Examples are as diverse as the Desert Fathers and Mothers in Egypt and Syria around the 4th century [CE], the Pure Land (Shin) schools of Buddhism founded by Honen and Shinran in 12th and 13th century Japan, and the Quakers in 17th century England.

These contemplative movements, often based around simplicity of practice and openness to the Spirit, seem to arise when not only are the religious establishments in a compromised and sometimes corrupt condition, but the state is in flux, sometimes violent flux. [Our present political uncertainties], scoured by the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic, would seem to provide fertile ground for contemplative change in this way.

It isn’t merely the sociology of religion at stake here, though. There is a fundamental shift in spiritual perspective, I suggest, when we step outside the conventions and hierarchies of organised religion – to say nothing of the inner bindings of doctrine and dogma – into an uncharted space of presence and necessary, rather than mandated, practice. There is no longer any traction for the human instinct for security and status; those things no longer afford an escape or a distraction from the inner work.

Out there in the wild, there was no one to impress, no need to cultivate a reputation. A lot of things didn’t matter anymore out there. The desert fathers and mothers wanted to keep the edges hot and to imitate the life of Jesus…. In short, theirs was a countercultural spirituality carrying a prophetic edge. Some of them had been draft dodgers and tax resistors. In fact, some of the women had fled from being sold into a marriage that would’ve been little better than slavery. 

A spiritual resistance movement takes shape among these desert monks, questioning the commodification and militarization of life in the wider culture. They had no use for the ego advancement and social climbing to which even Christians had begun to aspire. You see this in their practice of what they called apatheia, a fierce indifference to unimportant things….  

What do you learn to ignore and what do you learn to love? What needs to die in your life and what do you need to affirm unreservedly? These two questions are the heart of desert spirituality. The desert becomes a tomb, said the monks, a place for the demise of the ego. But there’s also an immense joy and release in that, in learning to die before you die. You’re finally set free to live with abandon. No one is freer than those who have looked death in the eye, have walked through the fire, and are able now fearlessly to love.

Belden Lane, quoted in Rohr, ibid.

So once again we have that sense I wrote of recently, that the nearness of death is in itself a gateway to the vast openness from which all things become, the ground of all that is. There is no getting around it: only as we face the ending of all we thought we were are we free at last to see that what we actually are is none other than what actually is.

Something in the air tonight

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Recently, I have begun to appreciate air again, like a fluid, filling the lake beds of empty rooms, valleys, unused spaces… Sitting still, you can feel the air surrounding you, feel its weight, the lovely column of clear presence all the way from the thermosphere down, to wrap softly around limbs, press the skin of the face softly against the bone beneath, carry the song of that sleepy robin across the hollow depth of the garden to the open window of this room.

When I began meditating in earnest, I entered through the path of Zen. In this tradition, enlightenment is often described as our natural mind, and it’s said that the very act of meditation is already enlightenment. Yet, in Zen the practice is still essential. As Suzuki Roshi said, “enlightenment is an accident. Practice makes us accident prone.” We can’t demand enlightenment, but we can show up and do the practices…

Zen master Dogen said, “enlightenment is intimacy with all things.” This means the barriers of separation between self and other dissolve into a deep sense of interconnection with all of life. When I experience this awakening, I find an indescribable sense of peace and ease, yet also profound compassion for all who are suffering in the world and motivation to be of service.

Lisa Ernst, Lion’s Roar Magazine

Simply to turn up and sit seems to be all that is required. Nothing else is: not concepts, nor understanding, nor doctrine. Just sit still; it is already done.

Silence is the air knowing itself; the bright transparent place it has, that holds us all. Silence is alive with sound, with the singing waves of air; it heals the heart, stills the frantic thinking thing that will not rest. If it comes by accident, then its deliberate loveliness has always been there, only waiting to be found again. Holy, holy, the plain fact of it: that it is. That it is all that is, holds all that is; still, and bright, and true.

Weltschmerz?

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One of the main works of contemplation is detaching from the ego, from the self, from impure motivations of success or power, money or control. That will never stop, but it isn’t really that meaningful unless that detachment is accompanied by an attachment.  What do we find after all the months and years we’ve been practicing some form of contemplation or meditation? Do we have an increased attachment, sympathy, empathy, and compassion for what I call in The Tears of Things the suffering of the world? For the women of Gaza, the children of Ukraine, the starving people of Africa, the poorest of the poor, and all those marginalized in the United States and around the world? If the emptiness of “letting go” is not pretty soon filled up by “holding on” to some kind of deep solidarity with the suffering of the world, I don’t know that it’s Christian contemplation or even meaningful contemplation at all. It seems we’re simply back into private spirituality again.  

Richard Rohr, Contemplation: A Path to Compassion

One of the “side effects”, for want of a better phrase, of my nearly 40-year practice of Christian contemplation was for me a sharp increase in my awareness of the pain of the world; a sense expressed perhaps more clearly than anywhere I have read recently in a passage from a murder mystery by Rebecca Tope:

The low, repetitive bawling was a distant throb of distress that Lilah had never grown used to, even though  it happened every time a cow gave birth. Sometimes, at night, it was unbearable, the bereft mother calling and calling for her baby, the embodiment of despair. Sometimes it seemed to Lilah that in her short life she had been party to a fathomless ocean of pain and misery, that all this suffering was there inside her, barely supressed by her flippant ways and habitual optimism. And sometimes she couldn’t stop herself imagining every hurt and cruelty; every experimental laboratory; every horse used in war; every animal ill-used in the service of man; every creature sent terrified to the abattoir. All of it added up to an entire universe of horrifying anguish, and she had to breathe slow and deep to be able to carry on.

This passage (the wider context of the narrative makes it clear that the character’s experience is not confined merely to questions of animal husbandry, but relates equally to her grief at the murder of her father, and to the inhumanity of humankind generally) gives an extraordinarily clear glimpse into the aching hollow of helpless compassion that contemplative practice opens in one’s heart. For me, at any rate, this inescapable pain was the motor of prayer; a prayer of, literally, grieving with – which is the root of the word “compassion” – rather than “praying for” in the sense of asking a favour of a personal deity.

The standard Buddhist answer to this question is probably the practice of either metta or tonglen; but these too beg the question, how does it work? How can prayer, or some kind of directed sympathy, actually make any difference? Are we not merely kidding ourselves? And if so, are we not better off simply caring for ourselves, retreating into a private, if comforting, spirituality, and tuning out the cries of the world?

Simon Barrington-Ward writes, of the Jesus Prayer,

After all, the whole prayer becomes an intercession. Soon I find that I am on longer praying just for myself, but when I say “on me, a sinner” all the situations of grief and terror, of pain and suffering begin to be drawn into me and I into them. I begin to pray as a fragment of this wounded creation longing for its release into fulfillment… I am in those for whom I would pray and they are in me, as is the whole universe. Every petition of the prayer becomes a bringing of all into the presence and love of God…

How can we make sense of this, if we cannot join with Bishop Simon in his avowedly Christian phraseology? Joan Tollifson:

Perhaps this is what the world needs more than anything else—human beings waking up from the powerful hypnotic trance of ideology, division and apparent separation, waking up to the wholeness and the unconditional love that is at the heart of our being. It may seem that we are small and insignificant, and that this kind of devotion to presence can’t possibly affect the world at large. But we’re actually not small. Each and every drop contains and affects the whole.

We, and all whom we love, and for whom we grieve, are frail, temporary creatures; but we exist, if only for a moment. Isness, Eckhart’s Istigkeit, is the only ground of what we are.

The apostle Paul wrote, sounding for a moment almost like a Taoist, “He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:17 NIV) The ground of being is just that: it is no thing at all; and yet it is the ground of all that is. There is nowhere outside this open ground; no end to its beginning, to the love that holds in being all that has come to be in it. Like Indra’s net, each node – each one of us – “contains and affects the whole.”

A messy business

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[There are] sordid difficulties and uncertainties which attend the life of interior solitude… The disconcerting task of facing and accepting one’s own absurdity. The anguish of realizing that underneath the apparently logical pattern of a more or less “well organized” and rational life, there lies an abyss of irrationality, confusion, pointlessness, and indeed of apparent chaos… It cannot be otherwise: for in renouncing diversion, [the solitary] renounces the seemingly harmless pleasure of building a tight, self-contained illusion about himself and about his little world. He accepts the difficulty of facing the million things in his life which are incomprehensible, instead of simply ignoring them…

Often the lonely and the empty have found their way into this pure silence only after many false starts. They have taken many wrong roads, even roads that were totally alien to their character and vocation. They have repeatedly contradicted themselves and their own inmost truth…

One has to be born into solitude carefully, patiently and after long delay, out of the womb of society.

Thomas Merton, Disputed Questions, with thanks to Maria Popova

I have written often enough before here about my own strange calling to a kind of solitude; Merton, with typical honesty, puts his finger right on one of the inevitable difficulties of this kind of life.

For a long time, since in fact long before I had developed any kind of regular contemplative practice, and was still very unsure of the relations between philosophy, spirituality and religion, I have been drawn towards stillness, and towards this kind of unseen apartness. And, over the years, my more settled contemplative practice has only deepened that longing. The effects of practice on one’s inner life are sometimes subtle, and they are not always obviously connected to any subjective experience on the part of the one practising; on the other hand, their effects on one’s life in the world may be anything but subtle.

Inward solitude, as Merton points out, can be a messy business. Approached like this, as a perhaps inevitable concomitant of the contemplative life, rather than as a willed commitment to what is too often described as a “vocation”, it can often only really be reached after many, at times excoriating, false starts. It seems to be a path unusually unsuited to maintaining a high opinion of oneself!

I suppose that when it comes down to it, what I am trying to say is that the path of inward solitude, or whatever it should be called, is something one finds oneself falling into when everything else has fallen to bits. Only when there is no other way does the way open; and it is the way one has been searching for all along.

Coming to be

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Each morning invites you to be open and aware, as spacious as the sky that passes through you, recognizing “the precious nature of each day,” in the words of the Dalai Lama. No matter how frenzied you feel, no matter how shoved and strangled by the rush of events, you are standing in a single exquisite moment. No matter where you are, no matter how lost, you are standing at the perfect center of four directions. No matter how off-kilter you feel, you are standing in a place of perfectly balanced forces. Even if you feel abandoned by all that might comfort you, you are held in the embrace of what you cannot see.

Kathleen Dean Moore, adapted from Take Heart: Encouragement for Earth’s Weary Lovers, in an extract published in Tricycle Magazine, July 2022

What we are part of goes back and back, and on and on. I’m not sure if it has a beginning or an end, actually. It is indestructible, being just what comes to be, even if that is the coming to be of an ending, or many endings. That balance, that helpless all rightness that underlies all that appears to be so perilous and contingent, is always there. There isn’t anything that has to be done, or refrained from, in order to bring it about. It has always been, before all that has been.

One could go on and on like this, and not explain anything. Words just don’t convey what I’m attempting to say. I suppose they may remind someone, but that’s perhaps the best they can do. I’m often reminded of my frustration when first reading Jiddu Krishnamurti: his words were wonderful, hinting at the very thing I’d been longing for, but there was no practice, no method, not even the suggestion of a pill one might take.

What Krishnamurti was writing about was choiceless awareness, the quality of openness to what is, just as it is, in the instant that it is perceived. Wes Nisker:

Choiceless awareness allows the meditator to see how our experience creates itself; how sense impressions, thoughts, and feelings arise without our willing them; how they interact and influence each other. By engaging the quality of choiceless awareness, we can extract ourselves from the contents of what we think and feel and start to explore how we think and feel.

The tool, the means to choiceless awareness, the thing I’d been looking for all those years ago is vipassana, which at its simplest is really no more than mindfulness. “Vipassana, where you’re taught to cultivate a quality of mind called ‘mindfulness’… [is] simply a state of clear, non-judgemental, and undistracted attention, moment by moment, to the contents of consciousness.” (Sam Harris, on the Waking Up app)

Now, mindfulness is a word that has come to be used, and misused, over and over for most of this century. Nisker writes (ibid.) a few pages later, “As mindfulness spreads into many corners of our culture, it would be unfortunate to forget the original and most significant use of this power of mind—as the key to self-awareness and spiritual liberation.”

To sit still, watching no more than the in and the out breath, hearing no more than the sounds from the window, feeling the weight and presence of the body against the good earth beneath the building, noticing thoughts as they rise and fade; nothing else is needed. It is just that simple, and yet it is the work of a lifetime. Of course it has to be learned, like anything else, and there are better and worse ways to begin. I’ve included an Advice page on this site.

Sometimes the darkness…

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I know that many people are feeling worried, anxious and unsettled these days. The world can be a scary place, and human beings are fragile organisms, vulnerable to all kinds of pain and painful circumstances. We naturally seek security, comfort and control, and in search of this, we often turn to addictive pleasures, comforting beliefs and obsessive thinking, none of which really deliver the well-being and the certainty for which we long…

Sometimes it eludes us and the darkness overtakes us, but if we stop and allow everything to be just as it is, if we tune in to the stillness at the very heart of our being, our apparently separate self may dissolve into the boundless aware presence that we truly are. We may discover that the “me” who seems to be suffering, or alternately “getting it” and “losing it,” is nothing more than a mirage, and that the darkness has no actual substance…

We can get very lost in trying to figure this all out mentally, trying to understand it, grasp it, get control of it, and so on. But the essence of this so-called awakening is very, very, very simple. It’s not complicated, mysterious or exotic. It doesn’t require years of training and study. It’s not in the future or the past.

It’s right here in the sounds of rain, the taste of tea, the dazzling light sparkling on the still bare branches, the aware presence beholding it all, the openness of being. It’s nothing other than this one bottomless, centerless moment that is what we are, this wholeness that has no outside or inside, this presence that is most intimate, closer than close, and at the same time, boundless and all-inclusive…

Perhaps this is what the world needs more than anything else—human beings waking up from the powerful hypnotic trance of ideology, division and apparent separation, waking up to the wholeness and the unconditional love that is at the heart of our being. It may seem that we are small and insignificant, and that this kind of devotion to presence can’t possibly affect the world at large. But we’re actually not small. Each and every drop contains and affects the whole.

Joan Tollifson, from her Substack

Sometimes the darkness does overtake us, even at the best of times; and this is not the best of times, as the news media delight to remind us. (You can’t blame them: it’s in their perfectly understandable commercial interest to keep our hearts in our mouths.)

Of course the trouble is that one feels so helpless; there is little or nothing one can do, practically, and absent a convincing doctrine of supernatural intervention, it doesn’t seem to make sense to pray – though this may actually be the heart’s instinct, interestingly enough. But practice, once one stops telling oneself that it is useless, is in fact anything but useless, as Tollifson explains. The world’s idea of “useful” ain’t necessarily so. We are told that a president or his sidekick “matter”; a naval rating, a junior librarian, a pensioner in a retirement community, don’t matter at all. It isn’t true.

Each of us is a human being; each of us is a precious and only life; each of us “contains and affects the whole” just as much as any other. There is no such thing as an insignificant person. Waking up from the nightmare sleep of either/or, left/right, right/wrong; waking up to the bright ground of what is, to the inextinguishable love at the very heart of being itself… Maybe, after all, “[m]ore things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of…”* or by something very like contemplative prayer, at any rate.

*Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King

The motor of grief

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According to the Buddha [as recorded in the Saṃyutta Nikāya of the Pali Canon] there are seven conditions for Dharma “vicaya”—the investigative quality of mind—to arise

1. Repeatedly questioning, discussing, investigating, observing, and thinking about the nature of the mind.

2. Cleaning our possessions both internal and external. This brings clarity of mind. Clarity of mind is a condition for wisdom to arise. External cleaning means cleaning our bodies and our environment. But what is more important is cleaning the inside, which means cleaning the mind of the three poisons; greed, hatred and delusion.

3. Learning how to balance the five spiritual faculties of confidence, energy, mindfulness, stability of mind and wisdom.

4. Avoiding the company of fools.

5. Associating with the wise.

6. Contemplating wisdom and reflecting deeply.

7. Having the desire to grow in wisdom.

Sayadaw U Tejaniya

We do live in troubled times. To be honest, much of our lives are lived in times like these. My own generation lived through a Cold War that all too often threatened to heat up into nuclear conflict, the energy crisis of the 1970s, the miners’ strike of the 1980s, not to mention the Falklands War – the list goes on. Our parents lived through – and many of them, Susan’s and mine included, fought in – the Second World War. Of that appalling period of history, CS Lewis wrote at the time:

The war creates no absolutely new situation; it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it. Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice. Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself. If men had postponed the search for knowledge and beauty until they were secure, the search would never have begun. We are mistaken when we compare war with “normal life.” Life has never been normal. Even those periods which we think most tranquil, like the nineteenth century, turn out, on closer inspection, to be full of crises, alarms, difficulties, emergencies. Plausible reasons have never been lacking for putting off all merely cultural activities until some imminent danger has been averted or some crying injustice put right. But humanity long ago chose to neglect those plausible reasons. They wanted knowledge and beauty now, and would not wait for the suitable moment that never comes…

Never, in peace or war, commit your virtue or your happiness to the future. Happy work is best done by the [one] who takes [their] long-term plans somewhat lightly and works from moment to moment… The present is the only time in which any duty can be done or any grace received.

Awareness of impermanence, the recognition that our lives are led in a dissolving world of ceaseless change, is not a doctrine of despair but of realism; and in that realism, hope. Somehow our very grief becomes, in extremis, a channel of grace. Sharon Salzberg:

At times, pain can reach such a powerful level that it can be devastating. In spiritual life, we might call it the dark night of the soul. In interpersonal life, we call it grief, and this intense emotional experience does not limit itself to the loss of someone who has died. It can occur as the experience of nearly any kind of deep loss.

To accept the love that is the motor of grief is to accept the role of mourners, of givers-of-thanks for what is being lost, bearers of the unbearable hope. Death always follows life; but new life follows death. Even in Chernobyl, the natural world is thriving as never before.

To accept what is, it is necessary to know what is, now. This means attention, questioning, investigation. It means practice. Human culture is not “an inexcusable frivolity on the part of creatures loaded with such awful responsibilities as we.” (Lewis, ibid.) If we have one job in times like this, it is to be bearers, through our careful grief, of love, of grace, of light even, into this present darkness.

Recovering the sacred

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Each of us has a unique spiritual design that pulls us toward freedom. The problem arises when we listen to others for our direction, or think we “should” do something because others have done it in the past. Spiritual growth is a fine-tuning of our ear to the needs of our heart.

What obscures this understanding in many of us is the belief that the silent retreat is a priority over other expressions of life. When we believe we are not where we need to be for spiritual growth, we relegate our daily life to a secondary tier. We energetically pull out of our spiritual life and wait for the appropriate secluded moment in order to fully engage. Leaning toward or away from any experience creates an anticipation of fulfillment in the future, and the sacred that exists here and now is lost. Discovering the sacred within all moments is the hallmark of awakening…

The lay Buddhist begins to recover the sacred in the most remote areas of life, in the midst of difficulty and dissatisfaction, loneliness and despair. The reality of problems is challenged and investigated, and life begins to thrive free of circumstances and conditions. The heart takes over and is resurrected from the conditioned habits of mind.

Rodney Smith, Tricycle Magazine Summer 2010

Smith has put his finger here on an issue that has long troubled me. There is that in me, if not in all of us, that so easily divides life into partitions: sacred/profane; spiritual/material; worthy/unworthy. Even the concept of lay Buddhism has for me too religious a connotation, tending to one side of the old religious/secular dichotomy. As I wrote last year,

So many of our practices find their roots in one religion or another – most often Buddhism – that they bring with them sticky remnants of their original religious context. Buddhist practices frequently imply a background acceptance of the concepts of karma and rebirth, for instance; and practices with Christian roots may come with background assumptions regarding the role of the Holy Spirit in the contemplative life.

…these things can be a problem. It is impossible to talk about, even to think about, the spiritual life without using words; and these kinds of words so often – especially for those of us with a past involvement in the formal contemplative life – help maintain an unconscious religious atmosphere that clings to the mere fact of practice itself, and can easily act like a tinted lens that colours our experience, and the ways we communicate it, even to ourselves.

If I were to adopt a label, I suppose it would have to be simply Humanist; a humanist of a particularly contemplative bent, perhaps, but a humanist nonetheless. If we are truly to recover the sacred – the “actually loved and known” (David Jones) – to be, after all, the bits and pieces of an ordinary life – all those things so often dismissed as merely “quotidian” – then it seems to me we need to flee these traces of formal religious language. It is so easy to lose the sacred among the habits and assumptions of our daily lives that to add these ancient designations to the mix seems unhelpful to say the least. As Rodney Smith generously concludes his article:

The lay Buddhist harbors no defense, seeks no shelter, and avoids no conflict for the resolution of wholeness. It is here in the middle of our total involvement [with daily life] that this alchemy of spirit can best be engaged. Our life becomes focused around this transformation as our primary intention for living. We find everything we need immediately before us within the circumstances and conditions we long begrudged ourselves. Spiritual growth becomes abundantly available and is no longer associated exclusively with any particular presentation of form.

Attention

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[E]very moment in life is absolute in itself. That’s all there is. There is nothing other than this present moment; there is no past, there is no future; there is nothing but this. So when we don’t pay attention to each little this, we miss the whole thing. And the contents of this can be anything. This can be straightening our sitting mats, chopping an onion, visiting someone we don’t want to visit. It doesn’t matter what the contents of the moment are; each moment is absolute. That’s all there is, and all there ever will be. If we could totally pay attention, we would never be upset. If we’re upset, it’s axiomatic that we’re not paying attention. If we miss not just one moment, but one moment after another, we’re in trouble.

Suppose I’m condemned to have my head chopped off in a guillotine. Now I’m being marched up the steps onto the platform. Can I maintain attention to the moment? Can I be aware of each step, step by step? Can I place my head in the guillotine carefully so that I serve the executioner well? If I am able to live and die in this way, no problem arises.

Charlotte Joko Beck, Tricycle Magazine, Fall 1993

If you get used to paying attention in your sitting, moment by moment, breath by breath, thought by random thought as they arise, then you may find that, without even having to turn your mind to it, your attention will hold whatever it it you are doing – shaving, walking, waiting for the lift, fastening your shoes – and you will discover that it is unimaginably delicious, just as it is. A jackdaw looking in the grass by the verge of the road for things to eat among the grass stems, the sound of a bus pulling away into traffic – priceless things, lovely and complete in themselves, simply because they are.

There is something even stranger, too. The sting of the little cut on my thumb where I was in too much of a hurry chopping the shallots for lunch, the twinge in my knee that reminds me that I am going to die – sooner, now, rather than later, since I am an old man these days. These too are precious, particular things, lovely just as they are, just since they are.

Occasionally I do find myself reminding myself to pay attention – and so (as a bonus) reminding myself that there is no stable self to remind – but generally, you know, it’s just something that happens. When I practice, when I am faithful to regular sitting, it happens, more and more as time goes by. Just to be here is the loveliest thing, wherever it is I am at this moment; and all I have to do is notice that. Whatever is is precious because it is, not for what it means, nor for what it might lead to, but only because it is. In every moment of isness everything is, like the reflected world within a raindrop, only wholly present as itself. There is nothing to lose. The instant of death is as lovely, and as necessary, as the moment of birth. Nothing means anything; everything is meaning.

Only practice

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At times recently I’ve been tempted to see my previous years of practice, stretches of time I spent as a Christian contemplative in the world – rather than as a monastic of any kind – as perhaps wasted years; years I could have spent in some more fruitful way, such as the kind of practice to which I’m now committed. But gradually, it has come clear to me that it has all worked together, astonishingly seamlessly. There is no right or wrong way: there is only practice. The “story of my life,” disjointed though it has often appeared to me, is actually all of a piece. There is nothing to regret. There is no need to start over with anything.

I have mentioned before here my profound gratitude for occasions in my life when I have been injured or unwell, and the insights they have afforded me. These too, though, aren’t isolated occurrences in a life of somehow lesser significance; they are merely currants in a bun whose sugar and spice, and very ordinary flour, have been just as essential to the overall flavour.

I don’t mean to attribute any of this to some species of external cause, in the sense of acting under the control of some supernatural puppet-master; everything I have mentioned has merely been composed of natural events in a largely unremarkable life. Any sense of their fitting together, of their working towards some overarching purpose, is retrospective: the pattern only emerges as it nears completion. Perhaps it could even be suggested that without its later elements the earlier would be meaningless, or at least have an entirely different meaning; but perhaps “meaning” is too loaded a term altogether. A pattern, after all, only describes what has happened, what events have become; even if like one of Daniel Dennett’s real  patterns it does have significance beyond simple human interpretation!

There is a kind of peace here that I hadn’t perhaps foreseen. In one sense, nothing has changed – practice goes on from day to day just as before; and yet something is different in a way I find difficult to explain even to myself without falling into linguistic pits. Maybe nothing more needs to be said: what is being described here is a still-evolving process, not a destination. If there is indeed a pattern, it is probably much more like a vortex street than a snowflake, to misappropriate a metaphor. The practice remains. Nothing else is needed; there is nothing else we need to remember.