A Little Silence

At this time of year in my corner of the planet, parents and children are readying themselves for a new school year. New routines. New schedules. Busy busy busy. As life begins to speed up again after vacations and summer pleasures, it can be hard to find a minute of peace and quiet.

Yet this is when we need it.

It's not hard. All that's required is a desire to relax deeply and turn off the world for a little while. No music. No conversation. All that's needed is a willingness to meet awareness itself – that bright, deep, quiet place where we really live.

Yet for some reason, there's always an excuse to avoid it. No time. And then there's the fact that for many of us, doing nothing feels like a guilty pleasure. We have been so deeply programmed to believe that idle time is unproductive, or that idle hands lead to mischief, we forget that those idle moments are the ones that bring new insight, deep rest, and fresh energy. We forget that silence brings us into the presence of something greater.

In that bright, deep, quiet place, joy rises. Not the superficial joy that might come with an expensive car, or an understanding spouse, or a dog that doesn't pee on the carpet. It goes deeper. It carries us farther. It nourishes and inspires us. As Jane Goodall says, in "Reason for Hope": "And now, if I am sad, or filled with sudden rage, I find some quiet place with grass and leaves and earth, and sit there silently, and hope that they will come and call me with their silvery voices, and make me clean again, those little angels of the trees and flowers."

And, if that's not enough, when we leave that quiet corner, it spills over into everyday life. Appreciation rises effortlessly for the things that are in our life – a new feeling of generosity towards that old beater that carries us to work each day – a new tenderness towards the old dog, even as you mop up the wet spot. New qualities of respect and acceptance unfold naturally.

All that, just from a few minutes of silence a day.

A Little Silence

At this time of year in my corner of the planet, parents and children are readying themselves for a new school year. New routines. New schedules. Busy busy busy. As life begins to speed up again after vacations and summer pleasures, it can be hard to find a minute of peace and quiet.

Yet this is when we need it.

It's not hard. All that's required is a desire to relax deeply and turn off the world for a little while. No music. No conversation. All that's needed is a willingness to meet awareness itself – that bright, deep, quiet place where we really live.

Yet for some reason, there's always an excuse to avoid it. No time. And then there's the fact that for many of us, doing nothing feels like a guilty pleasure. We have been so deeply programmed to believe that idle time is unproductive, or that idle hands lead to mischief, we forget that those idle moments are the ones that bring new insight, deep rest, and fresh energy. We forget that silence brings us into the presence of something greater.

In that bright, deep, quiet place, joy rises. Not the superficial joy that might come with an expensive car, or an understanding spouse, or a dog that doesn't pee on the carpet. It goes deeper. It carries us farther. It nourishes and inspires us. As Jane Goodall says, in "Reason for Hope": "And now, if I am sad, or filled with sudden rage, I find some quiet place with grass and leaves and earth, and sit there silently, and hope that they will come and call me with their silvery voices, and make me clean again, those little angels of the trees and flowers."

And, if that's not enough, when we leave that quiet corner, it spills over into everyday life. Appreciation rises effortlessly for the things that are in our life – a new feeling of generosity towards that old beater that carries us to work each day – a new tenderness towards the old dog, even as you mop up the wet spot. New qualities of respect and acceptance unfold naturally.

All that, just from a few minutes of silence a day.

Control

In my readings for myself, I see the ‘Control’ card often when life is stressful or things are changing fast and I feel like I have nothing to hold onto.

 The best thing to do at these times, is of course, to surrender and let a greater force direct traffic for a while. Yet when I am stressed, that’s the last thing I want to do. My impulse is to tighten my grip. I mean, things could go wrong if I'm not right there to manage them, couldn't they? Others may not understand as thoroughly as I do just what is at stake if things go wrong. 

Well they probably don't understand, but letting go of control is the right thing to do anyway. Even if it means things get messy or go wrong.

It's a blessing to see the 'control' card come up. It gives me pause. What am I hanging onto that needs to be seen? Sometimes it's something as small as the arrangements for a visit or the formatting of this blog post. Sometimes it's big, like trying to manage a loved one's pain. I care about them. Of course I'm going to lean and do what I can. And if the results come up well, I can feel good about it all.

But if it's not coming together, I need perspective. Joanna Macy said, “Learn to trust. You are only a small part of a much larger process, like a nerve cell in a neural net.”

A single nerve cell in a neural net. 

When I feel the tension seeping in, this image helps me find perspective. My little bit is important, but there are powers greater than me who have a say too. When I can pause, the energy loosens right up. It lets in fresh air. 

I don't have to do it all, even if I secretly hope that I, of my own effort, can change the course of the universe. 

Itching for Resolution

There's not much I like better than resolution.

I want friendships to end on a positive note. I like happy endings or at least complete endings in movies and stories. I like puzzles solved, projects completed and the dishes tidied up after a meal.

I'm not alone. Some songs deliberately bring you to the point where you are on edge, waiting for the final notes to play and when they do, you get the payoff. Movies, novels, all are the same.

Years ago, a rock station on the radio played Handel's Messiah on Christmas morning. I love rock and I love classical, so I enjoyed it enormously. Until the clueless DJ moved into commercial during the long pause before the final Amen was sung. It would be going too far to say I was outraged. But it really set my teeth on edge.

Leaving us hanging can make us edgy. Unless we're aware that this sense that something is unfinished is why we're uncomfortable, we can carry that edge around with us like an itchy sweater.

And some people will exploit that. Advertisers will pique our interest in a product they are promoting by leaving us hanging very gently. Posters will go up for a movie they're promoting that raise more questions than they answer. They have to be careful, though. They don't want us to be too uncomfortable, just arouse our curiosity.

Some artists and poets will deliberately leave us hanging - their work designed to evoke emotional unease.

The energy of dissonance all by itself is uncomfortable enough and often can't be avoided. But we can intensify the unease when we add

• expectation (that the puzzle has a solution) or
• anticipation (of the promised payoff) or
• entitlement (that we deserve the payoff)

The sweater gets much itchier.

So it helps to be aware when we are itching for resolution. Then we can see it for what it is and decide where to go from there.

Sometimes it's easy. For Messiah, I pulled out my own recording and listened to the last track again, including the final Amen.  (Hey, it really bugged me.) If I hadn't had a copy of the music, I could have hummed it in my head. The same goes for that desire to go back and finish high school, or that bit of unfinished trim in the bathroom. Sometimes we can just get to it and see that it gets done.

Sometimes it's not so easy. Dirty dishes in the sink may have to stay there for days if we are too busy to do them. The trick there is to see that choosing to resolve it later is kind of a resolution in itself. It's not just hanging there - it's been decided. This can take the edge off because we have decided to defer the payoff.

But sometimes there is no possible resolution. Life is full of unanswered questions, incomplete stories, unresolved relationships and sad endings.

The poets and artists and musicians who deliberately leave us hanging could be doing us a favour. They give us a chance to explore that edgy feeling, to see what dissonance feels like in our body and emotions. And when we explore it openly and really become aware of it, we often find out that the dissonance is quite oddly pleasant, in a weird way - it feels bad in a good way. It's the expectation, anticipation and entitlement that we add to that awkward sensation that transforms it into a deeply itchy sweater.

So the next time some clueless DJ leaves me hanging before the song is really over, rather than reaching for my own copy of the music, maybe I will linger a little while in dissonance. Maybe I'll see how much of the itch is the feeling itself and how much is my desire for resolution.

One Bad Apple

One bad apple will spoil the whole barrel. Walking along, letting a worried thought, or an unresolved problem linger as I walk through the forest is just the same thing. The fresh breeze is a bit less fresh. The scent of food smells a bit less delicious. The memory of a friend dims.

So toss out the bad apple, and settle in the whole experience, the fresher, more delicious, sweeter experience. It's literally more wholesome.

Our Thoughts Create Our Reality

If we are lucky, we come across this truth at a time when we can take it in.

It's the very first verse in the Dhammapada. "With our thoughts, we make the world. Speak or act with an impure mind and trouble will follow you as the wheel follows the ox that draws the cart. ... Speak or act with a pure mind and happiness will follow you as your shadow, unshakeable."

In this picture of a willow tree blowing in the wind, I can't see the wind, but I can see its effects. If my thoughts are full of one complaint after another, I may not see the thoughts, but I can see the anger and confusion in my daily life. If my thoughts are sweeter, I may not see the thoughts, but I see the positive effects.

Our approach to life shifts when we understand this truth. How we live is never the same again.

Life gets better.

The Inner Pulse of Nature

The hotel where I stayed for a few days is right in the heart of Toronto, surrounded by glass towers, every surface nearby covered with concrete. Yet they have 30 foot high trees growing from the 3rd floor poolside, and they have an open air waterfall garden that is home to sparrows.

As I looked out from my window to the trees down below, I marvelled that they can hold the same wonderful energy as trees 'in the wild.' Surely this strong man-made environment must somehow deplete or taint the natural energy of the trees. I watched them and felt them, to see what differences I felt. What I discovered was that they still carry the deep vital energy and joy of the living tree. Nothing was missing.

On reflection, I realized that trees in the wild are never 100% perfection. They have to deal with forces beyond their control and conditions that may not suit their optimal growth. Even in untouched-by-man wilderness.

I took my observations farther and got a sense of the concrete and metal and glass. I discovered that even the 'non-living' environment of concrete carries some of its previous natural energy – the lime and the stone and the water that made it bring together a man-made energy signature that is very similar to the old, deep unfathomable and wonderful energy of ancient rock. I get the same strong sense of depth in the heart of the city as I do when I drive north of Toronto and stand on the ancient rock of the Canadian Shield.

Maybe it's what we pay attention to that matters. If I'm wishing there was a better concrete-to-tree ratio then I might miss the life of the concrete, I might miss the joy in the trees planted so far from the ground. Perhaps sensing the inner pulse of nature in the heart of the city helps me remember we're not as far from nature as we might think.


(first posted July 2011 for the Starry Night Ezine)