These were the thoughts of Saturday morning after breakfast when I returned to my room and wrote in my journal. At the words, "Ineffably sad", I went in search of a cup of coffee. I have learned in my journaling to pay attention to the moments when I distract myself. I am an old hand at steering clear of the hard emotions. It was no coincidence that coffee seemed like a good idea at the point of "sad". Nor is it coincidence that it has taken me more than a week to see what I was avoiding: I have so studiously refrained from revisiting this day, I didn't even write about it in my original reflection.
But back to that Saturday. Fortified with coffee, I let myself go on a facile pseudo-spiritual riff, words now that make me wince:
"Today the sun is so warm on the back, the birdsong so piercing, the sky so blue - what more could one want? Put the little self to bed, set it aside gently, watch the body breathe, watch the tummy rise and fall, don't think, don't think! It's easy, a baby can do it, we complicate everything, thinking it must be something tricky. Houston Smith talks about climbing the mountain - and then, much later, you realize there never was a mountain to climb. You are it - we are it - all along, we are it. And we have forgotten. We think we are more than - and less than."
Nothing wrong with the words as such, except that they flow too easily. La la la. Victor has talked about the ego, how clever it is: it will be whatever it thinks you want, including "spiritual". So this stream of commands to myself is ego's attempt to be deep. The words have no substance to back them up; they skim the surface.
I picked up my writing again after lunch and it was more of the same. Blah blah blah. The next few hours were very long, the overriding sensation: my knees hurt and I had a hard time sitting comfortably. Things became interesting at Victor's dharma talk, which was on thought. Someone wrote him a note, asking, "Who is it who is saying, "Who am I?" Who's saying, "I am thinking this?"" This talk, he said, would be his best effort to answer, the most thorough he had ever given on the topic. He told us how in Temecula, three or four days into a week-long retreat, upon waking up early to unlock the doors to the meditation hall, the thought came to him, "Why bother? What's the point?" (The people at the retreat had been falling asleep the night before and he was fed up). He told us he could have slid into that hell - that hole - and had a horrible day. Instead, the thought came to him, or rather his awareness: "It's just a thought!" and like that it was gone! He quoted Krishnamurti, "The thinker is the thought" and this is the point that's hard to grasp: we think there's our mind and then there's us. In fact they're the same. And if thoughts are "just thoughts" then we're not too solid either. And it's not just bad thoughts. We're not the good ones either - at least, they are all "just thoughts". He answered the question I had emailed him earlier about how he handled the terrible news of his old friend: how did he not sink into sorrow right then and there? "Same thing," he said. "It's just a thought." He told us about the night before the extraction of two of his teeth, lying in bed worrying and then being able to stop himself by saying, "I refuse to allow this thought to dictate to me!" - something like that. Refusing to give it power. Why spend a sleepless night when you don't know what will happen? I found this to be an empowering idea. Why indeed?
During the last sit of the night, the French song, 'Sur le Pont d'Avignon' popped into my head for no reason. This was a favorite sing-along in my family, trotted out on long car rides, and immediately brought to mind my parents, my French mother, my English Dad, both dead now. I realized that it was a year ago, the Monday after last year's retreat, that my mother came to me in a dream and said she would meditate with me. And when I sat and imagined her sitting with me, I burst into unexpected tears, overwhelmed with the feeling of love. It was clear then how much she had loved me, and that all she had done, she had done out of love: misguided, but love nonetheless. So now, a year later, and so much has happened to me in terms of my understanding...
Well, of course I couldn't simply stay with this feeling, which made my heart ache; I had to shape it into thought, form it into my beloved words and so find distance. Sitting up in my little bed later that night, I once more carried myself away on a stream of no-nonsense twaddle. I thought of my mother and assured myself that yes, yes, she loved me, this is by now old news. "I truly understand", I wrote confidently. "And if Victor's contention is correct - "It's just a thought!" - well then, why hang on to these painful thoughts from so long ago? I understand that because of my abandonment issues, I tend to cling and do too much and actually bring about the very thing I fear. But I don't see how I can go on feeling abandoned now that I understand all parties were only doing their best. What parents would deliberately set out to hurt their child? I was loved, I was happy - and really, the suffering came from boarding school which was what was 'done' in those days. I refuse to allow this ancient history any more space in my current life!! Victor will say I am thinking my way out of it. Yet this weekend I have cried, but in general terms of 'sorrow' - not anything specific. So I don't feel wracked with pain as I have done before. It truly feels behind me and now I can move forward with understanding."
Those last two sentences should have set off warning sirens. Even as I was writing myself this bossy pep talk, I was aware that the body was telling a completely different story. In parentheses, I even wrote, "Why is my chest feeling tight? Is there something I'm not acknowledging? Breathe into it. Anxiety? No, anxiety is lower in the tummy. This is the chest. Tight. Like tears. Who needs to cry? Is it my little girl? Oh poor darling. But now I must turn out the light - it's time to sleep. We'll see tomorrow."
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