The Challenging Practice of Surrendering When all Around You is Burning

I dreamt of the ocean last night, 

her powerful white foamy limbs thrashing the rocky cliffs, 

cold, wet stone made smooth and dark,

by countless faithful years of returning.

Above the moon burned bright, 

exposing the small creatures clinging to sifting sand,

scurrying the shallow depths leading to liquid obsidian

only to be washed ashore, tumbling and awkward. 

Waking, the sun quickly replaces her light,

yet I still feel grit in my hair and taste salt,

feel her rhythm as one does after riding roller coasters all day

laying in bed, tumbling and awkward.

She is part of me, as I am part of her.

There is no thought in these kinds of actions, 

just a coming and going, a need to touch, 

over and over and over again.

This morning I wake up exhausted after most of the night spent in sleepless tossing. I am heavy in body and spirit. The mountains are on fire early this June and the sky is smoke filled, hot, dry. Everything smells of campfire.  The clothes in the laundry basket, my hair, my sweat smell of burning trees. Kicking off the blanket, pressing myself flat on the bed, then turning over wrapping up in the blanket in a small fetal position, then repeating this in many different variations for a good portion of the night, the sheets are crumpled and damp. I dont want my husband to come up the stairs and kiss me good morning.  I dont want to look out the window to see the mustard sky that sinks into the brittle, hard earth.  All I want to do is lay motionless for the entire morning, possibly through afternoon as well.  

My ribs, shoulders, and legs hurt from several days of back bending and standing on my head, holding forearm plank for sadistic lengths of time.  Even my pancreas hurts, I am not sure from what, but I have a sneaking suspicion it is from too much almond butter eaten during one of my wild party-for-one moments two nights before. My altar waits several feet away and this curmudgeon which has taken up residence in my head and heart belches green plumes of contention towards the too bright ivy wrapping around the glass owl, the peacock feather resting in a pink seashell and the four singing bowls patiently waiting to be struck. The Palo Santo and candle waiting to be lit.

Three months ago I would have heeded the Grinch.  I would have continued to lay in my pile of crumpled distress, staring at the fan blades revolving, ignoring the sun’s steady ascent into the sky. I would have stayed as long as possible before having to throw on work clothes, quickly brushing my teeth, grabbing an apple to eat in the car, and drove scatter brained and fuzzy to work where I was asked to show up fully for clients wanting relief from their comparable night of sleepless tossing.

I won’t lie.  This morning I hit the snooze button a ridiculous number of times and ignore the new day for a full hour, pressing my pillow over my head.  But after maybe the 8th snooze, I get up out of my bed, gather the damp sheets to toss into the washer, boil water for my acupuncture concoction of dirt herbs, and finally sit in front of my altar.  I light the candle and bow.  I light the sage and then the palo santo and bow.  I sit and strike each bell, the sounds merging into a sweet melody that on most days instantly lifts me.  Today it doesn’t, but I continue to strike them even still.  I look at the paper hand, covered in swirls of leaves and musical notes, which covers a crack in the largest singing bowl, a crystal one which I dropped a copper ball into several years ago and left its mark.  I like to think about how the hand of God holds together all the cracks and tears when I see just a tiny part of the marr peaking out from behind the paper hand.  

I don’t have much time for my morning practice.  About 30 minutes. Lately I have been enjoying 45 min to an hour.  I feel an electric current of anxiety course threw my spine and settle behind my jaw and eyeballs.  How the hell am I going to polish myself shiny in 30 minutes so I can go and be shiny, shiny, shiny for all of the world?

Sitting on my pillow I whisper, “Hello.  Here I am.  Everything hurts.”  And I strike the singing bowls again.  It is another flavor of pain to offer up this crumpled, dried sweat smelly version of myself to God. And I honestly don’t have any energy to even try and pretend to polish myself.  So I sit, head bowed and listen to the places whimpering and practice offering them up - sore ribs, sore, rhomboids, sore sacrum, sore attitude.  I whisper a prayer to my teachers, and this is difficult. But I say it as I have done the past 2 months.  I don’t ask to be a source of healing in the world - I forget to do this. But when my mind tries to run back to bed, I acknowledge the paper hand and return to my breath, which for feeling so beaten up, is deep and steady.  This is reassuring. It is my life boat. My Heart Ship.  I pause and feel my belly softly expanding and falling.  I allow the breath to deepen and wash through all of me readying myself to board the ship I have been building over the past months, the ship which sits waiting, has always been waiting. 

*******

Three days have passed and a new fire has sprung in the mountains. Now driving home it seems that the town is surrounded by smoke and all the trees are burning away.  To my left a great plume of smoke rises into the sky, to my right, a thick haze has settled over Glorietta and Pecos.  I want to cry for rain, for some sweetness to enter my heart and soothe the dry ache in my right shoulder and sacrum. I worry that I have somehow regressed. Old injuries and attitudes I haven’t felt for 6 months incessantly wind through me.  But I worry there isn’t enough moisture to even shed a few tears.  And I can sense it all around me as well, in people I see on the streets - brittle fragility. Hot frustration. Helpless wanting for RAIN.

“Help me.”  I whisper it and it echoes several times in my foggy head.  And I know it is a weak cry and so I ask for help in mustering up a more whole-hearted plead with God.

Everything around is hues of helpless and parched and limp and then something miraculous occurs.  2 tears roll down my cheeks followed by several more. And then from my diaphragm comes contractions and my chest heaves and I am crying. It is as sweet as a lake.  My heart begins to feel like a part of me again instead of heaving, dried up troll.

This has been the process of opening up my heart - a lot of pleading for help and a lot of crying. I have cried more in the past 3 months than I have in the past 3 years.  I come to sit in the morning, bow my head and cry. I drive in the car chanting my mantra and cry. I come to class and somewhere while deeply opening my twisted hips, I cry. Recently in class, a cry came on that unfurled like a deep wave starting in my pelvis. There was no sobbing, just silent undulations and tears streaming.

It has been confronting all the dried up forgotten places within me, bowing to the earth and crying. And afterwards, feeling a bit more breath, a bit more hope and sweetness and tenderness and humility and desire to serve…

This morning I sat listening to the birds reminding myself several times I was hearing the sound of God.  I thank the sun and the wind and the glorious beauty of this day, slowly allowing the gratitude to sink a bit deeper into my bones.