It had been a noisy couple of days, mentally speaking, my reactivity and other’s created choppy daytime waters and restless evening’s repose. Walking along Seward Park has become a refuge for me from all that; breathing in moist clean air and gazing at the iconic sweeping, centered view of Mt. Rainier hovering over Lake Washington. How lucky we are in Seattle to have so many magnificent viewpoints to contemplate upon. They suck all the static out of our minds, do they not, and leave us with only stillness and beauty.
I started my walk and the seeds of relaxation began to sprout. It was a good time to be there; it was a gorgeous day, the park was quiet save for a few kids running around giggling and some joggers syncing their breath into rhythm. I could not help but hear some construction workers at the entrance, though, where the new Tori is being built. They were chatting loudly atop one of the construction containers. Literally every other word coming out of one man’s mouth was the “f” word. So loud, this string of vile one syllabic words echoing through the blue sky, it hooked my attention instantly. I found myself working quite hard to stop from walking over to him and yelling, “look at this gorgeous day, you are ruining it! Shut the “f” up.” The irony of my fantasy was not lost on me as I put my ear buds in and proceeded in the opposite direction down my route.
Since our meditation workshop with Jan Silberstorff a few weeks ago I have been practicing seated meditation daily. It is no secret that this style of meditation has never held any interest for me until recently; to date I have been quite satisfied with moving meditation. I am approaching integrating this practice into the larger context of my practice with curiosity rather than discipline. It is fun for me to notice how much of a beginner I am at this new technique. Of course I recognize the process – of my breathing becoming focused and rhythmic, of my mind’s thinking rising and receding, of time dragging and dissolving, but what is new for me is keeping my body absolutely still in the midst of it. The first week was somewhat miserable, even as fit as I am, my back muscles hurt and my shoulders tensed. I was glad no one was watching but also craved correction. I couldn’t wait for the “ding” of my Insight Timer app to go off. It was a bit tempting to act on the “why bothers” but luckily my curiosity was stronger than my discomfort, that and knowing several of my students were also practicing! So I'm staying with it. It is not yet a habit, but I am noticing some changes and my curiosity remains alive.
I was discussing my experience with a long time Zen teacher and head of a center here in Seattle. I asked him if he still felt physically uncomfortable when meditating, if his mind bounces around, or after 40 years, he’s got it covered. He laughed and said, “Of course I experience the range, just like a beginner does!” He continued, “The only difference between myself and a beginner is that my range is bigger.” When I put that in context of my Taijiquan and Qigong practice, I completely understand. I also experience the same things new students do, but my range is bigger. My hips are more fluid, my legs are stronger, my comprehension of the basics is deeper, but this is not because I am any different, I still feel the same impatient places, the same “can’t quite figure it out” places, and the same “wow this is the coolest!” places. My humanity within my practice is exactly the same as anyone else, it is simply that my longer time in practice has given me a wider and deeper range of it all.
I don't know if this is from my infant seated practice or just a new layer of my ongoing practice, but lately I really notice when my range is too small. Its noisy up there, mentally speaking, and there are places that noise gives my patience a lot to bounce off of. I've always known both my personal and professional job is to make myself more elastic so its really interesting to find these new layers to lengthen and loosen. The invitations to go deeper show up and sometimes they show up in unexpected places: in the park caught by someone’s loud profanity, as the trusted guardian of a transformational container or simply walking down the street.
As both student and teacher it is very clear to me we are all transmuting. Perhaps the very best we can do for ourselves and our collective within this strong dynamic, often full of pitfalls, is to remember our practices are more than just "forms to learn." They are processes to mine, ways that help us to keep pushing out our range of tolerance, compassion and patience with ourselves and others. I suspect in doing so the mental noise that squeezes us into those small spaces gradually recedes and one day what will be left is a vast and open stillness.
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An excellent interview with Jan Silberstorff by Ken Gullette.
