Hi, all!
If you are not familiar with the poem, “The Prophet On Love” by Khalil Gibran, and you’re iffy on reading this mega-long blog entry, I bolded the title. Scroll down—far down—and take a listen.
Vision quests are a profound coming-of-age experience traditional to many societies, so long as they have ancient roots. On a vision quest, a young man (women, too?) will go into the wilderness in search of complete seclusion while on a total fast, pray, beg, plead, and cry for a grand vision to guide his or her life.
When white people say they’re going on a vision quest, I always think, “There goes a goofball.” Well, last night, I became that goofball.
As my friends and family know, I’m a beginning teacher. At the end of the school year, I was let go due to budget cuts, and, ever since, I’ve been trying to envision what shape my next job should take.
During the month of June, I spent ten days meditating, and then spent the following week receiving fresh ideas about what it means to educate people. Even after all that input, I’m still not sure whether I want to seek another job in the classroom. Partially, that is because I wonder whether tutoring or working in a homeschool environment might not be a better fit for me. However, I still contend with the internal brow-beating about not abandoning America’s huddled masses by departing the public school classroom after one year. Then, I laugh at myself for being such a push-over. One year!? That whole line of thinking is a mess.
Another reason I’m not sure about re-entering the classroom is because I have several other interests beckoning me. I’m a certified yoga teacher. I didn’t teach immediately after graduating because I didn’t feel self-confident, but, now, I feel ready, so I would like to find out how good of a fit that could be for me. I’ve recently also become a fitness nut thanks to P90X, and there’s an opportunity to coach people to new levels of fitness within that arena, as well. Third, I really enjoy doing web-design, and I’ve got a talent for it, but I’m not a trained professional, so, while I can definitely prepare logos and sites for friends and colleagues, I’m not sure that I could convince a studio to hire me with my present ability level. I also have some really nice photographs that I’ve taken, I’ve got concepts for spiritual performances, and I like to write, so maybe I can just do six things concurrently? I’ll tell you the feedback I get on that notion. A ‘no’. And not just from my mother. It’s a pretty resounding ‘no’. It seems I need to focus more.
Another important piece of advice I’m considering. I have two close friends. People who I grew up with. People who love me, and whom I love. Both of them have recently finished graduate school and have professions. (At the moment, the gamble of investing to learn a profession looks way too risky to me.) They were by my side at my best friend’s wedding—groomsmen all—and we talked a lot during the weekend. Over dinner one night, they bent my ear about the way my career choices look to them: poorly planned. They recognize that I enjoy doing what I’ve done, and that a cookie-cutter career just isn’t going to satisfy my soul, but they see me repeatedly leaving myself with few options due to poor earnings, which they chalk up to not making a longer-term plan. Sound advice, I think, and long-term (even 5-year) planning DOES NOT come naturally to me. Ahem.
Finally, I am broke people. I made a good salary as a teacher, but Carnegie Mellon University was not grooming me to live on a teacher’s salary, and CMU gets they money—end of story. So, I really have to be responsible at the present juncture in whatever means of livelihood I choose.
This leads to why I chose to carve out 24 hours from my life to try the prayer equivalent of diving into the deep end of the pool. I left in the late afternoon, with no ancient tradition to guide me, and my sights set on Lake Lewisville. The hatch of my PT Cruiser had all the bare essentials: tent; sunscreen; my dinner, breakfast, and lunch on ice; pen & paper. When my phone’s GPS showed my blue dot nearing Lake Lewisville, I noticed my phone was hot. My battery was going down way faster than normal for a reason I still don’t understand. I started relying on brown state park signs. There was one arrow pointing to a Walnut Grove, a park that had a little picture of a tent next to it, so I followed it. I pulled into the parking lot, and saw some tents pitched on a green lawn not far from the lake shore. It’s very picturesque: lots of grassy lakeside, scattered picnic tables, large shady trees—walnut, I presume—some that stand alone, spreading their shade wide, and groves, too. Long, inviting groves.
My plan was to try get engaged with my internal process throughout the evening, then get a good night’s rest, and pick up the thread again in the morning. I noticed, in spite of a few families with their campers, there were vast areas of the park left empty, and as a result the surroundings were almost silent. “Perfect,” I thought.
As I drove the park to get my bearings, I noticed clip boards with official documents posted at each camping pad. I looked for a ranger station, but there wasn’t one. I found a bulletin board that explained the procedure for getting a camp site. It had to be done by 5:00 PM. It was 6:00. An alternative was given. Visit the park’s website, and, if you don’t need utility hookups, you should be good to go. So, with my phone’s battery low, I browsed to the site, and navigated awkwardly on the small screen to firm up my plans for the night. In spite of the bulletin board’s guidance, the registration system would not offer me a reservation for the same night. There were six empty camping pads sitting there in front of me. I was drooling.
I considered my possible courses of action. Could I leave my car in the parking lot and run off into the woods with my tent where no patrol officer would bother to search for me? Could I pull into one of the pads, set up camp for the night, and chance it that the rangers wouldn’t patrol that night? Or, if they did, could I plead my case successfully? Or what about buying a reservation for the next night, just to square myself with Lake Dallas, and sleeping there tonight? What about keeping vigil all night, staying involved in my prayer and meditation, within eyeshot of my car, so I could approach an officer before he had a chance to ticket my vehicle?
I shook my head. Although I couldn’t deny the funk that this uncertainty had thrown me into, I realized I was straying away from the useful purpose of my visit to the lake by letting my thoughts become preoccupied. It was only 6:00. There were hours of time before I would need to make a decision. No matter how late it got, even though it would feel like I was throwing in the towel on my “vision quest,” I could always drive the long haul back home, if I needed a place to sleep. I decided to just dig in.
Of course, yesterday was very hot, 105 and more, at times, but that was greatly relieved by the lake breezes. Really. Even though the temperature was quite bearable in the shady park, there was something else pushing down my momentum: I had worked out so hard the previous two days that I was still tired from the work outs when I woke up the following morning. My legs felt like lead. However, I refused to waste a valuable moment like this: all the pieces were in place for personal gain, and I wanted to see what that gain might amount to. I decided to take a walk because I thought a walk might help me become more alert and ready to focus on my questions, rather than just being open-eyed in a mental fog caused by the tiredness still dogging me at 6:00 PM! Walnut Grove has a paved walking trail, so I headed over to where the path began. The trail was nice and shady, but it bent around the groves, and stubbornly refused to go into the woods, so I ventured off the path. As I entered the wilderness, it looked like a mowed path, but that quickly came to a stop. I sat on a fallen log for a few minutes trying to get into a more mindful space, but I was deterred by a few mosquitos who shortly decided to invite their friends for a dinner party.
After my walk, the fog had only lifted a little, but enough that I became aware my present need for rest should be honored. I was a little thirsty, so I decided it was time I went to my car to get out one of the three 2.5 L bladders of water I had brought. I carried it with me to a park bench far away from the campsites, and laid down. As a pillow, my water bladder was very passable, and I was asleep in the breezy shade in no time. When I woke up, my boots no longer felt so heavy, and I knew I had finally laid the foundation to begin. I returned to my car and got my books, then I walked away from the orange buoys marking the swimming area, away from the sand volleyball court, past the fishing pier, and around a small grove to a sandy stretch of shoreline where the water was calm and I could see a white crane fishing on the opposite bank.
The first thing I did was read the Lord’s Prayer, which was a beautiful thing to do since I realized that He had led me beside still waters.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
I watched the gentle motion of the waves for a while, moved by a sense of gratitude, then, I set down the little pamphlet given to me by the unexpectedly God-intoxicated woman in her antique shop so long ago, and picked up Khalil Gibran. I read, “The Prophet On Work.”
You work that you may keep
pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.
For to be idle is to become
a stranger unto the seasons,
and to step out of life’s procession,
that marches in majesty and proud submission
towards the infinite.
When you work you are a flute
through whose heart the whispering of the hours
turns to music.
Which of you would be a reed,
dumb and silent,
when all else sings together in unison?
Always you have been told
that work is a curse and labour a misfortune.
But I say to you that
when you work you fulfil
a part of earth’s furthest dream,
assigned to you when that dream was born,
And in keeping yourself with labour
you are in truth loving life,
And to love life through labour is to be intimate
with life’s inmost secret.
But if you in your pain
call birth an affliction
and the support of the flesh a curse
written upon your brow,
then I answer that naught but the sweat of your brow
shall wash away that which is written.
You have been told also life is darkness,
and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.
And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,
And all urge is blind save when there is knowledge,
And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,
And all work is empty save when there is love;
And when you work with love
you bind yourself to yourself,
and to one another,
and to God.
And what is it to work with love?
It is to weave the cloth
with threads drawn from your heart,
even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection,
even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness
and reap the harvest with joy,
even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion
with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead
are standing about you and watching.
Often have I heard you say,
as if speaking in sleep,
“he who works in marble,
and finds the shape of his own soul in the stone,
is nobler than he who ploughs the soil.
And he who seizes the rainbow
to lay it on a cloth in the likeness of man,
is more than he who makes the sandals for our feet.”
But I say, not in sleep
but in the over-wakefulness of noontide,
that the wind speaks not more sweetly
to the giant oaks
than to the least of all the blades of grass;
And he alone is great
who turns the voice of the wind
into a song made sweeter
by his own loving.
Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love
but only with distaste,
it is better that you should leave your work
and sit at the gate of the temple
and take alms of those who work with joy.
For if you bake bread with indifference,
you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man’s hunger.
And if you grudge
the crushing of the grapes,
your grudge distils a poison in the wine.
And if you sing though as angels,
and love not the singing,
you muffle man’s ears
to the voices of the day
and the voices of the night.
I re-read the stanza that answers the question, “And what is it to work with love?”
“It is to weave the cloth
with threads drawn from your heart,
even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.
It is to build a house with affection,
even as if your beloved were to dwell in that house.
It is to sow seeds with tenderness
and reap the harvest with joy,
even as if your beloved were to eat the fruit.
It is to charge all things you fashion
with a breath of your own spirit,
And to know that all the blessed dead
are standing about you and watching…Work is love made visible.” If one answer became clear to me in the hours still ahead, it was this.
I read another poem in Gibran, “The Prophet On Love.”
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses
your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.
When I reached the line, “For even as love crowns…” a wave of emotion broke on the shores of my spirit, and tears cleansed my vision. “He assigns you to his sacred fire…” Oh, my sweet Lord. (I’m crying again. Are you?)
I looked out over the crystalline water. It was about an hour before sunset. I picked up the New Testament, and flipped to a familiar book. I read about the visitation of the Holy Spirit, and the power of baptism to commit one’s life to the Christ spirit, free from shame, born anew. I walked to the water’s edge, knelt, and washed my face in the Ganges of Christ’s infinite mercy, not asking for any miracles, just a guy washing his face in the lake. I stood up. In my waterproof boots, I had no fear of walking into the shallows. I found myself surrounded by water. I watched the beautiful lila of diamonds and obsidian under my gaze, and I thought of the man with the power to take the next step and be held. “What do you have for me God?” I thought. The moon was out yesterday, and, as I continued to say my prayers, and take in all the unremarkable things made remarkable, its radiance gradually increased while the sun set over my right shoulder.
I started feeling an urgency to decide what to do. Should I go home? To help clear my mind, I stepped into the shallows again, and did some pranayama in a salute to the moon, imagining what its waxing might mean in my search for new life. A thought, notable by its abrupt appearance, made itself known: “You’re not far from Denton here. Why not go to the Rudra Center?”
I got in my car, and started heading for Denton. Because Walnut Grove is just off highway 35, I knew the way, so I didn’t waste my precious phone battery by turning it back on. I had in mind to save it for emergency calls. Once I neared Denton, I followed signs for TWU, and realized I had no idea where the center was. I hadn’t been there since the night of the winter solstice six months before. Imagining I might be able to search Google Maps once before it have out, I turned on my phone. I typed in “Rudra Center” and got no results. I was near downtown, now. “Meditation”—nothing. I was disappointed. My eye started roving for a 24-hour diner, as I tried to get the lay of the land. My phone was going to shut down any second. I typed in “yoga,” and saw a familiar listing for a studio called the “Yoga Hut.” It was about five blocks away, to my left. My phone cut off.
When I reached the location I had seen, it was indeed the Rudra Center, that chimera with its spa, yoga studio, sweat lodge, et cetera. There’s no gate or anything to keep curious passersby out at any time of night, so I walked straight into the garden like I owned the place, and started listening to see if anyone was awake. No one was. I thought about making myself at home in the garden, unannounced, but I just didn’t feel comfortable. I’d only met Silver Ra, the head-cheese, once. However, I did know which house was his, and, at 10:07 PM, I knocked on his door. I thought I heard some noises inside, and I was so nervous about disturbing him I looked at the ground. Yep, someone was definitely in the entryway, now. I saw the light click on. Silver opened the door, and looked at me without recognition.
“Yes?”
“Um, hi. I’m Thomas. I was here at the Winter Solstice pipe ceremony. Do you remember me?”
I thought I saw a vague memory of me flicker across his face.
“Well, anyway, I’m kind of in the middle of a vision quest right now, and I was wondering whether I could meditate in your garden tonight.”
His face softened. “Sure,” he said.
“Okay, goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
There couldn’t possibly be a place in Denton that I could feel more connected than I do in the gardens of the Rudra Center. As I walked passed a large stone carving of Ganesh resplendent with costume jewels, a Tibetan yellow scarf, and ringed my many modest offerings, my heart opened to what was awaiting me.
As I stepped into the yellow light of the garden path, with all its ivy, and stone buddhas in beautiful carved stupas, I looked to my left, and saw a large wooden pavilion, with a lattice-work roof, open to the night sky, and a generous dais made of planks. At its rear something gorgeous was carved. It looked like flames, with a phoenix at the center, surrounded by three yin yangs, one to the left, one to the right, and one below. I took a meditation posture, and the garden light cast the shadow of my head directly into the central yin-yang. Being the vain person that I am, I budged slightly to get it just right.
I kept vigil there all night, telling myself, “Don’t fall back on your Vipassana. Use awareness of breath just to get centered: you’re praying for vision.” During the first watch of the night, I crafted myself a prayer…
It’s time. Shaktipat, to be followed immediately by Bhakti Fest. Come, come, people of the world, to the gracious flow, the gracious flow of dhamma. In the words of Beethoven, “From the heart it has come, to the heart may it go.”
To be continued…
