Music as a way to deepen focus

Whether I'm speaking as a photographer or as a contemplative, I cannot really carry out my tasks without some awareness of the importance of focus.

For years, working often in low light situations with long lenses, focus was a real issue for me as a photographer, and I was forced to discard numerous images because they were out of focus when I wanted and needed them to be sharp.

Now, of course, with digital cameras, auto focus, and Vibration Reduction, focus is less of an issue for me, even though my own vision has become somewhat less reliable.  And now it's more of a challenge to find ways to SOFTEN focus; to convey shapes and colors without getting distracted by specific identities.

... which is not so different from my struggles in meditation: it's hard to keep my mind unfocused; hard to rein it in, to keep it from galloping off like a puppy after every butterfly of a thought that flutters across my mental horizon.

So it was with great joy that I discovered the power of music this morning.  I've always loved music: both my parents were musicians, my first husband was a musician, and I've been singing in choirs and other choral groups since I was two.  But until this morning I've not tended to include music as part of my meditation practice.  Today, however, I embarked on the Spirituality and Practice website's course on Interspiritual Meditation, and we are invited to begin every day with a guided meditation that they provide.  That guided meditation is delivered to the accompaniment of sacred music from every major discipline -- The Monastic Choir of St. Peter's Abbey, Camille Helminski, Carlos Nakai, Swami Atmarupananda doing a sanskrit chant, and the Monks of Gyurme Monastery doing their deep intonations -- and punctuated throughout with a deep gong.

Omigosh -- I had forgotten how much deeper music can take me.  And to go into that deep space with such clear intentions is exactly what I've been hungering for: suddenly my focus has been moved from the yammering of my egoic brain into that deep unitive space where I can begin to care for all of creation.

So, on the off chance that you might have been struggling with focus as well, and might be as susceptible to music as I am, I heartily recommend you try meditating to music a few times, just to see if it helps.  I also heartily recommend this e-course.  I'm really looking forward to hearing from all these spiritual masters about finding ways to unite various spiritual disciplines.  But at this point I feel I've already gotten my money's worth -- just with this one meditation.

Hmm.  Maybe I'll start meditating TWICE a day instead of just in the mornings... it could get addictive... 

Step 3 of Interspiritual Meditation: Transformation

I found these intriguing circles when I was out on my foggy day last week, and can't help but be curious about them.  How did they come to be here?  Do they have a purpose?  And what -- if anything -- do they have to tell me about ... well ... anything?

My first thought -- on looking at the image now -- is that I didn't spend enough time with these circles; didn't pay enough attention when composing this image.  I know, from having prepared the talk I'll be giving later this week, that composition is one of the key steps of contemplative photography, and is critical to the latter parts of the process.

And as I look at the image now, my first thought is that the circles make perfect frames.  Which makes me think of this class I'm taking on metaphors, as we are learning that most of us view the world through metaphorical frames -- which allows us to focus on some aspects of the picture and ignore others.

So if these circles are frames, what are they framing?  Nothing in particular, at least, not in this image.  So I wasn't very conscious about that when I took the picture: I saw the circles as subjects in themselves, not as potential frames for other subjects.

But I also see that the larger circle might have at least served as a frame for the smaller one: surely there is some place I could have stood where I could look through the larger one and see the smaller one.  So then I wonder, if I did that, what would the smaller circle reveal?  Did the people who created the circles set them up so if you get them lined up something would magically appear? 

So now I want to go back and look again.  Which is often true for me: the first time I see something, I know there is a photograph there, but I don't always have -- or take -- the time to explore; I just snap and move on.  Sometimes I return to a site again and again because it seems to have many layers of information, or because different seasons or different times of day reveal different aspects of the story each site has to tell.

Which is why a meditation practice can be so rewarding, I think: we return to the same place, to the same room, the same chair; to the same brain and the same heart; to the same thought patterns and emotions, day after day, and with each conscious decision to sit with what is, something new is revealed, something new is awakened.  It's really about conscious attention, and training us to be more consciously attentive, more present, to ALL of the parts of our lives.

So when I look at this photo, do I berate myself for not taking the time to "do it right?"  No.  What happens here -- if I am conscious in THIS moment, when I am looking at the image, is I see the invitation it contains.  I recognize my own fallibility, but do not berate myself; I simply smile and say I still have a lot to learn about being present -- and I make a commitment to return and explore the possibilities of the scene in more depth.

It's a bit like the third step of Interspiritual Meditation, which is Transformation, and consists of the following steps (which I've interpreted relative to this photo):

1.  Imagine the ideal:  Well, ideally each picture would have something to say.
2.  Self-Assessment: How did I do with this one?
3.  Confession: I didn't spend enough time here, didn't notice the potential.
4.  Remorse:  I'm sad I wasn't more conscious, more attentive; often a problem for me.
5.  Forgiveness:  I  forgive myself and release the tendency to flagellate myself.
6.  Commitment: I resolve to go back and try again, to see more, and be more present.

See?  there are lessons and opportunities everywhere; we only need to take the time to see them...

More than a mouthful

Here's a gull who's definitely bitten off more than she can chew; that's a starfish dangling from the corners of her mouth. When I was growing up, my mom had a phrase for that (being from the south, she had a phrase for everything, most quite a bit more colorful than this one): "Her eyes were bigger than her stomach."

I'm sure we've all had that experience at some point in our lives; have all known the existential terror of biting off more than you can chew.  Somehow we mostly manage to survive in such cases, but -- for me, at least -- what I seem to take away is not the memory and conviction that I'm a survivor but rather a wariness of ever again taking on more than I can handle.

Perhaps it's a sign of age, but I think I am becoming increasingly risk-averse.  But before I start berating myself for that, let me just say this: I'm thinking what's really happening here is that I have a better understanding of my own capabilities.  And, in addition, I've developed better boundaries: I know my tendency to pour myself into things, so I am careful to be conscious about reserving time for the things that are important to me: my family, my meditation time, my blog, my photography, my other creative endeavors, my time outdoors... which, I am finding, doesn't really leave a lot to spare -- there are, after all, only so many hours in a day.

Which means, I fear, that when I read most job descriptions I just feel... exhausted.  I know I should be seriously considering a return to the workforce, but that will obviously require some serious compromises.  And I've not yet found any position that excites me enough, or any organization that inspires me enough, to make me want to make those compromises.  I just keep thinking it ought to be possible to find a job that pays me to do what I already love doing.

Does that make me lazy?  Ridiculously idealistic?  Or just careful and wise?

My guess is it's probably somewhere in between.  Or maybe I just need some vitamins!

Plugging in to the Divine

I'm sure you're wondering why on earth I'm displaying this photo after raving about all the great fun I had taking pictures in yesterday's fog.

But actually -- this is one of the pictures I took yesterday.  And though lots of the others are quite lovely, and some may even be exhibit-worthy, this is the one that makes my heart sing.

I know.  I could probably never sell it.  I'll probably never even print it.  But is that what matters?  We were speaking (indirectly) of this a couple of days ago, two of my fellow meditators and I; of this constant urge we have to serve the world -- which is SO tangled up with ego, with wanting to be visible and appreciated.

And the fact is, we're already serving-- serving our children, our parents, our communities -- in a variety of less obvious ways.  And, in fact, we serve simply by opening to the Divine and allowing it to move through us.

So am I not actually doing the world a service by listening to my own heart, and modeling that for others?  Ram Dass says, in a tape of his on Conscious Aging, that death feels a bit like finally taking off a shoe that doesn't really fit.  That shoe could be anything: this life, this ego, this body... but that soul that's squeezed in there is vibrant, alive, lively; full of joy and wonder and enchantment.  That soul, I think, is what claps its hands in delight when it sees this photo -- so I want to laugh, and honor that, and post this here as a testament; to say that joy is still alive and well in me, and, well, maybe there's something in you that's equally giddy that will just light up when you see this -- not because it's a great photo, but because it speaks to something so deliciously real.

And if you don't like it?  Well -- that's okay, too.  Today I'm just having fun!

Guilty pleasures

Now that our daughter's boyfriend has a job in Seattle, we're driving him to the ferry dock every morning --and working on finding an alternative solution acceptable to us all, as the morning trip provides a certain amount of disruption in our days.

Yesterday as we were driving in there was a fabulous sunrise, but by the time we reached the ferry dock the clouds had overtaken the sun and it had returned to being a typical gray northwest day.  But on the off chance that there might be something worth shooting, I headed down to Waterfront Park to see if there were any good boats there.

As it happens, there were only two -- both of them beautiful -- which meant there was a perfect opportunity to get an uncluttered photo like this one.  And I have to say: moments like this -- seeing them, shooting them, opening them up on my computer later, and sharing them with you -- the whole experience really feeds my soul.  It's like a drink for thirsty eyes.

So this morning, when I woke and noticed a fog rolling in, I tiptoed out of the bedroom and determined not to wake my husband and make him do the ferry drive, but rather to do the drive myself and spend the rest of the morning shooting.  And oh, my: what a pleasure that was, to prowl around this beautiful island and its spectacular waterfront vistas with my trusty little camera.  We had a blast together, my camera and I: it was like we were out on a date, rejoicing together at everything; giddy with love and gratitude for such a spectacular morning -- I even felt a little guilty when I finally returned home around noon with a full memory card and an exhausted battery.  (Oh, the symbolism!)

And why should that be?  Why would we humans associate pleasure -- even a pleasure whose ultimate goal is the sharing of visions -- with guilt?  It seems to me that if I'm doing what I love, and I love what I'm doing, and the end result is designated in advance as a gift ... what more could anyone want?

Not much, I'm thinkin'...

Imagining flight

As I believe I've mentioned before, I belong to a book group which meets Tuesday mornings, and this year we are working our way through Byron Brown's Soul Without Shame.  The book is all about the way we judge ourselves and others, and in yesterday's session we were getting into some very difficult concepts -- not hard to understand, just difficult to watch in yourself.

Which of course meant that I got to observe them in action almost immediately after I left class.  And at times like that -- when those feelings of judgment kick in -- my fight or flight response goes into overdrive.  I SO want to kick some butt, and SO hate that feeling in myself that I just want to fly away; to join some bird commune and take off for points south; preferably somewhere where the weather is warm and I don't have to feel this awful sense of responsibility -- not just responsibility for my own actions, but also responsibility for sharing whatever is honest in my re-actions.

I just haven't quite mastered that yet -- the job of speaking the truth about what we observe without somehow appearing to criticize the person you're observing/ speaking to.  And so I get all tangled up, riding the seesaw between "they should" and "I should."  Which wreaks havoc with my sleep, which just sets me more on edge... I'm somehow certain this may sound familiar to some of you dear readers...

So I like this image this morning.  Not only does it allow me to indulge my flight fantasy just a bit, but I also find it... well... uplifting.  I am one with the birds, slightly above the pull of the water, flying towards the light.  There is a lovely brief suspension in that, a moment to stop and breathe and set aside all these irritating vacillations.

And I'm grateful.

The stinky stuff

I love this picture: loved seeing it, loved shooting it, love the old-timey feel of it.  But the truth of the matter is that the lovely plume of smoke in the center is a paper mill, and, in the way of such things, stinks to high heaven.

Does that make this image less appealing? Yes, kind of -- unless we can do that willful suspension of disbelief thing and allow it to just be a mysterious plume of smoke.

And that's the problem with life, isn't it?  Things are never quite what they seem, and often the stuff that brings color and beauty into the world is the very stuff that pollutes it -- just as the things which cause trouble in our lives are the very things that help us grow into exciting and rewarding new spaces.

As a friend reminded me in a note just this morning, not one of us is truly bad or truly good; not one of us is wholly innocent or wholly defiled.  The liberals can not denigrate the Tea Party for attacking and disrespecting Obama without also accepting blame for having attacked and disrespected Bush.  Each of us is liable and accountable for our own biases and imperfections; let she who is without sin cast the first stone.

Which doesn't necessarily make it okay to sit idly by when you see someone -- anyone -- attacking or disrespecting another human, another faith, another way of life.  It's good to speak up.  The question is -- can you do it without judgment, without self-righteousness?  Can you speak out of love without sounding holier-than-thou? Can it be a reasoned -- if impassioned -- discourse, or must any such confrontation degenerate into a ruthless severing of relationship?  How do we protect our boundaries and champion our beliefs and yet remain open and accommodating?  How do we declare that something is not-okay and not-me and still retain a sense of oneness with the universe?

It's a conundrum, to be sure.  And yet... those sticky places of our lives -- however frustrating or irritating, or just plain stinky they may prove to be -- so often contain extraordinary gifts...

(PS: With thanks to Maureen of Writing Without Paper: to  see more images of the beauty in pollution, click here and visit the work of J. Henry Fair.)