A bumper crop of warmth.

Tags

knitting, retreat, touring, warmth, winter

Shawn and I are on our way home now from a short run of shows in North and South Carolina, where we encountered all kinds of warmth, both from the weather and from the hearts of those who came out to see us.

To our thin New England blood, the temps in Bluffton, SC on Saturday night were especially delightful – it was 82° and sunny when we arrived a little early at the venue!

We met a lot of New Englanders in our travels this weekend, many of whom moved south to escape the very wintry conditions that were actively bearing down upon our New Hampshire home and informing some of my onstage banter. The crowd on Thursday night in Elkin, NC collectively gasped when I told them that our beloved Mount Washington made the national news last month with a record-breaking wind chill of -101°! And I spoke to the Bluffton crowd specifically about the snowstorm that was happening right as we were performing for them, giving everyone a shudder.

And of course, as I was speaking and singing – and looking out the venue windows at the moss hanging from the trees – I was reminded that we would soon – very soon – find ourselves back in our little home, shivering at the cold that our bones have been eager to forget, and preparing for what’s next.

And what’s next is – we’re headed on silent retreat. If all goes to plan, we’ll be entering the silence for a 7 day retreat that starts this Wednesday in Massachusetts. I’ve been looking forward to this so much. As you may already know, I’ve extensively explored previous retreat experiences in this blog – and if you don’t know, go here to get caught up here.

But before that, there is getting home. I’m typing these words as we are pointed north on I-95, and we’ll likely be home by suppertime.

And it’s gonna feel cold when we get there.

And someone in the audience on Saturday night in Bluffton was thinking about that, too.

After we had played our encore to another standing ovation and the crowd began to clear, a woman and former New Englander (whose name I’ve forgotten, and I’m awful with names – forgive me if you’re reading this, lovely lady!) approached me straight away, beaming, and she said, ‘I put all the love and joy from the performance into my knitting tonight and I want you to have this!’ and she placed this beautiful, soft, warm, comfy new hat – pictured above – on top of my head. I couldn’t believe it! I thanked her and gave her a huge hug. Shawn laughed as he looked on and said, ‘You couldn’t have known that Heather’s favorite color is purple, and you couldn’t have known that she has quite a collection of knitted hats!’

I have mused before that my job, at bottom, is giving and receiving joy. I was reminded this weekend that it’s also giving and receiving warmth. I’m looking forward to wearing this hat on retreat this week, and remembering the warmth of kindness and love that isn’t registered in mercury, but in the memories that live in the mind and heart.

Day 9: Give it one more day.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

On the morning of day 9, I could hear one of my favorite refrains ear-worming through my mind:

Give it one more day
One more day
Just when your faith is gone
Give it one more day

Throughout day 9, the last full day of the retreat, the anticipation of post-retreat life was starting to flood my mind with so many ideas for songs and people I wanted to reach out to and plans I needed to make… so many trains of association, whisking me away from my final day on retreat.

I was looking back and ahead – back at a beautiful, and sometimes harrowing, retreat experience; ahead to what would no doubt also be a beautiful and harrowing post-retreat experience!

I noticed lots of emotions bubbling up and falling away – sadness about leaving the tranquility of this place; excitement about reconnecting with Shawn; anxiety about the barrage of emails and messages I’d be juggling in the coming days; inspiration to write and create and think about this whole experience.

And then I would remember, in the voice of one of my favorite YouTubers: ‘It’s just a thought.’

And then, I would walk to the main hall, or fill my lunch bowl with soup, or take a sip of my tea, or tie my boots for my afternoon walk, and remember: There is just this.

I even jotted down these words in my notebook:

Maybe I’m crazy, but I think I’m ready for what the world has in store.

And maybe I *am* crazy, but I still feel ready.

Day 8: There is just this.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

On day 8, Yanai asked us to imagine being a wave on the ocean. You are made of, and surrounded by, water, moving along, compelled by the moon—by outside forces beyond your control. Then you just barely start to notice something on the horizon.

Hmm. What is that?

Oh shit it’s the shore!

*crash*

And now you’re no longer a wave… but you are still water.

This is not forever — but this is for now.

Something about the simplicity of this image really moved me. And when he later said, ‘There is just this,’ I felt the truth of that so deeply that it I find I am still metabolizing it, two months later.

This cup of tea. There is just this.

Titmice at the feeder! There is just this.

I’m walking down the hallway. There is just this.

The car won’t start. There is just this.

I’m worried about getting to the gig on time. There is just this.

This wrap tastes delicious! There is just this.

My friend is really disappointed about what happened at her work. There is just this.

Am I able to access this clarity at all times? Um… no, of course not! I still have lots of moments throughout the day when I lose contact entirely with the present moment. In those moments, I’m usually planning or worrying about the future (I need to remember to email so-and-so back, oh shit, I hope she’s not upset with me) or ruminating about or relishing in the past (things were so much easier yesterday when I wasn’t dealing with my sore shoulder).

Then I will remember to find my feet, or my hands, or my breath, and remind myself: There is just this.

I am feeling worried because I really need to honor agreements.

There is pain behind my shoulder blade.

So simple, and not easy.

Practice makes… easier, not perfect.

‘Time past and time future / What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present.’ -T.S. Eliot

Day 7: That’s how the light gets in.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

Down the hall from my dorm room on the way to the bathrooms, there was an empty dorm room whose door was slightly ajar when I first arrived, and each day of the retreat, I noticed that the door was a little more open than it had been previously.

I looked upon this daily scene as a metaphor for my experience – slowly opening to what is.

Day 7 started as an itchy eye morning. I’d slept poorly the night before, and there was a weariness clouding around me that I was noticing – and also an eagerness to rid myself of it. My body and mind were feeling so tense and exhausted. I really yearned for rest – or so I thought.

I had a brief one-on-one meeting with one of the teachers that morning, and afterwards I was planning to join the sitting that was already in progress in the main meditation hall. In order to do this in the least disruptive way possible, I needed to walk through the lower walking hall and come up the back stairs to take my seat in the back of the meditation hall. So, I made my way down the stairs from the lobby area to the lower walking hall, and as I walked across this giant room, with its high ceilings and linoleum floor, I stopped in my tracks and looked around.

Holy shit, I’ve got this whole room to myself!

Suddenly, I was no longer tired. With my favorite wool socks on, I began skating around the linoleum floor like the kids at the beginning of the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Back and forth, round and round, spinning and swinging my arms around, smiling widely and wildly, giggling with delight.

FUN! I realized. I’ve been longing for some FUN and laughter and play!

Retreat life is so SERIOUS!

I probably spent a good ten minutes doing this – swishing my feet around this big room, the sounds of the furnace rumbling in the background, reflecting on the hush of the hall full of folks above me who were, well, not doing what I was doing at the moment. I giggled a little more.

I had a BLAST!

Then, I was really tired, again, haha!

I slowed myself and caught my breath, feeling completely energized again, and made my way up to the meditation hall.

Naturally, the fun and excitement of having that whole lower hall to myself for those few minutes faded away, and I found myself again feeling exhausted and weary.

I began to take particular notice of the statue of Quan Yin (pictured above) that lives in the back of the main meditation hall, especially in the evenings when the light in the hall was just so.

Cracked down the middle, ravaged by time and entropy, and still she sits.

By the late evening of this day, even in the midst of so many people so dedicated to their practice, I was feeling very lonely. I didn’t want to eat another meal or have another cup of tea or take another walk in the beautiful woods by myself. I wanted to get back to actively sharing my life and my joy and gratitude! As much as I appreciated (and still do appreciate) the experience I was having on retreat, I was giving in to all my longings for home and non-retreat life.

Just before the last sitting, I was in the upper hall with a few others practicing my walking meditation, and as I approached the wall, I let go of whatever thoughts were troubling me and simply looked at what was in front of me. What I saw was my shadow on the wall, and running down through the center of the shadow was a crack in the paint.

The statue of Quan Yin, cracked and resolute.

This image of me, cracked and resolute.

And then I remembered one of my favorite Leonard Cohen lyrics: There is a crack / a crack in everything / that’s how the light gets in.’

And then I thought, I can do this.

A relief washed over me. Every muscle relaxed. Levity returned to take its place alongside my weariness, and I slept better that night than I had since I’d left home.

Day 6: An expression of the earth.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

At some point on the morning of the sixth day, after a night of very little sleep, I jotted down these words in my notebook:

Everything hurts right now.

Cara said to us in the morning instruction, ‘You are an expression of the earth.’

To which I thought, Well, sometimes that expression is a tsunami.

After that instruction, I found myself alone in one of the walking halls (pictured above) and I decided to take a different instruction to heart – the one that invited us to walk precisely how we felt. So, instead of the slow and careful steps I’d been making in my walking meditation practice all week, I picked up the pace a little. I was walking as if to run an errand, and then I was pacing, and then nearly stomping. Back and forth, back and forth. No stopping to pause at the end of the line. No regard for the amount of noise I was making – no need to. I was alone in this room with at least a dozen well cared for plants and a view of the gray sky, which seemed to reflect precisely the doubt and storminess I was feeling.

Wave after wave of doubt-filled thoughts filled my mind:

I did what I came here to do. I slowed myself down. I got away from work and screens and stimulus for a while. Alright that’s it. I miss Shawn and my bed and my instruments and writing and reading and creating. What the hell am I still doing here? Tears of frustration and sadness streamed down my face. Back and forth, back and forth.

And eventually, my pacing slowed, all on its own. My tears dried, all on their own. My breathing slowed, all on its own.

What finally stopped me in my tracks was the sight of a single birch tree out the window, weighed down dramatically by ice and by winter itself, its branches nearly touching the dirt road below – and yet there it was, still rooted, still standing, still reaching for the sunlight.

Later that night during the dharma talk, Catherine talked about our ‘precious flaws’, and I was immediately reminded of the Japanese art form of kintsugi. I imagined my being as a fragile vessel that had been shattered that morning by attachment to the imagined future and then gilded back together by awareness of the present moment.

Sadness, grief, anger – these each rise up and pass away.

The end of sadness, grief, anger – these too rise up and pass away.

That’s what I was there to do – yes, to remember that I’m an expression of the earth – wild and tame, calm and chaotic, tranquil and torrential – and to notice and pay attention to every gust of wind that howled through me and then set me safely back down.

Day 5: Feeling grateful for gratitude.

Tags

gratitude, meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

At the halfway point of the retreat, I had surrendered entirely to the whole experience. I was feeling light and relaxed, and the nature of the things I jotted down in my notebook that day (and there were only a few throughout the whole retreat) were reflections upon specific people at specific moments in my life – people that I wanted to thank, either with a phone call or a letter.

I was, in short, awash in gratitude. Gratitude for the kindness or the friendship or the lesson that one or another person or experience had shown me or taught me at some point in the past.

And then I noticed something else – that I was grateful for the feeling of gratitude itself. It was a very freeing sensation, similar to the experience that is possible when you simply turn your attention upon itself. This deepening of practice invites more curious questions:

Who or where is the one who is thinking/asking/feeling/remembering?

What or where are the thoughts/questions/experiences/memories?

Everywhere and nowhere.

Simply put, there is only now.

That’s it.

That’s always been true, and will always be.

Letting go and remembering this simple fact was and is a revelation, the importance and preciousness of which cannot be overstated.

That’s it.

And I’m grateful to you for reading this and giving these ideas a chance to germinate in the soil of your awareness.

Day 4: Four truthy things and two tricky ones.

Tags

attention, curiosity, meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

By day four, I was starting to look more deeply at two tricky things: attention and curiosity. Some questions bubbled up:

To what or whom am I paying my limited and precious currency of attention, and in so doing, what need am I trying to serve?

and

What is the nature of my curiosity? Is it in service of problem solving, or simply a bright, open interest?

The teachers reminded us of the Four Noble Truths, which I render here in my own vernacular:

1. Life can suck.
2. There are reasons that life can suck.
3. Life doesn’t have to suck.
4. There is way to ensure that life doesn’t suck.

First truth – No argument there.

Second truth – For sure. Death, disease, old age, heartbreak, rotten fruit, cold coffee, traffic, taxes, just to name a few.

Third truth – No argument there either. Health, love, friendship, fresh fruit, hot coffee, empty roads, taxes (okay, okay, not the time and place, I get it…)

Fourth truth – TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME what it is, PLEASE!

And that’s where those two tricky things – attention and curiosity – come into play.

Rather than constantly riding the old familiar see-saw – grasping at the experiences of good health, love, hot coffee, and pushing away thoughts and reactions about death, disease, and slow traffic – I can get off that ride and pay attention to and be curious about the thoughts, emotions, and sensations as they arise. I can notice that I really enjoy fresh fruit, and notice my disappointment when it goes bad before I eat it – and then begin to cultivate a genuine curiosity about it all. To respond with, ‘Wow, isn’t that interesting?’ rather than react with the ‘I gotta figure out how to keep this/let go of that/be better/do more’ rat race.

And yes, I want to learn from past experiences – clear seeing and wise discernment and all that. The key is to go easy on myself as I do so.

Notice, and then let it go. Notice, and then let it go.

Simple, but not easy.

It takes practice.

Which is why going on retreat has been and continues to be so important for me. To set aside distractions and slow down my nervous system for long enough to really notice these things for what they are – impermanent features on the landscape of consciousness. It can open the door to simple and profound insights that usually whiz past all of us at the light-speed pace of every day life:

I’m paying attention to the sadness I feel right now, and I feel sad because I need laughter.

I’m paying attention to the happiness I feel right now, and I feel happy because I need beauty.

I’m paying attention to the annoyance I feel right now, and I feel annoyed because I need support.

And just like that, every emotion – pleasant, unpleasant, neutral – rises up and then falls away again.

And how lucky are I that I get this chance to do any of that?

The way to ensure that life doesn’t suck is to remember that it doesn’t, in fact, suck. It doesn’t anything. Life just keeps moving along. It’s the stories we tell ourselves about it moment to moment that determine the amount to which it appears to suck. Or appears to not suck.

The answers to those questions that bubbled up are going to change just as often as experience itself. Even the mere asking can calibrate my mind and gently point it towards the promised land of equanimity.

But first – I gotta check on those blackberries.

Day 3: Interesting creature!

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat, yanai postelnik

(My seat in the meditation hall, claimed by my scarf before the retreat began.)

By day three, I had begun to settle into the routines of my retreat life – the bells, the meals, my morning service work, the sitting, the walking, the standing, my afternoon walk in the woods, the cups of tea.

My view of the teachers from my chair in the meditation hall, left to right, was Catherine, Yanai, Jess, and Cara. Each one of them was a beautiful and unique embodiment of presence.

Yanai, who sat every day on the zabuton second from the left, offered a reflection at one of the first sittings that really stuck with me. He simply noted how amazing it was and is to be able to look another human being in the eyes, to simply notice them, take them in with curiosity and wonder, and think, ‘Interesting creature!’, that last word rendered as ‘CREE-CHAH!- in the cadence of his New Zealand accent. He used this phrase more than once throughout the retreat.

I noticed that he really lived this, and not just in the hall – in small group meetings, in the lobby, in any common area where teachers and yogis might cross paths, I would notice how warmly he greeted each pair of eyes with his own.

I wanna be more like that.

Then, one morning, I saw something that I could not unsee. In a rather sleepy moment in a morning sitting, I opened my eyes and gazed at the teachers – all four of them practicing in their dignified postures – and I noticed that, from my chair in the back of the hall, Yanai looked as if he had an exquisite pink orchid growing from the top of his bald head. Inwardly, I laughed – and thought, ‘INTERESTING CREE-CHAH!’

At other challenging moments throughout the retreat – when I was feeling lonely, or sad, or bored, or sleepy – if Yanai was on the cushion, I would open my eyes and take in this brief moment of goofiness, and it was always enough to rebalance me, to remind me that, at every moment, no matter what else is happening, I am in a unique position to notice things that are as random as they are beautiful.

Day 2: The ants go marching.

Tags

ants, meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

After sleeping fitfully in my tiny bed, I was about to dig into my first breakfast on retreat when I noticed one or two of them crawling about on the floor.

Sugar ants!

Now, most people would start stomping or at least sweeping them away. Not me! I’m an ant lover. Ants have always been one of my favorite living creatures. They are fascinating to watch. They do everything I also hope to do: They work hard. They work in community with the rest of their colony. They are tenacious. They always do exactly what needs to be done.

Look at them, I thought excitedly as I spooned oatmeal into my mouth. At first, there were only one or two of them. Then, I started seeing more – a half dozen or so, anyway. Then, ten or twelve maybe?

Shit.

The first of five precepts we had all taken the night before at the opening of the retreat was:

Knowing how deeply our lives intertwine,
I undertake the training,
to refrain from harming living beings.
May I respect all life.

I wanna be careful with these little buddies.

Because of COVID protocols, we weren’t all taking our meals together in the dining hall, but bringing them back to our rooms and eating them alone. So, on this retreat, compared to previous ones, I was spending a lot more time in my room, which in my case meant a lot more care both in my steps and to not eat like a slob and give these ants a reason to stick around and then end up on the bottom of my shoes.

One of our teachers, Cara Lai, invited us in a morning instruction to pay close attention to how we ‘let loose’ once we were alone in our rooms, whether it was for meal times, drinking tea, napping, whatever. Away from the social pressures of being with others on a retreat, without screens or other distractions, entirely alone, how do we hold ourselves?

It was very interesting to consider.

Each day, three times a day, when I’d bring my tray laden with delicious food back to my room, I’d be so damn careful when I unlocked the door with one hand, balanced the tray in the other, all while looking closely at the floor as I stepped in.

I remember thinking, How the hell exactly am I gonna ‘let loose’ in here? I actually found it increasingly stressful to be in my room. I felt the inevitable loneliness much more acutely during mealtimes, and on top of that, I was worried about squishing my roommates.

On day 2 of the retreat, I accidentally dropped a nearly empty lunch bowl on the floor, which precipitated a visit to the housekeeping closet down the hall. When I came back to my room later that afternoon, I discovered a single pinto bean I’d missed, and a solid black mass of ants surrounding it. I was thrilled to see them! And, bummed too, of course. But I still got down on the floor to watch them. (I guess I really was letting loose! I don’t have the nickname ‘kid’ for no reason…)

After the dropped bowl incident, the number of roommates dropped back down to the three or four ants that always seemed to be around. There was another day when something else dropped from my tray, something large, dry, and flaky, and I watched another caravan of ants work together to haul it away.

As Spock would say, ‘FASCINATING!’

As the final day of the retreat approached, I was increasingly worried about the room cleaning that everyone was to do before the end of the retreat. How am I going to properly clean the floor without the aid of my cell phone flashlight to see properly and thereby avoid these ants? I really was in a spin about this. Patterns of worried thoughts and strategic planning kept bubbling up in my mind.

Well, ants notice patterns too – because when the final morning arrived, and it was time for the final cleaning/vacuuming/sweeping, I was delighted to discover that there wasn’t a single ant to be found anywhere on my floor. They were safely hiding out of the path of the coming vacuums and mops and brooms.

And then I realized I really had been ‘letting loose’ in my room all along. Obviously yes, in those childlike moments when I was on the floor, watching these creatures… and also in another sense: When I’m alone, free of distractions or a stated agenda, my mind is busy reviewing its commitments, both long- and short-term, and planning best practices to meet those commitments. Reviewing and planning can be stressful, of course – and for me, it can also be really satisfying, and fun, even! I like to stay busy and engaged. Giving the mind a worthwhile task or puzzle is relaxing for me. I really am like those ants – hard working, tenacious, community-minded, striving to do what needs to be done with the skills I’ve got.

And, like them, I’m interested in and curious about whatever happens to show up.

Day 1: Bell ringer.

Tags

meditation, meditation retreat, retreat

I arrived at the retreat center on Wednesday, December 29th, and the first thing I did – after showing my negative PCR test, taking and receiving a negative result from a rapid test, and bidding a tearful goodbye to Shawn – really surprised me.

I always swore I would never be a bell ringer. ‘Too much responsibility,’ I always said.

And then, after I got my room key and visited the bulletin board to sign up for service jobs, without hesitation I picked up a pen and wrote my name in one of the 13 daily slots, choosing 3:45 pm.

Hey, what the hell, I thought. I’m here to pay attention – might as well get curious about my resistance to being a bell ringer.

And after the bell ringing training that evening at 6 pm with a dozen others whose names now filled the remaining slots, I thought, What was that resistance all about?

Turns out that being a bell ringer is AWESOME!

First of all, you get to walk around the entire campus once a day, up and down several flights of stairs. And you get to carry this badass heavy brass bell around. And at a dozen different spots, you get to ring the bell! Making music – I was born for this.

And the sound of the thing. The B flat fundamental, with a super high D harmonic. So full and warm and clear with just the right amount of sparkle. Just stunning.

The tour takes about 10 minutes to complete. And when I was done each day, I would carefully hang the bell, listen to the last ringing fade, then walk to the meditation hall for the 3:45 sitting.

As the retreat went on, I noticed that I really looked forward to 3:30 – ending my walking meditation practice, taking a seat on the square stool, noticing teachers and staff and other retreatants coming and going, watching the clock on the opposite wall as 3:35 approached. I would get a little nervous, excited.

And I noticed my tendency to organize this part of the day around this task – making sure I was in a walking meditation room at 3:00 that had a clock, making sure I was wearing my hat so I wouldn’t get chilly when I went outside in those two places to ring the bell – and my tendency also to stay wedded to time and the keeping of it.

And that is perhaps what I was resisting – wanting so much to relax around this, to not be so serious about and bound to time and punctuality.

So each day, I walked more slowly as I rang the bell. I savored each step, each ringing. I noticed the rhythms of my walking, and of the ringing, and of the bell swinging slightly in the grip of my left hand. I noticed the rhythms of others’ walking when they saw me approach with the bell. Sometimes they would speed up, sometimes they would slow down, sometimes they would stop altogether, or even step out of my way.

And I noticed my longing for the purpose of the bell ringing, and I got curious about that, too. Yes, I enjoyed the music-making aspect, and the chance to break through the silence – and I also loved that I was, in this small way each day, helping the whole community stay on task with this reminder. Each ringing of the bell was my way of saying out loud, Here we are. Let’s practice together. Let’s go get curious about what we’re each and all doing here, alone and together.

And each day we did.

And then I noticed something else start to happen as I sat down each day in the hall at 3:45 – my letting go of the concept of time. I could be a bell ringer, just for those few minutes a day when I was holding and ringing the bell, and then relax when I was no longer a bell ringer. I didn’t need to hold onto the identity, or to time. Others were holding those things now. I could sink into the fullness of my practice, knowing that the teacher leading the sit would sound the bowl when the sitting was over. And then, that someone else would pick up the bell at 5:00 to let us all know that it’s time for dinner. And so on.

On the final day of the retreat, on January 7th, I got to ring the bell one last time, at 9:15 am – the bell that summoned all of us back to the meditation hall for the last sitting together, one last instruction, one last chance to be in that particular place in which to notice everything about our relationship with time, with curiosity, with trust, with the concept of self.

And the bells are ringing still.