I’m really glad I went to dharma meditation group this morning, even though I was five minutes late. It might have been because I got out of bed about a half hour before I needed to leave, and someone beat me to the bathroom, so I had to wait a few minutes. At any rate, by the time I left the house, I realized I would be a few minutes late.
What were my options?
Sit outside the door until the break between sittings.
Enter the meditation room as quietly and mindfully as possible.
The group meets in a wellness facility. A room at the back of a gym. When I got to the door, it didn’t feel right to sit outside the room. It felt more right to enter quietly.
Ever so slowly and mindfully, I turned the door handle, opened the door, and walked towards the meditation blankets and cushions, feeling each slow-motion, bare footstep making contact with the hardwood floor. It was a very short walk of fewer than ten steps, but in the piercing silence of the meditation room, it felt intrusive nonetheless.
I sat down silently on my cushion and tuned in to what was going on in my head and body. Most of all, I hoped I didn’t disrupt anyone’s meditation. Do I have a right to be here? Was it selfish to come in a few minutes late?
In meditation, you work with what arises, what shows up. For me, it was the voice in my head that didn’t want to bother anyone or act selfishly. I took a couple of deep breaths and did a body scan, which revealed energy in an area that often feels imbalanced, in a nook right below the center of my rib cage. So I directed my attention there, like a flashlight.
There was some panic in that spot. I was tempted to focus on my breathing instead of the tension. I noticed some resistance to being intimate with that energy and noted: Resistance. Then I realized there was a tender and vulnerable energy beneath the panic and investigated it. It seemed like a young child, and I heard: Am I lovable? Is it okay to make a mistake? Do mistakes make me bad?
This energy called for presence, not for the logical mind to step in and fix things and avoid connecting with and feeling the vulnerability. The childlike sweetness and purity of the questions touched my heart. I wanted to care for this little child.
But then I got distracted. I noticed the sounds outside the door: the whirring of an exercise machine moving very fast with an intensity that was in stark contrast to my stillness on the cushion. I heard voices talking. Were they louder than usual? OH NO! Did I not close the door all the way? Am I responsible for ruining everyone’s meditation?
Paying attention, I once again noted: Panic. I stayed with the source of that energy.
A few minutes later came the most dreadful realization of all: I FORGOT TO TURN OFF MY PHONE! Oh dear God, no! Please don’t let my phone make any sounds! What are the chances I will get a phone notification before the meditation bell rings? Okay, so I have a choice right now. I can hope and pray my phone will remain silent until the meditation is over. Or I could very mindfully and as quietly as possible reach for my bag, unzip it at a snail’s pace, and turn off my phone. Which would be least disruptive? Waiting for the bell did not seem as empowering a solution as turning off my phone. However, I decided to take that risk. Oh meditation bell, please ring soon!
Panic.Choice.Choosing to wait for the bell to ring.Questioning that choice. Noticing the temptation to criticize myself.
Then the bell rang, mercifully. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned off my phone.
After a brief break and dharma talk, we meditated again. I returned to the vulnerable energy at the base of my rib cage and placed a hand on that area to flow Reiki – unconditional love – to it. The energy wasn’t asking for reassuring explanations. It needed love. So I nurtured it with loving presence. How often do I shush that voice and focus on something else, thereby diminishing its importance and not hearing what it wants to tell me? And therefore not giving it what it needs.
After a few minutes, the energy calmed and cleared.
Then I noticed the voices outside the door again. The glorious voices! They were still loud. But that meant I didn’t mess up! It’s just the way the sounds are in that room. Maybe others were irritated by the voices and wished they would be quieter and less disruptive. In which case: Irritation. Desire.
Maybe some were grateful for the sounds of the voices bringing them back from wherever their mind had wandered. Returning. Appreciation.
Maybe when some people come in late, they squelch the voice that wonders if they are lovable, or maybe that voice doesn’t arise in them as it did in me. Maybe they assert their right to be here, and screw anyone who has a problem with it! (Thought bubbles over a roomful of meditators would be hilarious, heartbreaking, mundane, and everything in between.)
In the past, I sat next to people who came in late during meditation and noticed the sound of their rapid, shallow breathing, as if they’d been rushing. Compassion arose in me, and I radiated love to them and honored their intention to practice. Who knows what they went through before arriving. Their determination to attend meditation group was greater than whatever obstacle got in the way. Good for them!
I’ve also witnessed a meditator scowl at a latecomer. And I judged the scowling, thinking: He should just focus on his own breathing and reactions rather than get upset with someone who decided to show up after all. And then I caught my reaction. Judging. Storytelling.
Hello, Ego, my old friend. You nearly pulled me in again.
An observer might think it looks like everyone in the meditation room isn’t doing anything. But there’s so much that arises as invitations for awareness, healing, compassion, self-compassion. You work with whatever shows up. That’s the practice. When other people are involved, there’s an abundance of opportunity for practice because relationships are perhaps our principal means for learning in this world. But there’s plenty of opportunity when we sit alone in a room, too. There’s no shortage of material to work with, whether alone or with others.
At the end of the meditation group, an older woman approached me and complimented how quietly I entered the room and said she wishes others would come in so quietly. She told me she’s glad I came. Someone else might have a different response, a different story, different habits.
But you know what? The energy that arises in me is what I have to work with, and I felt good about how I handled it today, for the vulnerable, child energy received what it needed. The more I can accept and love all the parts of myself that arise, the more cleanly I can relate to others.
Of course, it’s important to get to meditation group on time. But if you are a few minutes late and choose to enter the room – or even if you’re on time or practicing alone – pay attention to the voices and energies that arise. They are there for your healing and liberation. All of them.
This afternoon, a friendly, older couple came into the library with a little girl about eight years old. They asked me to help them locate a DVD and handed me a piece of paper with only the call number written on it: 792.8 COPP. I didn’t need to know the name and didn’t ask.
It ended up being a DVD of the Coppélia ballet. They were taking their granddaughter to see it later this week at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center (SPAC) and wanted her to know the story ahead of time.
I saw the New York City Ballet perform Coppélia at SPAC many times when I was a little girl. It was my favorite ballet aside from The Nutcracker. I told the girl I loved Coppélia when I was about her age and mentioned that the costumes are beautiful, and I think she will enjoy it.
The grandparents’ energy was lovely. Their personalities seemed a lot like my parents’. My mom always made sure I knew the story of the ballets before seeing them, and the grandmother’s excitement reminded me of her love for ballet performances at SPAC. And the little girl reminded me of little me.
My mom worked at SPAC since I was in elementary school and retired a few short years before she died five years ago. When she retired, my parents were given lifetime, complimentary tickets for the ballet and orchestra performances. They always sat in “their” seats in the amphitheater. After my mom died, I accompanied my dad and sat in her seat. Their seats have plaques, and my mom’s bears the inscription:
Nancy Meyer “The Heart of Art of SPAC” From your SPAC Family
My dad’s, on the seat next to hers, reads:
Ed Meyer Nancy’s Husband “Partner in the Arts”
I haven’t been to the ballet or orchestra since my dad passed away. However, thanks to a partnership this year between SPAC and the libraries I work at, I’m going tomorrow evening with my family. I would have loved to see Coppélia, but I’m not free that evening. But it makes me happy to think about the little girl and her grandparents going to see it.
It was a really sweet interaction. However, when I sat back down at the reference desk, my eyes teared up. It was the kind of moment that has become so much rarer than during the early years of bereavement.
Grief is so very, very different now than it was for a few years after my mom (and soon after, my dad) died. It even feels benevolent. There’s still an initial sting, but it subsides swiftly into gentle ripples of gratitude and appreciation. I’m so grateful because grief was intense and overpowering for a while, a flood tide force that knocked me down and threatened to pull me under. There were a few complicating factors that made it downright brutal and certainly the darkest, most challenging years of my life.
It’s not like that now, for I’ve become familiar with grief and have learned to co-exist peacefully with it. Although every now and then a “moment” happens, it’s so much more fleeting than it was before. The sea is quieter. More of a gentle splash than a smack-down.
Within seconds of feeling tears welling in my eyes at the library, a familiar patron approached me with a joke that made me smile. Then he showed me a very marked up book of poetry he carries with him that has some of my favorite poet’s work in it. And just like that, the “moment” had passed.
If a distraction hadn’t come along, I probably would have greeted it silently: Hello, Grief. Then I’d generate lots of self-compassion and compassion for others all around the world who are grieving. That’s what Grief seems to ask of me these days. It wouldn’t have stayed long. It comes to connect me with our common humanity and to help me cultivate lovingkindness.
The moment of grief at the library was poignant but very brief. The brevity made me aware of the contrast between the dark years and now. As soon as I got home, I sat down to write this because I want you to know, if you are grieving the loss of someone dear: It’s going to get better. Grief is impermanent. It changes. Your relationship with it will change. It won’t always feel so intense. In time, there’s even a possibility that Grief will be your friend and reveal its silver lining. Perhaps you’ll even learn to dance together.
It’s incredible out here on the dock this morning. There’s a refreshing river breeze. It’s even a little cool, which is welcome relief from the heat and humidity of the past few days. The waves are lapping against the shore, the sunlight is sparkling on the water, the warmth of the sun is caressing my skin, and the birds are singing. If the water weren’t so choppy, I’d go out in my kayak. But honestly, I’m glad to have an excuse to indulge in a different pleasure this morning: playing my singing drum on the dock.
I’ve had the drum for less than a week but have wanted one for quite a while. Actually, I wanted a hang drum, but they are very expensive and harder to come by. So I began exploring alternatives and then kind of forgot about it until a couple of weeks ago.
I love to play my singing drum. Especially on the dock on a bright and breezy, summer morning.
There’s road noise to contend with. Always is here on the busy side of the river. I hear the familiar vibration of the steel deck bridge and the cars and trucks only a few yards away from my spot on the dock. But I’m trying to keep my attention on what’s most important: what uplifts me and feels most right in this moment. Just letting all the traffic noise be and not pull me away from my own be-ing.
Making music while all this other stuff goes on is this morning’s meditation practice. Choosing to feel and express my interconnection with the sparkling sunlight on the river, the eagle flying over the island, the wind, the movement and rhythm of the water. Focusing on that. Making music with that.
I can’t control the road noise. But I can control where I put my attention and whether I am in harmony or disharmony with my surroundings. Does my music embody union with the sparkling sunlight on the water or resistance to the rumble of traffic rolling by? Am I expressing wholeness or separation?
The state of your mind and heart is an integral part of the music you offer the world, literally and figuratively.
My advice? Play what you love. Focus on what you love, what brings you joy, meaning, satisfaction, grace. Can you keep your focus on that when all the other stuff is going on around you? Can you tune the other stuff out so you can co-create with life? Or even better, can you incorporate it into the totality of what you are living and embracing this very moment and express unconditional presence?
I sense our music is of a higher quality – less fearful and more authentic – when we play (talk/listen/act/love) from a state of presence and interconnection.
It’s all part of a larger practice of being more improvisational and not relying on notes (of one kind or another) on a page. Expressing from the heart in the moment and trusting that whatever arises is what’s most needed and real and true. That’s the leading edge of my practice these days.
When I hit the record button on my phone, I noticed a subtle shift from expressing to performing. From letting the notes and rhythms flow uninhibited to wanting to sound good and be appealing. But that’s a practice, too. A continuum. My intention is to push the record button and remain in presence, whether I’m communicating through music or words. It’s the same basic practice whether it involves playing music, interacting one-on-one, leading a guided meditation, facilitating a meeting or workshop, addressing a group, or teaching a class of young children. In my case, all my early childhood teaching experience has become a foundation for the rest.
Cultivating deep authenticity and trust…in myself and the wisdom inside me. And also in the magic of connection that happens in the moment, that transcends any stories I create in my head about relationship.
I looked to others for guidance and validation my whole life. But that need comes from the false self, which is a layer I’m in the process of shedding. Because it’s time, and I have a feeling that hormones are finally on my side. Now what I want most of all – more than any kind of worldly success or status – is to trust and follow my own guidance. To be MORE present, improvisational, inner- and inter-connected, and LESS self-conscious, rehearsed, and influenced by others. To express my inner being rather than try to be who I think others want me to be. The latter has had a long enough run! It’s time for a new experiment. It’s kind of scary. But even more, it’s exciting.
So this morning, I brought my singing drum to the dock and allowed the sparkles of sunlight on the water to be the notes I played. They looked like this:
And if you’re curious, they sounded something like this:
Aside from logistics, I didn’t really have any expectations for it (which is often beneficial in such situations). And the logistics went something like this:
We needed to be settled in at the retreat center in time for the purification ceremony the evening before the quest. Once the sacred ceremony began, we’d remain in silence for the rest of the evening, the entire next day, and through breakfast the following morning until we completed our opening meditation.
In addition, we’d fast for at least 24 hours, from before the purification ceremony until the vision quest ended the next evening.
I’d chosen and marked my vision quest spot months ago. It was nestled between four trees, at what I believe is the highest elevation point on the property, only a few yards from where we buried my son’s placenta 21 ½ years ago. This spot offered a view of the surrounding hills. I’d also considered a streamside location. However, I felt drawn to a more open, expansive setting with a view and some personal history.
I had to be all set up in my vision quest spot before sunrise (6 AM) and would remain there until sunset (a little before 8 PM). Fourteen whole hours.
My spot consisted of an 8-foot circle, and I was not permitted to bring anything with me except: protection from the elements, something to sit on, water, toilet paper, and a small shovel or trowel. No devices of any sort. Not even a watch to tell the time or a notebook to record insights. Actually, not having access to writing materials is what concerned me most. However, it would be a one-day experiment and an opportunity to try something new. I had to trust that if something really important surfaced, it would come back again.
I also was concerned about the weather forecast, which called for lots of rain and even a thunderstorm. But since I couldn’t do anything about the weather, I’d just have to be prepared and make the best of it.
Although I’d be alone in my circle, I wouldn’t really be alone. Fifteen of my classmates would be vision-questing simultaneously in their own circles scattered throughout the retreat center’s 236 acres. And many years of Hidden Treasure classes before ours had gone through it, too, and were praying for us. I had complete trust in Alice, my spiritual director of more than 30 years who leads the program. I just had to trust the process.
The weather ended up being exactly as forecasted. I barely had time to get set up before the rain began. It was still fairly dark when I secured an overhead tarp to four trees to keep me dry. I also put a tarp on the ground and brought my meditation cushion, yoga mat, and a sleeping bag for warmth.
And so began a long day of relating to my mind and the elements. There were periods of rain – downpours alternating with cloudy or even partly sunny sky at one point. But the rain is what I will remember most about the day.
I mostly practiced various forms of mindfulness meditation (sitting, standing, walking, and lying) and was surprised that very few thoughts and feelings took hold during the 14-hour vision quest.
The experience reminded me of childbirth – knowing it’s going to go on for a long time and having to stay in the moment so as not to become overwhelmed by it. There was plenty of opportunity to go into impatience, dissatisfaction, and frustration over conditions I could not control (i.e. weather and time). However, I kept catching myself and bringing myself back to present moment awareness:
my ant’s-eye view of the ground and the diversity of plant life emerging from it
the dewdrop at the top of every blade of grass – and its eventual disappearance
thousands of maple buds expanding into baby leaves
the sound of birds – quieter during storms, more active in between
the reflection of maple branches and buds in a small puddle on my tarp
my water jug magnifying whatever was behind it
the sound of my roof tarp blowing in the breeze
the mist dancing around the hills after a storm
sensations in my body
thunder and lightning.
It was interesting to see where my mind went to and what resources supported me when circumstances were beyond my control. The resources that carried me through the quest included: gratitude, mindfulness, knowing that this shall pass, and feeling interconnected with nature and my classmates.
Oh yeah, and the mantra: I am a badass. I mean, seriously: I was spending 14 hours in an 8-foot circle alone with my mind and whatever nature served up. Somehow those four words seemed to reframe the whole experience and empower me to keep on keeping on even when the rain was coming in slanted, and only a small spot of tarp remained dry.
Then I thought of the homeless folks I know and how they do this all the time, but not necessarily in a safe place or with the promise of a nourishing meal and a hot shower at sundown or an emotionally and spiritually supportive community to return to.
One moment in particular stood out above the rest. During the brief interlude of mid-day sunshine, I removed my jacket and noticed a tick crawling on the inside of it. That pulled me out of presence and into fear. A few moments later, I saw another tick, roughly the size of a pinhead with legs, crawl across the tarp I was sitting on. All of a sudden, I felt unsafe and questioned the prudence of making myself vulnerable to ticks for 14 hours in the pouring rain.
I wondered if continuing the vision quest experience could become another example of self-betrayal. What if I were to get Lyme disease from the vision quest, which I was doing because I was expected to do it? I latched on to that thought for a while, until I checked in with myself and realized that continuing the quest felt more right than spending the remainder of it in my car.
Killing ticks isn’t easy. However, I managed to liberate both of them from their present incarnations by bashing them repeatedly with my bottle of homemade tick spray. After all, I had plenty of time. And I was a badass. 😉 And ticks fell outside my circle of equanimity and compassion. (More about that later.)
After the tick incident, I spent most of the remainder of the vision quest huddled inside my mummy-style sleeping bag with only my eyes peeking out, feeling like I was in a cocoon.
Not eating or writing wasn’t a problem. It was a one-day experiment, and those were the rules. I was deeply grateful for my mindfulness meditation practice and for an unexpected interlude of sunshine.
It was hard to keep track of where the sun was in the sky because of the thick cloud cover in the afternoon, but I tried nonetheless. In the evening, it was hard to discern whether the sky was getting darker because another storm was approaching or because dusk and the end of the vision quest were drawing near. When I estimated that I had another hour and a half to go, I was delighted to see one of my classmates drive by. Even if they were early, the end was near!
And then it was over. My intuition gave me the green light, and I broke down my setup gleefully and headed back to the retreat lodge, where a comforting meal of carrot-ginger soup, tossed salad, and lemon bars awaited. And a hot shower. After all that (and a thorough tick check), I began to write about my experience.
Processing the Quest
The vision quest itself wasn’t nearly as juicy as processing it was. At first, I didn’t think I had much to write about. I even felt like I didn’t do well with vision-questing and assumed others went deeper and experienced higher states of consciousness. However, when I started writing, lots of stuff came up, including associations with my everyday life. And the comparison and failure scripts in my head were patterns to acknowledge.
Our class, guided by Alice and two other leaders, spent the next two days processing everyone’s vision quest, one at a time. All 16 of us! This was a lot like group dream interpretation. It was rather fascinating and powerful to witness each person processing and integrating their experience. The guides honed in on statements that seemed especially weighty or meaningful and inquired about how the statement applies to the individual’s life. Some deep, emotional processing took place.
I won’t go into great detail about the inner significance of my quest other than to say that the tick incident was probably the most noteworthy part of all and carried the greatest emotional weight. One key statement I made went something like this: “I looked at the tick on my tarp and thought, ‘You could ruin my life!’” I felt fearful of the tick, afraid that more of them would invade my sacred circle, and angry because ticks take me away from connecting more with [my true] nature.
There were some books in the center of our group circle to help us recognize and interpret the signs and omens of nature we came in contact with during our vision quest. I couldn’t find anything about ticks and considered what they represent to me.
Basically, they speak to me of boundary breaches that could result in a chronic condition that can seriously compromise quality-of-life. They get in the way of me doing what makes me feel most in my element, and I felt sad and irritated about that. Disempowered.
I recalled the moments during the quest when I questioned whether I was betraying myself by putting myself out there as tick bait because someone else expected me to do it. Putting other people’s expectations and approval above my own welfare.
There was the issue of ticks during the vision quest, but the larger question was about feelings of fear and self-betrayal, in general. How do they apply to my life? I’ve been close to Alice for more than 30 years, and she’s never led me astray or betrayed my trust, so it wasn’t about her. What did my response to the ticks remind me of? What was it showing me?
The basic theme was about not doing what feels most right, out of fear. Feeling it’s not safe to be my true self. There was lots of processing around that – childhood stuff, current stuff. I even dreamed the night before (after the vision quest) of speaking up and telling my dad how his critical comments in the dream made me feel. It was an “I have a right to be me!” dream that fit perfectly with my vision quest themes.
Don’t let anyone get under your skin and prevent you from living your life! Thus spoke the tick on my tarp.
My marching orders had to do with recovering my self-worth by standing up for myself in certain ways, to certain people. Not giving away my power. Alice suggested some practices that might help.
When I got back home, I googled “tick symbolism”, and what I found resonated strongly and enriched my understanding of what the ticks were showing me.
“This species of arachnid is letting you know that you have too many people in your life that are draining your energy. It’s time for you to step away and learn to set boundaries. These people just have too many expectations of you. It’s not up to you to fix their stuff… Engaging will only instigate ‘drama trauma’ and distract you from your own journey.”
Boundaries. So many opportunities for having healthy boundaries in my life, as scary and intimidating as it may feel. The lesson keeps returning until you finally learn it. If not now, when?
The Big Takeaway
I had my own vision quest that I’m still processing. But what provided the greatest lesson of all was hearing about everyone else’s experiences and listening to them being processed.
We were 16 people who had 16 entirely different vision quest experiences. Rain, hunger, and time were our common challenges. But everyone had a different relationship with them. Seeing my own experience within that context was illuminating.
Some of my classmates appeared to be under-prepared but had a pleasant experience. Others had really good gear, but that didn’t guarantee a pleasant vision quest. Some felt bad because they judged their experience in comparison to others. Others just had a lovely time, and some felt shame because others might envy their experience and wish they had an experience more like theirs. Some didn’t have a tarp and made do. Others took time the evening before to create a comfortable, welcoming space. Some did a lot of planning in advance. Others did virtually no planning.
Nobody else seemed as bothered by ticks as me, though a few discovered embedded ticks after returning home from the weekend. Some dealt with the tick problem by using heavy-duty repellant. Others didn’t really think about it at all until I brought it up. Even though Lyme disease is a serious health concern, and it is wise to protect yourself from ticks when you’re in the great outdoors, nobody else talked about ticks on their vision quest. This helped me to see that my reaction to ticks on the vision quest was my issue and pointed to something deeper in me that called for attention.
The vision quest also highlighted some of my strengths and resources and showed how different we are in terms of resourcing our lives and the gifts we contribute to the world.
I learned that nobody’s experience is any better or worse than anyone else’s. This applies not only to vision quests, but to life in general. They’re all different due to the unique combination of nature and nurture that are at play in our lives. We all have different challenges and resources, and passing judgment on anyone else ultimately says more about how we relate to ourselves than what is true about them. Other people are reflections of us that reveal our blind spots, shortcomings, fears, values, resources, aspirations, etc.
Sixteen different people, the same weather conditions, and 16 completely different experiences that provided me with a new perspective of my own journey and how I can be with others on theirs. Our differences can be our greatest teachers. Learning about our differences can help us to heal and grow, by making us aware of our issues and blind spots, in the first place. Understanding that everyone has challenges and struggles (though they might look a little different from ours) assures us that we are not alone. All beings want to feel happy and at ease, and all beings have challenges that get in the way of that.
So yeah, I have my work cut out for me. But I’m grateful to have greater clarity about how I get in my own way and what I can do about it. And I know I’m not alone. We’re all questing simultaneously in our little circles scattered throughout the planet every day of our lives.