Disorientation

Every two months, a group of aspiring yogis and yoginis come to Mt. Madonna for the Yoga, Service, and Community work-study program. It’s the same program I joined just over a year ago, back when I thought I would stay for only 2 months. Now, I work with the team of people who run the program, who hold the space for the fresh faces and open hearts that cycle through. The first few days of the program include an orientation to the land and the work, as well as the culture of the place. An immense amount of information gets relayed, but it still only acts as a sort of cover page to the fascinating history book that has been written over the last 30 years on this mountain! As part of orientation, we spend a couple hours the first morning introducing ourselves, sharing our own history. The last session was the first time I participated in the introductions as a facilitator rather than a participant, and it took place exactly one year to the day that I had arrived here on the mountain…and a funny thing happened.

It was an odd sensation to look around the room, reflecting on the year that had passed and the huge changes to my lifestyle that my decision to be here had required. I decided to speak first at this introduction and shared the sense of surreality that I was feeling. I talked about the first time I had introduced myself and reflected on the fact of how rooted I felt at that time, rooted in the identifications I had described. I had finished an intense 2 years of grad school, had left a frustratingly failing relationship and a dead end at my job, was walking away from a dead feeling in my living situation (haha—how ironic!) and was searching for spiritual community. I was Job seeker, Spiritual seeker, Broken-hearted, Betrayed, but ultimately Hopeful.

But this year, I didn’t feel so connected to that story, or collection of stories, anymore. In fact, I wasn’t sure how to relate who I was anymore, since life and the way I used to identify myself seemed sort of beside the point. It was hard to explain how I perceived myself, since the labels seemed false and most of what I knew about myself seemed more internal now, and very much still in process. I felt like I had painted a picture of my life thus far with that introduction a year ago, and then had started climbing up a hill. When I looked back at the same vista now, it didn’t look the same as it did a few hundred meters below, but I hadn’t yet reached a decent lookout to get a new perspective on the scenery; there were still some trees blocking the long view.

I have been reading up on various spiritual paths, and the immediacy of Zen appeals to me in that it seems to strip away to the truth so neatly. If I ever need to cut the trees out of my field of vision, I look no further than Adyashanti or Nisargadatta. Nondual teachings remind us that the divine is here now, we simply realize it. But to do this, we release the conditioned mind that keeps us locked into rigid identities that have nothing to do with our ultimate, infinite selves. All the stories we tell about ourselves—and more disastrously, believe about ourselves as True—prevent us from connecting to what is bigger and truly True about us. Furthermore (this part really interests me), when we’re stuck in a patterned way of acting based on what we believe ourselves to be, we limit our creativity too, because we are not able to create new solutions or try new behaviors or grow at all. Learning ceases and compulsions set in. It’s easy to sleepwalk through life in this state, which is why the aim is always to awaken…

So, sitting in the introduction circle this year, I thought, whew, how refreshing to not be entangled in some identification of myself as a particular role! This must be what the Masters are talking about, and here’s my chance to practice it. And I did feel good, explaining to the group what my experience was right then, which was pretty textureless of my own story. Well, that good feeling lasted exactly 30 minutes, until the introductions got halfway around the circle, and then I felt frustrated and stupid. I was sitting in the midst of people sharing with such honesty about their trials and their mental illnesses and their physical tests and their broken relationships and I felt I had offered nothing and shared nothing. I felt selfish and cut off, which is really sad in a community of people I want to connect with. I felt like I missed my chance.

After the circle, the feelings starting boiling up and snagging onto all kinds of old feelings and memories and the stories that went along with the uncomfortable feelings. And it just kept growing like a tidal wave, until my wonderful idea of not spewing my story like a personality resume suddenly seemed like it might be the undoing of me! I felt whipped into a frothy panic. This lasted for several days, in which time I tried to journal, meditate, talk to people I trusted, and just be aware of the panic without trying to redirect it into a glass of wine or an indulgent social interaction or exercise or just plain denial. Well, denial wasn’t a real option—although I could hardly believe such a small thing had touched something so deeply disturbing to me, I couldn’t deny that it had. I stay pretty cool usually, but when I get rattled, I skip right over worry and move straight into terror.

Ultimately, through shaky tears, I sorted a good bit of it with a mentor and realized that while it makes sense that I feel distant from a storyline now, the not sharing felt to me like not being known—it felt too close to the alienation and loneliness I felt growing up, and it reminded me of how invisible I often felt next to the unending emotional needs of my mother. The panic was playing out in my body the same way it had decades ago, fed by a fear that I was invisible in this cage of caretaking and would no longer cease to exist as a person with my own needs. And not only that, but this time, I actually did it to myself—abandoned myself right in front of all those honest people and hindered the possibility of connecting by not giving anyone anything to work with. (At least, that’s how the accompanying story to the panic went.) Now I understand why it’s so hard to just drop those conditioned identities—I had spent years building them up as my way of re-creating myself and now this subtle fear: that I had nothing without them. And Jesus, the sensation almost convinced me! I mean, panic is very persuasive. But after being myself with my friend and colleague (an antidote, I figured, to get at the original fear), and working through many other layers of the froth (there is always more…), I felt better. In fact, it became a good opportunity to connect in a way I hadn’t before, and this was true for the other people I talked with, too. As my friend Andrew pointed out, this experience was a good reminder that we are separate beings, that we are alone ultimately in this realm, until we are truly connected with our ultimate Self. In some ways, feeling that loneliness so early on in life was a blessing, because I learned that no earthly thing can ever stop loneliness for good (though I still forget sometimes and try to mitigate it.)

For now, I still want to focus my energy on becoming more than a role; I want to continue my intention that I had a year ago to incorporate my practice in my own body instead of trying to learn something so I can make other people better by teaching them what I learned (yes, I know I have a tendency to do that). I want to do this for me, and if it happens to inspire someone else, that’s great, but it is not my goal. I love the idea of becoming less Personality and becoming more Presence, even though I know now that it may be very uncomfortable moving toward that. Because my ego still wants some recognition, still wants some company, still wants some rules.

Today a new group arrived, and tomorrow morning I will introduce myself again. I wonder what will come out this time. I don’t want to identify completely with all my roles as rigid bastions of who I am, but I do want to honor all the parts of my life that I do value. I want to learn to balance the valuable parts of my own unique humanity as the lovely scenery surrounding me, with the quiet, peaceful place I am climbing toward. I think the story will have something to do with my mother, with my escape to California, with a particular relationship that has acted like a karmic knot I continually try to understand and unravel. I think I might include my fascination with psychology and my years of personal experience with a therapeutic path. I want to include some strokes in there about writing, organizing, and communicating as my art forms and the beautiful community of friends I connected with through the music and art scene in San Diego. And I should probably warn them up front that I can cry at almost any second of any given day. But who knows? We’ll see tomorrow.

Spring Turkeys

Well, I came to Mt. Madonna with the idea of experiencing life in spiritual community, inspired by a love for social dynamics and my own spiritual quest. I am embarrassed to have not included the natural world in that definition, except at the conceptual level, until now. But now, here we are, all the animals and all the people and all the plants and myself. They, carrying on around me, doing their own important work while barely paying any attention to me. Far from relying upon us or anything we might provide, the animals simply tolerating us and allowing us to share their space. Humbling indeed. So, I guess my exploration of the concept of community is expanding everyday. And lately, the natural cycles of this community have brought wild turkeys in hot pursuit around my home and I want to share it with you!

Last summer was my first experience of turkeys roaming wild in the forest. Now, where I grew up in Virginia was actually poultry country—we had a poultry parade and a poultry queen every spring and one of the rival high schools had a turkey as a mascot (the Broadway Gobblers). But turkeys walking around in numbers, grazing on the lawn at dusk, and even roosting in the tall redwoods in the evenings, is not the same thing as a truckload of squashed, feathered bodies, or even a bunch of turkeys on a farm. So, last summer I became acquainted with these wild birds. In the morning light of my previous house, I would sit with my breathing practice, and hear rustling leaf-crunching outside. Looking out, I would see a dozen or so birds, an orderly family traipsing up through the canyon, the baby turkeys distinguished only by their smaller size. They were so cute! Just a miniature version of the adult birds, walking double-time to keep up.

Now that almost a year has passed, they are all the same size as they ruffle through the woods, kicking leaves as they peck around for food. All the same size, that is, until the male birds start their posturing. This is the part that is blowing my mind lately, because their mating shows are amazing! First is the size and embellishment –the toms go from mediocre color and size to the stoutest, most solid beasts you can imagine. In full presentation, their covering looks not like feathers, but more like fur or fat to me. The iridescence and patterning on their bodies is completely surprising, with layers and textures and gorgeous detail. They turn and display and hold open the show and I wonder to myself if this requires muscle, or concentration, or maybe some chemical, to pull this off. It seems it would be tiring.

Meanwhile, the lady turkeys are either: 1) very good at multi-tasking, 2) unimpressed and not even bothering to look, or 3) putting on a very good show of their own by playing aloof. They wander on, kicking leaves and apparently focused only on grazing. This also amazes me, because even if the ladies don’t notice the plumage, the sound is just as convincing. The gobbling, which sounds comical at a distance, is thunderous and arresting up close. The deep bass quality seems to be pulsing out of a barrel in their chests. And the after-echo reminds me of a big rock being dropped into a lake. And then, after a quick running start, they flick open their tails with an impressive humming vibration. This sound I would liken to the light-saber sound effect in Star Wars as it slices the air. I actually heard this sound a few times before seeing it; this time, I sat in my house, debating the relative level of my sanity (once again that is—it’s a daily habit to be honest…) and trying to figure out what I might discover, before peering out my door and being treated to the best backyard nature show ever. (cue David Attenborough).

Well, the Gobblers certainly make more sense to me as a proud, formidable mascot. And I have also learned that turkeys are considered very sacred animals in the Native American tradition, representing renewal, fertility, and gratitude and sometimes symbolizing psychic abilities, much like the peacock. Seeing their display, I remembered the stepping, fanning, drumming dance I've seen at Native American pow wows and could finally understand the powerful spiritual connection. What fascinating and surprising creatures.

I got some great photos from my window after they walked around my house, and even some video so you can see the dance—step, step, step, WHIRR! The stills show 2 toms vying for the attention of a female, but by the time I took video, the male with the notch in his tailfeathers had already outlasted the other and took the center stage.

Who needs TV around here?