Let consciousness flow

This morning's reading in Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth confirmed what I learned from my experiences over the weekend.

"As you become present and thereby total in what you do, your actions become charged with spiritual power... Your primary purpose is now to enable consciousness to flow into what you do.

... The world will tell you that success is achieving what you set out to do.  It will tell you that success is winning, that finding recognition and/or prosperity are essential ingredients in any success...

The conventional notion of success is concerned with the outcome of what you do.  Some say that success is the result of a combination of hard work and luck, or determination and talent, or being in the right place at the right time.  While any of these may be determinants of success, they are not its essence.

What the world doesn't tell you -- because it doesn't know -- is that you cannot become successful.  You can only be successful... When doing becomes infused with the timeless quality of Being, that is success."

What you don't want to see

Okay.  You might not want to read this one.  And fortunately it's Sunday, when not that many folks read this blog anyway.

Today I have decided to blog BEFORE I meditate.  Because there's something I need to process, and if I don't do it before I meditate it's sure to eat up my meditation time.  Which is a problem because processing is more of an egoic, thoughtful activity, and when all those brain cells are this busy looking back and analyzing it's very difficult to step into the sort of refreshing spacious awareness that meditation brings.

So here's the deal.

As I mentioned earlier, I was invited to read a poem to start off a city council meeting earlier this week.  And it went well -- I felt really good afterwards.  My husband asked what it was that felt good (he always asks such good questions!) -- was it the thrill of reading aloud and doing it well?  At first I said yes, but then he pointed out that must mean I enjoy reading for the blind (one of my volunteer activities) and I realized, well, not exactly (I have to read the local newspaper aloud to my computer, and it can get rather tedious and time-consuming).

So then, he said, it must be the thrill of performing before an audience; the attention.  Well, yes, I thought, there's certainly some pleasure in that.  And at first that felt a little creepy -- am I just looking for applause?  I thought about it some, and it felt like it was more about the invisible connection I feel when people seem to "get" what I'm saying; when something in the air or in a face indicates that something I've said has resonated, or opened up some new perception.  But perhaps I was just refusing to face the truth of that need for approval.

And then, yesterday, good friends had come to visit, and my husband pointed out that they videotape all the Council meetings (can you tell where this is going?).  So of course my friend wanted to watch.  I found the site where the videos are stored, started up the session, and there I was, right after the pledge of allegiance.  And even though she was sitting there, enjoying the reading and the poem, doing all the same things the audience had done, I was in agony.

I couldn't hear the poem at all.  I could only see that face: the receding chin, the sagging jowls, the crooked teeth; the contortions of expression as I responded to the emotions of the poem and shared those responses outward.

It was excruciating.

So last night, when I was slated to read the poem again with all the other poets whose poems were posted in store windows around the town, I found I was wrapped in a gray fog of self-absorption.  I couldn't step beyond "me" to interact with the other poets (none of whom I knew).  I could hear and appreciate their poems.  I was calm about my own reading, not anxious or stumbling or blushing.  But I couldn't step outside my fog: as I read, even as I projected my voice and made eye contact with the 60 or so people in the auditorium, there wasn't that flow that had so exhilarated me on Wednesday.  I could only think of what they must be seeing as they watched me.  And cringe inside.  After the reading I hurried back to my car, not staying to interact.

That's how caught up I can get in appearances.  Still.  Sigh.

But as I write, I can see the good news, too: The reason the first reading felt so good was not so much the appreciation, or the being in front of an audience, because all that was there last night, as well.

The reason the first reading felt so good was because the poem, the spirit of the poem, was flowing through me, from Source to the audience, and I was -- as a conduit, a channel -- energized by that flow.  It was presence in the moment, the LACK of ego, the OTHER-awareness that was exhilarating.

I'm still carrying those mental images of my face.  But I am reassured to think that the pleasure of that first reading was engendered, not by the need to win approval, but by the love that poured through me to the audience.

Perhaps I should watch the video again and see if I can forget the face and feel the love.

Maybe not today, though.

Tapping into Divine Joy

Like the three volunteer tulips in this field of daffodils, three gifts came to me from Eckhart Tolle this morning.

1.  Stop every once in a while and just notice your breath.  Even just one breath. It's a way to suspend all that thinking, all those voices in your head; gives you a little break, an opportunity to tap into the infinite space within you.

2.  If you struggle with an addiction -- to the internet, to snacking, to TV -- or some of the more dangerous substances and behaviors out there -- when you feel that temptation, stop and breathe. Take a few conscious breaths, and feel the energy inside you that wants whatever substance or behavior troubles/soothes you.  Then take a few more conscious breaths.  You may not feel the urge subside the first time, but with time just awareness may help it pass.

3.  Take time to feel the aliveness within you.  I like to start with my hands, and feel the sort of tingly aliveness in them.  Then see if you can feel it in other parts of your body -- feet, arms, legs, chest, head...  Taking time to do this keeps you present, stops the flow of thoughts and emotions.  And (I find) it also helps you feel more alert, more responsive to what's happening around you, putting you in a sort of spacious, receptive state.

I get the feeling that Tolle believes doing these things regularly would be just as effective as a meditation practice, in terms of helping us be more attuned to the Divine Joy that resides within and around us.

I'd like that.  And even doing it just this morning, in response to the reading, I feel more... alive.

Like the old commercial -- Try it!  You'll like it!

Soul food

Earlier this week a friend called to ask if I'd be willing to ride with her to Anacortes to deliver one of her paintings to a gallery there.  And -- oh, by the way -- would I like to visit the tulip fields in the Skagit Valley.

So I spent yesterday in a car, driving through the rain to Anacortes.  To be honest, once we had dropped off the painting we decided (given the weather) it would be more fun to go gallery hopping in La Conner than to struggle through the muddy fields.

But I did get to do a drive-by shooting or two.  And I got to spend some time photographing old metal and barns as well.  Best of all, I had the opportunity to converse at length with a gifted artist about painting, and I think that's given me the impetus I need to go back and try again.

I really want to do that.

And, yes, it was great to get out with my camera, too; it's been too long.  Don't these colors just feed your soul?

Befriending joy

I come to you this morning with a heavy heart.

... and doesn't that statement sound like the beginning of some major announcement -- the death of someone or something important, some life-changing event?

It's not, though; it's just... I woke this morning with a heavy heart -- all the more noticeable because yesterday was a deliciously light-hearted day, full of laughter and fun.  I laughed with my husband over breakfast, giggled with my daughter on the phone, got good news from my other daughter, spent the afternoon making costumes with friends... all good stuff.  Even the poem reading (which also included a chuckle or two) went well.

But none of that changes the fact that too many people I care about are suffering right now.  Pneumonia, surgery, losing a home, losing a job, losing a mother, marital problems, relationship problems, illness in the family... the list of trials and tribulations is a long and serious one, and I found myself lying in bed, holding each one up in prayer.

Little wonder, then, that when my husband read a sweet story to me over breakfast (about a man who bought cheap barn boards to build himself a desk, then discovered they were curly cherry and built a gorgeous piece of furniture that's been all over the world with him and grows lovelier every day) I found myself tearing up.  At one level it's a silly thing to cry over.  At another, it's a gentle reminder that there is still sweetness and joy in the world -- and that is often found in small things.

The fact is, caring makes us vulnerable.  The trials and tribulations of our friends become our trials as well -- and so I'm doubly grateful for all the little joys that yesterday brought.  Not because they remind me that some things in my world are going well (though that's always nice to know)  but because I believe that happiness gives us the fuel we need to send positive energy out to those in need. 

So when Eckhart Tolle tells me this morning, "Whenever there is beauty, kindness, the recognition of the goodness of simple things in your life, look for the background to that experience within yourself" I am listening. 

And then he says, "Many poets and sages throughout the ages have observed that true happiness -- I call it the joy of Being -- is found in simple, seemingly unremarkable things... Nietsche wrote, 'For happiness, how little suffices for happiness! ... the least thing precisely, the gentlest thing, the lightest thing, a lizard's rustling, a breath, a wisk, an eye glance -- little maketh up the best happiness.  Be still.'"

Yes, there will be sadness.  But there is joy, too.  Perhaps joy is like a wild animal: you need to be patient, and still; to wait for long periods with your hand stretched out.  Eventually it will venture closer and allow you to befriend it...

One woman's portal

I'm not certain how satisfying this image is to look at, but it sure was fun putting it together!

... which of course raises the age old question: what is the purpose of art?  Eckhart Tolle says the purpose of all great art is to serve as a portal to the sacred.  But what might be one man's portal could be another person's wall -- and does it matter if it's a portal for the artist, or for the viewer?

We were talking today, in my spirituality class, about those pre-cognitive "truths" -- the knowings that we took in before we were old enough to evaluate them for actual truthfulness; the things that guide our daily decisions in ways we often fail to understand.

For example -- I have a pre-cognitive assumption that I only have value if I am efficient, useful, and accomplish things.  So something in me thinks everything I paint must be saleable -- a rather tall order for a relatively untutored artist -- and that something keeps me from just slapping paint around (efficient implies I don't waste much, you know).

So I thought, well, to circumvent the cost of paint and the fear of creating something not saleable, I'd copy paint from graffiti surfaces and slap that on a photograph instead -- it's easy enough to undo this sort of digital collage if I don't like it.  This way I get the freedom of throwing paint around on a surface without the mess or fear of wasting -- PLUS it doesn't matter if it's not saleable, as all it cost was time.

The fun and the sense of freedom I felt doing it -- because it was totally random, exploring, being silly, not worrying about a sale, and not wasting anything but time -- well, that felt almost sacred; creating as a bond with Creator.  So even as something as goofy as this can be a portal to the sacred for an artist who is trying to break through her blocks.  But I can hardly assume that this image will be taking you, the viewer, to that sacred space.

And I think that's how I've been operating; that I have a sort of sacred duty to create art that serves as a portal to the sacred.  Maybe this drive I've been experiencing, the drive to step from form into formless, is an attempt to assign value to finding my own portals; to strike a better balance between what pleases me and what pleases my viewers.  And something in me thinks there's a sweet spot... no, not thinks, KNOWS there'll be a sweet spot, a place where what gives me enormous satisfaction will satisfy a viewer as well.  I've found those moments before.  Maybe I'll find them again in new places?

It's worth a try...

When the heron heralds spring

It was a glorious day here yesterday, so I decided to take a break from labeling photos (I'm getting ready for our gallery's annual Almost Perfect Sale, and everything has to be labeled with the original price and the sale price) and walk to the mailbox (which is a 15 to 20 minute round trip).

I spotted this heron fishing in the lagoon on the way back; he was actually quite close to the driveway, and didn't take off when I edged around the car to take a picture -- I'm thinking it may have been because I had the Wailin' Jennys playing on my iphone to keep me company.

I had brought the iphone along in case a friend called; she'd gone in for some minor surgery that morning and was keeping me updated on her progress.  I've actually been a bit slow about adapting to the constant presence of my cellphone; this was the first time I'd ever taken it on a walk with me, and I had already reached the mailbox and turned back before it occurred to me I could have music to walk by.

But I discovered I liked walking to music -- I might be trying that again -- and I got the sense the birds appreciated it, too.  Although, maybe that was just because it was the Jennys; other choices whose pace is more suited to mine might be less palatable for the birds...

Today the sky is gray again, and the weather back to its typical April chill.  But I'm grateful I had the chance to breathe in a little warmth and sunshine; it makes the gray more palatable somehow, knowing it will soon give way to more of yesterday's beauty.  Spring is coming; the end of winter is in sight.