Make of Yourself a Light

I’ve been taken by the morning sky recently, the way that its palette reflects every distinct color of the orange, yellow, and pink range of Crayola’s largest box of crayons. The way it dances across Richardson Bay, anoints Mount Tamalpais, and ignites the underbellies of ascending birds. Winter light seems to have a particularly complex play of shadow and luminosity that calls forth this intensity of reflection. I’m breath-taken by the nuances and shades of light and its capacity to elicit moods - of elation or melancholy, inspiration or hesitation, hopefulness or fear.

In her poem The Buddha’s Last Instruction, Mary Oliver writes:

“Make of yourself a light,”

said the Buddha,

before he died.

I think of this every morning

as the east begins

to tear off its many clouds

of darkness, to send up the first

signal – a white fan

streaked with pink and violet,

even green.

I’ve been trying to take that Last Instruction to heart. I watched a gull overhead in this morning’s early light, it’s body lit up with alabaster tones as it journeyed effortlessly through the air. Ah, to be that lit up, I marveled. What would it take? Shedding of shadow and heaviness, for starters. More time spent dwelling in what’s right rather than what’s wrong. A bent toward gratitude and an open heart for possibility. A commitment to optimism and always giving others the benefit of my doubt. Generosity. Humility in the face of unknowing or lack of understanding. And a whole lot of trust and faith in abundance, in the power of love, in human kindness and truth and justice.

Lest these seem lofty ideals, let me link them to what we do here each week, to the heart of why we come together and sit in silence, to why I strive to be faithful to my meditation practice. I’ve found that, left to its own devices, my mind tends to drift toward chaos and darkness, toward a jungle landscaped with looming hazards, screeching voices, slippery slopes, low-hanging branches and tangled thickets that present formidable obstacles to progress. There’s occasionally quicksand to navigate, too – suffocating heavy wet sand that deadens my limbs and occludes my perspective on life.  I only clearly see just past the end of my nose. My daily interactions become all about me: my needs and wants, my stability and comfort, my very survival. I walk right by the homeless person under a tattered blanket lying on the cold concrete. I bumble around doing mundane tasks while my spouse tries to share the trying events of her day. I grumble under my breath about life’s injustices and people’s greed and malice. My world becomes dark and small, a few square feet of suffering and personal injustices.

On days like this, I’ve learned to take myself outdoors, to Mary Oliver’s playground. There, my perspective widens. It catches the Great Egret tip-toeing throw the shallow water as if on high heels, its Phyllis Diller array of feathers testimony to its lack of concern about whether it’s having a good hair day or the currency and elegance of its wardrobe. I find the sparrows and the chickadees capably scavenging for their morning meal, chattering happily about the menu available in the bracken and driftwood. There’s the slowly-fading waning gibbous moon, too, a bright white linen circle pinned against deepening blue sky.

Allow a few minutes to pass. Now I see a child en route to school tumble from her bike; in a few strides I’m beside her, dusting off striped leggings, consoling, mending ego, sending her along with tears dried, confidence renewed. I recall that it’s the 80^th birthday of a beloved friend, make a mental note to call and tell her how much I treasure her presence in the world. I come upon a discarded paper coffee cup, bend to pick it up. As I do so, a chocolate brown gecko scurries off for denser cover. Its awkward but effective four-legged waddle turns up the corners of my lips.

Other days, I sit myself down on my meditation seat, light a candle, close my eyes, and attune to my breath. I let the gentle cadence of my breath clear my head of images foreboding and terrifying. I invite the stillness to enter my head and slow my racing heart. I take up my mantra – “Openness and Trust” – marinating in the deep receptivity and surrender those words invite. With intention, I soften clenched jaw, release hunched shoulders, relax the furrow in my brow. My breath becomes deeper. Each exhale clears away a little more of the overgrown vegetation in my head. Despite closed eyelids, I’m graced with a soaring bird’s eye view, see myself floating atop a broad, comfortable life raft on the open ocean, body warmed by the sun, no need for navigation, destination, worry. I am right where I am meant to be.

Sometimes during these periods, sharks come and circle my raft – small, mean thoughts; echoes of angry words spoken or received; uncertainty about my future; fears about personal finances; anxiety about drought and floods, plane crashes and horrific terrorist acts. These powerful visions rev up my heartbeat. I lose my breath. My hands and underarms turn clammy, jaw tightens into a vise grip. “Openness and Trust,” I remind myself. I reengage my mantra. I feel myself held. My breath attunes to the ocean’s ebb and flow. I am once again cradles in a strong, sure safety net. My muscles soften as if baked by the sun’s glowing warmth. There is nowhere I need to be but here, no certain moment but now.

I learn over and over again that the project of becoming lit from within demands dedication, humility, surrender, and – at times – a robust sense of humor to surrender to the great mysteries of our human journey. In our meditation practice, we practice all of these, strengthening the muscles that are needed to live a life of awareness, kindness, openness, and focused intention to be of good use in the world. I take myriad lessons from our natural world about the significance of relaxing into the flow of things, of trusting in sufficiency – abundance, even – and of being in the world in ways that elicit inspiration and hopefulness. Each of you helps me to remain dedicated, and always to remember that I am not alone. Humility, too, comes from sharing honestly the ways in which physical and emotional pain can sear and tenderize us; from acknowledging the confusion and profound sadness at man’s inhumanity to man; from expressing to one another our concerns about the grave state of our living planet; and also from calling attention to the mind-stopping beauty of a perfectly-crafted infant, a masterfully rendered painting, a poignant violin concerto, a blazing pink-red winter sunset.

So as the sun descends each day and you, perhaps, quiet your mind, attune to the gift of breath, and settle into a few moments of meditation, I invite you to shine a light on the activities and engagements of the day. May you remember these words of poet Ben Okri (AN AFRICAN ELEGY):

We are the miracles that God made

To taste the bitter fruit of Time.

We are precious.

And one day our suffering

Will turn into the wonders of the earth.

There are things that burn me now

Which turn golden when I am happy.

Do you see the mystery of our pain?

That we bear poverty

And are able to sing and dream sweet things

And that we never curse the air when it is warm

Or the fruit when it tastes so good

Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters?

We bless things even in our pain.

We bless them in silence.

That is why our music is so sweet.

It makes the air remember.

There are secret miracles at work

That only Time will bring forth.

I too have heard the dead singing.

And they tell me that

This life is good

They tell me to live it gently

With fire, and always with hope.

There is wonder here

And there is surprise

In everything the unseen moves.

The ocean is full of songs.

The sky is not an enemy.

Destiny is our friend.