A shift in my thinking comes sometime between walking meditation and Thây’s last talk

Calligraphy, Thich Nhat Hanh

I recently was on retreat at Magnolia Grove Monastery in Batesville, Mississippi, with about 900 others and Thich Nhat Hanh (Thây) and a monastic community. This is the fifth consecutive post in a series of six about my experience. Originally published in October 2013.

Around the last day of the retreat, I decided to let go of the fact that I have incurable cancer.

Thây helps me with this decision.

It isn’t a lightning bolt shift in perspective. The change feels more like a soft, gentle soaking in rain.

I remember it like this:

Sometime between walking meditation and Thây’s last talk, there is a session where he invites questions.

Questions such as “How do I deal with my angry friend?”, “Is it possible for humankind to achieve world peace?”, “How do I let go of the fear of someone dying?” and “Should communities organize in civil disobedience to reduce violence?” They grab my be-here-now attention. I feel my mouth open in marvel at the profound simplicity of his responses.

So you want to help?

Start with yourself. Heal yourself. Breathe. Smile. Practice kind, loving speech. Honor all life. Be generous. Make peace with your body, perceptions, thoughts, and feelings, and if you know how to do that, you’ll inspire others to do the same. Consume peace. Be peace. Learn to listen deeply. Allow sharing. Don’t interrupt. Give time and space. Start anew. Write love letters (rather than protest letters). Give your time and energy to creating a happy family and community. Practice diligently.

I realize the retreat is designed to practice all of this. 

My fears about our world left entirely after my first walking meditation. It was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.

Thây leads. Though it is 85 degrees, he wears his winter coat, scarf, and hat. I wonder if his need for heavy clothing is about how much energy he gives off.

Children hold his hands. We walk together. In silence. (During the retreat, film and photography were taken for Walk With Me. I see myself in this photograph and feel grateful for the memory.)

Ten minutes into the walk I feel a rising tide of peace, as if I’m part of a larger walk. Others’ steps echo ours—people such as Susan B. Anthony, the Freedom Riders, Buddha, Gandhi, Jesus, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, the Peace Pilgrim, and Malala Yousafzai. I feel like I’m part of a moving river of peace.

My question about whether there will be peace in the world disappears. Peace already is—its river is already moving. 

I feel a connection to the cloudiness of my personal wellness. That river of peace is not just about our world. It’s about my well-being (and yours).

  

A light of freedom: the sea will laugh with me.

A gift. A sheep with a tether on a surfboard.* Charlotte Schulz, artist. 

My son died unexpectedly (August 2006) and I continue to work with my feelings and grief around the loss.

After his funeral, friends and family gathered at my sister's home for lunch. I have a significant memory from that lunch. 

In deep grief and pain, I head upstairs. I sit alone in a chair at the far end of the house. I remember thinking that I have options. (Thank you Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart.) Either I'll isolate and allow this event to consume and harden me. Or I'll let the loss of my son soften and open my heart to feel and connect with others. 

I stood up and went downstairs. 

Over the years, I uncovered other pain: blame.

At first, I wanted to blame anything and anyone for Michael's passing. But now I know that blame is trying to put my pain on something or someone. Blaming is a way to not feel.

So, I began to allow feelings. That means that when they arise, I feel. I sit with and allow them without saying or doing anything. I don't distract myself from feelings. Or numb them. (This is challenging.)

I'm learning that dealing with pain and feeling is not something on a list I get to check off. It’s lifelong. What’s important is that I’m willing to continue softening towards whatever shows up. 

The best way to describe where I am now is that I found an ocean of love and comfort behind all my pain. It is nothing less than freedom. Liberating, spacious freedom.

So I’m celebrating.

I’m going to the beach. And I have a purpose.

This purpose arose a few weeks ago. I had an awakening phone conversation with a friend, someone I feel connected to, though we’ve never met face-to-face. What transpired in our conversation would not make sense unless I could do a little mental transfer from my head to yours. To sum it up: I felt clouded, uncertain, and somewhat stuck in my work and life. After our conversation, I meditated and did Tonglen for myself and all other parents working with the loss of a child.

I knew it was time to let go a little more.

I’ve written about how I let go of Michael’s things and why, but I still have a handful of his ashes. It’s time to put them in the sea.

In a few weeks (November 2013), I’ll don a wetsuit and get on a surfboard to swim out as far as I can.

A surfer at sundown. Sarah Lee, photographer. Her blog and more amazing underwater photos.

As I paddle out and try to stay balanced while carrying him in a baggie around my neck (please let that paddle-skill come back to me), I will imagine the sea laughing with me.

And I’ll hear Michael’s over-the-rainbow spirit singing. 

NOTES*

About Charlotte's drawing - At first, I interpreted the sheep as Michael. Now I see myself as the sheep. I recently noticed the tether around the sheep's neck and realize that untethering happens when I sit with the pain of this experience. Being with my hurt is like the transformation of a personal karmic seed. The light in the image represents facing my difficulty. I believe it takes strength to look, yet looking is a key in my pocket that unlocks and frees me.

Change. Being entirely ready to try something new.

William Wegman, Intirely, 1990. 

His blog. The Wegman store: cards, calendars, T-shirts, books, more.

I’m thinking about change.

Not the kind of change that is focused on another person, an organization, or thing. I’m thinking about one thing to change in myself.

It’s not that there’s only one thing I need to change. (I have a list.) I’m starting with one thing at a time. I’ll practice before I add new ones.

Here’s a short list:

• Instead of sleeping in, wake early enough to sit quietly and meditate. Consistently. (I added the word consistently after talking with a dear friend over the weekend. She said her change is being consistent. I'm joining her.)

• Become aware of bells ringing during the day—another person’s phone, a train whistle, school and church bells. When I hear a bell, rather than ignore it, stop and take three calming breaths.

• Rather than eat standing up or in the car driving to an appointment, eat at a table.

• Instead of taking big bites and gulping my food, take little bites and eat slowly. Way slow. Thirty chews a bite slow. (I'm working on kindness to my eroded digestive system from chemotherapy.)

• When someone…oh, let’s just get specific. When someone like my daughter tells me about grandbaby Dylan, do not, I repeat, do not tell her what to do. This is based on my vast (choke) experience. Listen, mama Susan, listen. (Listening means my mind is quiet and focused on what she is saying.) Refrain from giving advice. (That means listening with my heart, both ears open, and my one mouth shut.)

• When Terry doesn’t choose an outfit I like, rather than offer my insight on fashion, I want to mind my own business.

There are other things but they’re on my private list.

Choosing and getting clear on the one thing I want to change is a first step. 

I begin anew by choosing the opposite of the behavior I want to change. 

And I need to be entirely willing.

Willingness paves the way to bring about the long hard work of practicing change.

This is a poem about the challenge of willingness. I wrote it in response to William Wegman’s photograph, Intirely, which is pictured above.

Head down, tail up.

         She’s encircled entirely in tire.

         So she thinks.

         Hey, your limbs are free!

Tell me lady with your head down,

What are you doing?

Are you having fun or are you stuck in a tire trap?

If you are trapped, who is holding you?

Oh, you are not held, you want to stay to play. Why?

Hey, try this: just move your head an itsy-bit. You’ll have it—freedom.

Do you want it?

You do? You want it?

Well then do something. Take that inch.

Why don’t you? 
You don’t want freedom?

Oh, I see. It is more fun head down and tail up?

No? What, bark up, I can’t hear you!

You can’t see up with your head down 
and up might be less and more.

I know about you, she you, you don’t know what to do with freedom.

You are she and you don’t have to be the tire.

You can BE the tire, the wheel.

See, you can go, can’t you?

Go grrrrrr!

Susan Michael Barrett, 2011.

(Barrett. T. "Writing and Talking About Photographs." Criticizing Photographs. Fifth Edition, p. 219-220. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2012.)