I wondered for years why if TW was so effective nobody was as “advanced” as KT was even though there’s now been people doing TW for decades. One day I understood that we were all chasing the end of the rainbow. That day I “graduated.” It was a quiet ceremony. Nobody was informed. I did not receive a special certificate. If I had to put what I learned that day into words it would read like this:
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It doesn’t end.
It’s just not a problem that it doesn’t end.
That’s the freedom.
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The most amazing thing I learned that day was just how much I was like everyone else:
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I
I’m just as fucked up as the man next door,
I just don’t beat myself up about it as much as he does.
That’s the enlightenment I know.
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And sometimes
I notice he beats himself up much less than I do.
Those days he is the enlightened one
and I’m proud to call him
Teacher.
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II
Deep forgiveness for our apparent imperfections.
Deep compassion for our apparent flaws.
A knowing that it’s okay to be just like this.
Even as I try to be a better man with time.
Perfection and Imperfection in perfect harmony.
That is the enlightenment that I know.
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III
Anything that I can compare myself to
Is imagined.
Why would that be a fair standard of comparison?
Better to spend my time appreciating
How much of a good friend
I can be to myself.
love this– all of it my friend.
Yes! Straining to get to “the end” is a painful way to live in the future and the past. I keep missing THIS looking for THAT. Since this is clearly the best I can do when I do, there’s no reason to not be my own compassionate friend when it happens.
But what if you are trying to be a friend to yourself and your physical self is in the way? I broke my ankle two weeks ago and cannot engage in so many of the centering activities I usually do. Meditation is difficult with the throbbing pain and stiffness of a cast. Ideas for coping?
Meditation is the gentle practice of being with myself, and through it I get to recognize my innate goodness, my innocence, my vulnerability. And being with myself does not require a specific posture, ritual, or practice. As with the rest of life, in meditation we play with the cards we’re dealt. Instead of on a cushion or a firm chair, the circumstances appear to suggest you sit on your comfy couch, with your leg up, a blanket around yourself, and a cup of tea. And just keep yourself a little company. And notice the thoughts that would tell you that you need to be doing something different, that this is not “meditation.” How cute we would have thoughts like that. Let them co-exist with the throbbing pain and the stiffness of a cast (and that doesn’t mean you won’t take medicine for the pain when pertinent!).
The historical Buddha learned though his formative years many types of yogic practices and meditations. Many of them made him feel quite centered. But he’d ask about the state he was experiencing: was this there before the practice? If the answer was ‘no,’ he knew that he could not rely on those practices as an enduring source of peace, because the day might come when he could not do those practices any more. He sought the peace that is not produced, that is always here, that is our birth right, our state of grace, that we don’t have to work for. And he found it not by means of complicated practices or rituals but by resting his attention on reality itself. Reality, however it shows up this moment, ever changing, reliably so.
Whether your’re sitting or standing or walking or cooking, rest your attention on things as they are. And you may notice how that reality as you perceive it is the fruit of your own attention. So rest your attention on attention itself. There is nothing mystical about it. It’s just that there seems to be this Attention. So, ask: what is it? Look into it. And notice how attention waxes and wanes, moves around in tandem with the world we experience.
This practice, per se, requires no concentration, no posture, no specific activity taking place in the background. You’re what’s in the background. Surprise!
And sometimes that attention might be in as small a space as two broken inches of fibula. And that’s okay.
I’ll stay here knitting this bone and be.
Thank you.
and again. thank you.