Michael Bernard Beckwith, founder of Agape International Spiritual Center, suggests saying this when you start: “I’m here to wake up.” And return to that thought when your thoughts go astray.
Meditation is not just this ancient ritual or hippie-guru kind of thing. It’s also prosaic and down to earth. I mean, you’re just sitting there, you know? And it’s practical, like a good housecleaning, a cleansing of the mind.
I’m always reading books about meditation, and they always tell me the same thing: Meditate! It’s the path to peace—not to mention Nirvana and a sense of the divine. Yes, yes, I nod. I’ll do it! But then, instead of doing it, I read more books about it. So for thirty years, I’ve been a student of meditation: sometimes sitting daily, sometimes once a week . . . but always up for another book.
Yet despite this predilection, a certain peace has managed to creep into my life. There are even moments of feeling, just as the books promise, the openness and spaciousness that some call God.
We sit on the ground with humbleness. But we sit up straight with dignity, since our body is the temple of our soul.
I used to hold off meditating until I was in a meditating mood: calm, serene, a little saintly. Well, some weeks I’d be waiting a long time. So I started taking my angry, worried, fearful self to the pillow. Not easy—some Nirvana! Still, the more I learn to just sit with my feelings, the more compassion I gain for myself, and the more compassion I feel for others. See? It all works out.
I once read that prayer is you talking to God and meditation is hearing God’s answer. For me, both feel as if I’m phoning up the Source, making a connection—Hello, God, are you there?—and then, if I’m there, resting in God’s grace.
Breathe in, breathe out, keep watching your breath. That’s the way I first learned to meditate. It’s called the breath-awareness meditation, which was part of the Buddha’s teachings. Breathe in, breathe out, feel your breath where it enters and leaves your nose. Then, as your mind fills with thoughts and plans or memories and worries, gently place your focus back on your breath.
So I sit, breathe in, and watch my breath, and my thoughts appear like clouds in the sky. What helps is to note them and let them pass through. “Thinking,” I say to myself. “Planning,” I notice. And then, as always, back to watching my breath.
Mary taught me the California quickie. In her studio in the woods of Topanga Canyon, we sat down together, she set the timer for five minutes, and then, in a far-off space and place, I rested briefly in a peace that felt timeless.
There are many versions of a loving-kindness meditation, which is a way of blessing the world. My version starts by breathing in love to myself. I imagine a golden light coming in with my breath and filling me from head to toe.
When I breathe out, I picture that love and light going to others, surrounding them like an aura. I might start with my family or friends or anyone I know who is suffering or in need. But whomever I start with, I ultimately imagine the light going farther—to troubled areas, our president, our planet. What surprises me is how sending love out feels even better than breathing love in.
Gay Lynn and I used to meditate together, the good old watch-your-breath way. Then Gay Lynn returned to Catholicism and found a way to meditate that touched her soul. It goes like this: Think of a word that signifies what you want to feel, such as love or peace or God, and keep returning to that thought when your mind drifts away.
I think of Divine Presence. And sometimes, as soon as I think it, a calm falls over me and I feel at peace.
So there I am, sitting in meditation and wondering yet again, What am I here for? What should I do? Oh yeah, watch my breath. But that’s so boring, so nothing, so totally blah. Then I feel this great relief as I realize there is nothing—nothing—I have to do for these ten or twenty minutes: no thinking, no planning, no working in any way. I can just be bored or still and watch my breath. I surrender. Ahhh.
It’s nice to ring a bell or a chime at the end. It gives a sense of closure, and the ritual’s complete.
HEART LIKE A CRYSTAL
I went to see a shaman. Brant Secunda. Down-home and funny, he grew up in New Jersey—my kind of shaman. So I signed up for his workshop: three days of teachings he learned from the Huichol Indians, a Mexican tribe that rescued him in the Sierra Madre Mountains. The young Brant had been searching for a spiritual teacher, but when he reached the jungles near Ixtlan, he became lost and sun-dazed and passed out. At the same time, the revered shaman Don José Matsuwa dreamed he saw Brant coming and sent his clansmen to save him.
Brant stayed in their village for eighteen years, living with this isolated tribe that followed age-old traditions. And Don José adopted Brant as his grandson and taught him all he knew through an arduous twelve-year apprenticeship.
“He put me in a cave without water for five days,” Brant said. “He told me, ‘If you die, the apprenticeship is over!’” Then, when Don José died at 110 (attributing his longevity to “not too much sex, only once a day”), he left Brant in his place to spread the Huichol wisdom.
In the workshop, Brant explained that shamanism is not just a form of healing but a way of life. He taught us how to strengthen our connection with nature, to honor and heal Mother Earth.
We also learned a Huichol practice to heal our inner wounds. Negative emotions leave holes inside you, Brant said, but you can fill and cleanse those holes by sitting and facing the fire, sun, or a candle and breathing in its light. “If you’re fearful, imagine opening your throat and letting in the light. If you’re angry, let the light into your stomach. If you’re jealous, let it into your heart.”
With plain talk and a modest manner, Brant spoke of amazing rituals and miracles he had seen. But what struck me most was the familiar, the common ground beneath. For under all their rituals and miracles, the Huichols were, like most people I know, simply looking for ways to deal with their emotions, connect with spirit, and become better people—which was why, Brant revealed, they use crystals.
That said, he opened a leather pouch, poured two dozen crystals onto a small Mexican rug, and asked each of us to choose one for our meditations.
Some of the crystals were so translucent you could see right through them. Others had a frosted appearance or mini-crystals within. I chose one of the latter, thinking its flaws made it more beautiful and would evoke a deeper meditation. Pleased with my pick, I felt a little sorry for those folks who had chosen ones that were boringly clear.
Then Brent said to make sure you liked your crystal; there was still time to change, and you wanted one that was as pure and transparent as possible since it would be a model for your heart. Aargh! I blew it. Humbled, I stepped forward and traded mine in for the clearest one left.
“Learn to harvest the light, brighten your spirit, and become crystal clear,” Brant said, holding up a crystal as a purifying tool.
Till then, I had considered crystals New-Agey, unaware of their long tradition. But reading a pamphlet that Brant passed out, I learned that the Huichol Indians have been using the crystal since ancient times “as a model for how our hearts should be. They strive to keep the crystal of their heart clear and vibrant so that light can shine through them . . . and into the world.”
When the workshop ended, I returned home and put the crystal on my altar. Now and then, I hold it up to remember: clear heart, open heart, a heart that sees my anger, envy, and fears . . . and heals them by letting in light.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Brant told us. “But we try to make ourselves better.”
And so, each day, I aim to do my best, to think of others and be kind. Sounds easy, right? Not. What helps is knowing what I strive for: a heart like a crystal. It also helps knowing that far off in the Sierra Madres, there’s a tribe of Huichol Indians, and they’re striving for that too.
Create in me a pure heart, O God.
—PSALMS 51:10
SISTER JUDY’S CALIFORNIA
MEDITATION RECIPE
My sister J
udy was a wheelin’-dealin’ lawyer-screenwriter in Hollywood. Then she found God (or vice versa), and it changed her life. She moved to Playa del Rey, became a spiritual counselor, and now starts each day with meditation on the beach.
She begins by reading some inspirational writings. Then she closes her eyes or looks out at the ocean and puts all her attention on feeling God’s love, returning that love, and feeling gratitude for that love. “Breathe in the presence of God,” she says, “and breathe out love and peace and healing.”
“What if you don’t feel God’s love?” a friend asked when I told her. I answered the way I thought Judy would: Just feel God’s love in whatever form it comes to you, which could be your child, mate, friends, or pet; or the sky or mountains; or the joy you know in being alive.
“Imagination is a powerful tool,” Judy says. “I might envision golden dust falling on someone I’m thinking of in healing prayer.”
When her morning meditation is over, she spends the rest of her day “seeing the magic in everything and everywhere I go.” But she always holds a stone to keep herself grounded.
Our mother liked to keep her grounded too. She was a tad concerned with Judy’s transformation and wondered why she couldn’t just be a wheelin’-dealin’ lawyer-screenwriter who meditated. In truth, we were all a bit concerned, especially at first, when Judy just didn’t seem like Judy.
But now, it’s hard not to be touched by her sincere love of God and the radiance it brings her. And Judy’s meditation sounds radiant too: buoyant and full of light, like California or the ocean.
When I first heard her tell it, I remembered being in a Hindu temple at dusk. There was incense burning, and a smiling Swami sat at the front, leading us in kirtan, responsive chanting of the names of God. Six white-robed musicians were playing drums, bells, and harmonium, creating haunting melodies as we sang in Sanskrit,“Hari Krishna, Hari Rama, Hari, Hari, Rama, Rama.”
It’s part of a worship called Bhakti Yoga—the path of devotion, the path of the heart—that’s said to be the quickest way to reach the divine.
“Surrender . . . ,” the Swami urged us, “to something far greater . . .”
Then the music got faster and faster as we chanted louder and louder, and soon nearly everyone was standing and swaying, arms up, palms open, as we sang and danced with a love or bliss that spread and soared throughout the room.
When sister Judy meditates, she’s in that temple dancing.
GREETING THE SEASONS
One thing I like about the seasons is how they always show up on time. Just as I’m turning the calendar to September 21, sure enough, the air gets crisper, a slight frost is seen, and I can smell the ripe apples that now lie on the ground. It’s that way with each season, right on time, proving Yes, the world is turning, and as surely as winter is here, spring is coming, no worries.
Living in Boulder, home of New Age trends, I’ve become more aware of the solstice, the equinox, and ways to celebrate each. But there’s nothing New Age about these celestial events. They’ve been noted and honored for thousands of years. And, uniquely, they offer us this: a day to welcome each new season and feel more in sync with the earth and all life.
It could be enough just to keep track of these dates, to write down and know when each season begins. On those days, I decorate our home with gourds or pinecones or branches of yellow forsythia. And sometimes I do something special, in groups or with John, to celebrate the change and what the new season means.
The summer solstice comes on June 21, the first day of summer. It’s the longest, most light-filled day of the year.
On June 21, 2007, the early sunlight woke us by 6, and that’s when John suggested that we walk to the lake. I was feeling a little wistful, not as excited about Boulder, nature, or the solstice as I was when we first moved here. That was long ago, though, so I guess it could be expected. You get used to things, even glorious things, like mountains and starlight and the one you love. But then, on another day, all the glory comes back.
Besides, even feeling wistful, it was nice to take this walk. We saw redwing blackbirds, heard the meadowlark sing, and spotted our first dragonfly of the season.
When we reached the lake’s small sandy shore, we looked out at the ducks, saw jumping fish in the water, and considered what ritual to do.
Sometimes the best ritual is whatever comes to mind. On this day, we decided to simply give thanks, thanks for the gifts of summer.
“Thank you for the sunshine,” I started.
“And the long days,” John said. “And warmth.”
“Thank you for the return of the dragonfly.”
“For corn and peaches.”
“And swimming in warm water.”
“Thank you for summer.”
Low-key, but nice.
The next day, in our local paper, there was a picture of Aymara Indians near La Paz, Bolivia. They were holding up their hands to catch the first rays of dawn as they celebrated the Southern Hemisphere’s winter solstice, the beginning of the Aymara New Year.
And later, on the radio, we heard that hundreds of New Yorkers had gathered to do sun salutations all day long—on a traffic island in the middle of Times Square.
Each solstice and equinox is a cosmic dance. I was happy now that we had joined in.
Don José always used to say, “We make it rain
with our ceremonies.” Which impressed me a lot.
And then he said, “But I’m not stupid. Before I make
it rain, I wait for the rainy season.” So, you know,
you work in harmony with the seasons.
—BRANT SECUNDA,
Huichol shaman
LOOKING FOR LIGHT
In the 1960s, a diverse group of people set out on a journey, and I joined them. We had no idea where we were going. In fact, we were searching for a path, a higher path to follow.
Like most of my fellow pilgrims, I had long abandoned organized religion but was left with a yearning for something more, a way to touch life more deeply. So there we were, a few million of us, meditating, learning yoga, and looking for light in more easterly places—where ecstatic chants and silent retreats seemed to promise enlightenment and mystical bliss.
With that promise in mind, I attended a mega-event in New York City starring someone billed as the Sufi Master of the West. Tall and white-bearded, he was a soft-spoken man. But what got me was the warm-up act by a Hasidic rabbi. (A rabbi? I thought. How did he sneak in?) His name was Zalman Schachter-Shalomi.
He laughed and wagged his finger like a Jewish St. Nick. He joked. He schmoozed. And then he went for the kill. I don’t recall his exact words, but the gist went like this:
You’re looking for God? You’ve lost your way? Forget the bells and whistles. Just get down and pray!
Now, he wasn’t talking church prayer or prayers you recite by rote or from a book. No, he meant prayers from the heart, fresh and alive with our own words and feelings.
Pray from your soul, he said, from your kishkes, your guts. Prayer is simply talking to God.
What? Share my deepest hopes and fears? Find my words and my God? This was something I had never heard before. Yet hearing it felt familiar, like coming home.
I didn’t know then that he was passing on (in his uniquely Zalman way) the teachings of the Hasidic founders, who taught their students to sit alone, indoors or out, and simply open their hearts to God.
Whatever comes to mind, say it. You don’t even have to believe—and you can say that too. . . . Prayer is simply talking to God.
So that’s what I started to do. Simple, but not easy. I mean, to say what I really want to say (and not feel self-conscious or worry if God will like me), to be that honest and real (instead of showing God how good I am), well, it’s a challenge. Still, there is the freedom of authenticity: Anything goes.
The way I begin is always changing. I might start with “Great Spirit” or “Dear Lord” or “Blessed Mother” . . . or all three. I might even say
“Divine Friend” and remember what my Sufi teacher said: “Just imagine you’re talking to a special friend or your higher spirit.”
Sometimes I pray for others, sometimes for the world, and sometimes for myself. I often pray for answers and just as often to give thanks. Some days my prayers are affirmations: “I’m living with calmness and kindness.” And some nights my prayer is a song, an Episcopal hymn I first heard in the musical Godspell:
To see thee more clearly
Love thee more dearly
Follow thee more nearly
Day by day.
The funny thing is, when I need it the most, I often forget to pray. That’s what makes dark nights of the soul so dark: I lose my connection to spirit or anything else. At some point, though, just before touching bottom, I remember to pray: for strength, for peace, for help. Truth is, it doesn’t matter what I pray for; it’s prayer itself that helps bring me back.
I once took a workshop where the leader asked, “What do you want more than anything else?”
I answered “faith,” because I knew that with faith, anything could seem bearable and most things were possible. I still feel that way, and sometimes my faith is strong, while other times it’s lacking. But when my faith is at its weakest, I recall what Swami Vishwananda said: “No one’s faith is strong just like that. You have to build it, day by day.”
Right. But how do you build faith? That’s when I remember again to pray: Pray for faith.
My prayers can also be mundane and specific. For a long time, I obsessed over a major decision: to leave our happy life in Boulder and move back East—closer to kids, grand-kids, and Mom—or stay out West, missing meaningful family moments and perhaps dying alone (in a dark room on a gray, wintry day). Well, I have trouble simply choosing a new mattress (even though John and I have talked about it for ten years and the coils of our old one stick into my back), so how could I ever decide anything as huge as a move? I told my friend Mary this, and she said, “You’re right. This is too big to figure out. Let it go and just pray.”
Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles Page 12