I am Thou

RA MA DA SA, SA SAY SO HUNG

Recalling several practices of healing self and others that have stayed with me throughout my life, I am so happy to remember the Siri Gaitri healing mantra that calmed my anxiety when recovering from breast cancer surgery in 2011, Now experiencing an autoimmune disease attacking my lungs, I'm calmed again by this beautiful mantra: "Ra Ma Da Sa, Sa Say So Hung."

The first four sounds of the mantra ascend and expand into the Infinite; the second part of the mantra pivots those qualities of the highest and brings them back down, to interweave Earth with Infinity:

RA is the Sun  -- its energy strong, bright, hot, and purifying

MA is the Moon -- a quality of receptivity, coolness, and nurturing

DA is the Earth -- its energy is secure, personal, and the ground of action 

SA is Infinity -- the impersonal cosmos in all its open dimensions and totality

SA -- this repetition is the turning point

SAY -- awareness of a sacred "Thou"

SO (the personal sense of merger and identity) and 

HUNG (the Infinite, vibrating and real) -- "I am Thou"

The True Picture of Reality?

British physicist Stephen Hawking pursued what physicists call a Grand Unified Theory, or a "Theory of Everything." As Hawking put it, "My goal is simple. It is complete understanding of the universe." 

His most important work in physics explored the nature of "singularities," anomalies in the space-time continuum commonly known as "black holes." In 1988 he published A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes, a book that brought his work to a general audience. 

 

Since publication of his memoir My Brief History and release of the movie "The Theory of Everything," those new to Hawking's story have celebrated the simple fact that he lived so long after being diagnosed with motor neuron disease in his early twenties and given two years to live. Instead, he lived to be 76 years old.

When asked many years later about living with the disease, he told an interviewer he was "happier now . . . Before, I was very bored with life. I drank a fair bit, I guess; I didn't do any work . . . When one's expectations are reduced to zero, one really appreciates everything that one does have."

My favorite of Hawking's quotes is this one: ". . . the city council of Monza, Italy, barred pet owners from keeping goldfish in curved bowls . . . saying it is cruel to keep a fish in a bowl with curved sides because, gazing out, the fish would have a distorted view of reality. But how do we know we have the true, undistorted picture of reality?"

The Tibetans Call It a Bardo

In my early thirties, I attended a Silva Mind Control course to stop smoking. Others were there for weight control, memory training, and self-healing techniques. Over several weeks we were taught relaxation and visualization techniques, including the development of a mental laboratory complete with desk, calendar, files, visual screen, and healing medications. 

We were also told we'd have an experience of extrasensory perception on the last day of the training, which I found intriguing but presumed impossible for me. For that last session we were instructed to bring in three slips of paper, each showing only the name and city of an individual we privately knew to have an illness or physical problem.

To start the morning of the last day, we practiced by placing the body of a friend on our mental screen and scanning for problems of any sort. Following instructions, suddenly I saw and heard a motorcycle hit by a car. The motorcyclist's face wasn't visible, but because the man I was scanning owned a motorcycle, I expressed my alarm to the instructor, who suggested I find the date of the accident and send healing light to my friend. 

I closed my eyes, went to "alpha level" as instructed, visualized the calendar in my mental laboratory, and was astonished to see the pages turning rapidly until they stopped at a date in June. I assumed this to be in the future, as the session took place in February, so I did as the instructor suggested and pictured my friend bathed in white light.

After a break we were assigned partners, and the first one, whom I'd never met and didn't know in advance would be my partner, handed me a piece of paper with a man's name and the city of Seattle written on it. In alpha level, I visualized a man on my mental screen, and saw his whole left side was darker than his right. I didn't know what it meant. 

Using a technique we'd been taught, I imagined putting on this person's head, and was immediately torn by depression, sorrow, and resentment. I could feel my left side was crippled; I had no hearing in my left ear and no sight in my left eye. I knew hearing was intact in my right ear, but vision in my right eye was limited in some way, though I couldn't describe exactly how.  

Afterwards, my partner said this was the son of a dear friend; 21 years old and bitter because he'd been crippled on his left side in a motorcycle accident at an intersection where a car had ignored a stop sign. He had no hearing in his left ear and no sight in his left eye; hearing was normal in his right ear, but he had tunnel vision in his right eye. His recovery was slow, and he was despondent.

As I almost feared when asking her the accident's date, she named the same day in June I'd seen on my mental calendar. The motorcycle crash I'd pictured earlier that morning, before being assigned to this partner, had occurred the previous June!

Interactions with my next two partners were less clear but equally mind-blowing. With one, I pictured her subject with a brain like a walnut, the right side shriveled, then found she'd given me the name of a friend with brain cancer in the right hemisphere. With the other I kept seeing The Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz, focusing especially on the size of his nose. She admitted she didn't know anyone with a critical injury or illness, so had given me the name of a friend with chronic sinusitis.

I was disoriented for several weeks. The world as I perceived it had changed. In The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche refers to a bardo as a juncture "when the possibility of liberation, or enlightenment, is heightened." My experience of this unexpected, new reality opened my mind and heart.

Since then, I've had many instances of knowing something that either had not happened yet, or had happened at a distance, without my direct knowledge, and was later confirmed. At first, I was frustrated by the lack of specificity, but over the years I've learned to relax into what I now believe is a universal flow. 

As a coach this manifested as psychic intuitions. I learned to slip into a meditative state and seek information beyond the obvious. My clients often commented, "I was just thinking that, but wasn't sure I was ready to talk about it," or "How did you know that? I've never told anyone."

My bardo experience left me with a lifelong sense of awe, triggered by the recognition, "If this is possible, then anything is possible."

Cave Drawings

(Published in The Enneagram of Death: Helpful Insights by the 9 Types of People on Grief, Fear, and Dyling, by Elizabeth Wagele.)

Research suggests that trauma survivors can head off long-lasting symptoms by letting friends know what they're going through. Susan Lien Whigham, "The Role of Metaphor in Recovery From Trauma"

I had not thought of my 2010 breast cancer diagnosis and surgery as trauma until I read the transcript of How the Brain Helps Us to Survive Trauma and understood that any life-threatening event can be traumatizing -- war, a terrible car accident, a natural disaster, a heart attack, cancer.

And the measure of how well or quickly we recover, compared to those who might develop post-traumatic stress disorder, is whether or not we can discharge the energy created by the shock. Some of our response to stress is determined by our own emotional resiliency, but much of it depends on whether our caregivers, family, and friends contribute to our feeling helpless or support our gaining a sense of control. We can begin to take charge of our fate when we're able to talk about our feelings, absorb the reality of our circumstances, and move into action.

My strongest urge while convalescing from surgery was simply to be listened to. And yet, I didn't really have the words to express what I was experiencing. Some of my friends interpreted my early quasi-silence as a desire to have my spirit lifted and entertained me with stories. I loved them for this, but I didn't want to hear stories, I wanted to be invited to express what was going on inside of me, needed them to be patient while I searched to find words for what I was experiencing.

So, I was relieved to read how listening for metaphors can help recovery from trauma. I remembered an earlier blog entry where I had tried to express my reaction to others' view of my "bravery": 

It's like driving in a heavy rainstorm late at night. You'd rather be home by a cozy fire, but you're on full alert, every sense attuned to what's happening in your immediate environment. You don't have time to be afraid.  

I didn't feel brave; I felt swept up in a tide of experience. During the two weeks of diagnosis, biopsy, and surgery I was in a kind of trance, floating, as if rocked on the waves of a deep ocean.

Notice the quality of water in these metaphors -- rainstorm, tide, waves, ocean. And notice also how these water metaphors are hard to pin down (another metaphor); how fruitless it would be to try to capture water with a "pin" of any sort. And yet, these watery images helped me embrace a shock too big to encompass with left-brain language.

Breast cancer brought death into my house. Paradoxically, the mastectomy brought a change to my body that meant I could stave off death, probably for many years, so I denied the surgery as trauma. It took almost six months for me to acknowledge that I saw the loss of my breasts as a disfigurement, to notice how I'd been  dressing to hide it from the world, how quickly I covered myself after a shower--when I used to be so happily naked.

I finally let in the loss by following my metaphors, diving in to the ocean, being swept by the tide to a barren shore, finding a flat terrain with strange plants and unknown dangers, dark caves filled with ancient drawings, wondering Who are these others who have been here before me? How can I survive this? 

And I knew I had to find my way through this metaphorical territory, go into the dark caves, experience the fear, learn from the ancient drawings, find guidance from others who had been there for a while. The spirits of these women encircled me as I wept for the loss of my breasts, they chanted with me as I celebrated life's changing seasons and embraced more enduring symbols of womanhood. 

 *   *   *

Seven years later, on April 15, 2017 I faced another loss, the death of my mother. Yes, she lived a long and healthy 104 years, and yes, I was exhausted during the final years of caring for her. But each process of grief has its own territory. As the months passed, I looked at the image above of women in community, and wept as they encircled me once more, reminding me of lifelong love from my Mom, who was also my best girlfriend.

Awakening Heart Energy

 

Starting a new business many years ago required taking risks, and my emotions were running wild. I needed a positive symbol of awakening heart energy and chose a tattoo of a dolphin swimming around my heart. When I told my mother, I was devastated by her response: "Why would you want to disfigure yourself?"

You've had similar experiences, I know. People who take risks to define themselves according to their own needs and dreams often have to overcome the almost insurmountable authority of social conditioning.

Many of us had the childhood experience of being told what we can't do: what's not normal or polite, what's dangerous or beyond our abilities. We were left with a sense of powerlessness to predict what will make us secure. Even as adults, these early messages haunt us: Who will criticize me for trying something new? Who will laugh at me for this idea I have? What will I do if this doesn't work out?

Sometimes we overcome our insecurity by whistling in the dark. (I'm not afraid! I'm not afraid!) But when faced with a tough decision, we may also endure an internal debate: What do I do now? Which of these paths do I take? Can I trust my own judgment? Will I give myself permission to go for what I want?

This is the paradox: when we act as if we're powerless, in that very act we give our power away. Until I found my own personal power, until I could stay clear about what I wanted to do and why, I fell into the victim role, pointing my finger outward. Initially, I was angry at how my mother, in spite of her generally loving support, could undermine my attempts to break the mold. I felt hurt because I wanted her approval. 

When I could finally come from my center and let go of my attachment to her opinion, I was freed from reacting to Mom's response and touched by her own fear of change.

How many times have you stopped yourself from doing something you were excited about because someone else put on the brakes? My mother was uncomfortable with the unfamiliar, just as your friends and family may be when you take a risk. My tattoo was right for me. And I revamped my business because it drew me to work that was richer and more meaningful, even though there were lean years. 

In the process, I learned an important lesson. Sometimes we begin to doubt ourselves when others criticize, worry, or question our urges to live our lives more fully. We need to remember they're actually questioning themselves, unable to imagine doing what we've found the courage and vision to do.

Years later my life was saved from breast cancer by a bilateral mastectomy. I was not afraid of losing my femininity, but I was concerned about damage to my dolphin. My surgeon was able to keep it almost completely intact, and the tattoo's symbolism has carried me through surgery, recovery, and more than a decade since then with an open heart.

Liebeslied

In a reframing of the Buddhist meditation on death, I have often immersed myself in visual and written arts reflecting the inevitable. 

This practice has taken many turns, one of which was deciding to have a natural burial at Prairie Creek Conservation Cemetery. 

Now in my 84th year--though no threat looms with immediacy--it's no longer possible to ignore the eventuality of my own death. And I love the idea of going back to earth in the woods, with a natural marker.

Without the barrier of a coffin between me and the earth, my molecules can easily mix with those who've preceded me, and in the moment of dying I anticipate imagining the company I'll join. My growing list of those who've preceded me includes dear family, friends, pets--and also poets, writers, artists, spiritual teachers, psychologists, scientists, and musicians who have brought beauty and inspiration to my long life.

This practice of drawing others' spirits to me is a reminder to simply rejoice in what flows from intuition. Often, I've experienced the emotions of my son, a friend, or a client prior to contact -- not always realizing the mood's source until later. A friend I told about this said, "They're playing the strings of your guitar." I so resonate with that image, which echoes my lifelong favorite among Rainer Maria Rilke's poems, "Lovesong" (the original "Liebeslied" follows the translation by M.D. Herter Norton):

How shall I withhold my soul so that

it does not touch on yours? How shall I

uplift it over you to other things?

Ah willingly would I by some

lost thing in the dark give it harbor

in an unfamiliar silent place

that does not vibrate on when your depths vibrate.

Yet everything that touches us, you and me,

takes us together as a bow's stroke does,

that out of two strings draws a single voice.

Upon what instrument are we two spanned?

And what player has us in his hand?

O sweet song.

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, dass

sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie

hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?

Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendetwas

Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen

an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die

nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.

Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,

nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,

der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.

Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?

Und welcher Spieler hat uns in der Hand?

O süsses Lied.

Everything that touches us takes us together as does a bow's stroke that draws a single voice from two strings.

-----

The Symbol of the Wave

Philosopher Alan Watts' essay on Zen
used the metaphor of a wave ~
while each wave appears
separate and distinct
  all waves are part
of the ocean they share.
Likewise, there seem to be
nine patterns of personality fixations
yet each is whole in spirituality's ocean.

The Ecstatic Skin of the Earth

One of my favorite stories about C.G. Jung is a reported dream where he was drowning in a vat of human waste and calling "Help me out!" to his therapist, who stood on the rim of the vat. Instead of taking his outstretched hand the therapist pushed Jung's head down into the liquid, saying, "Through, not out."

That's often what it feels like when I commit to greater self-awareness and then see what I've gotten myself into: "Get me out of this!" No matter how innovative my efforts, there's a quality of struggling in, yes, a vat of shit.

In an episode of "John Adams," he teaches one of his sons about the virtues of manure, insisting that the young man mash it around with his hands. Adams' recipe for compost would delight today's organic gardeners -- seaweed, marsh mud, dead ashes, rock weed, livestock waste, kitchen scraps.

My own dung has a similar variety -- scraps of history; ashes I thought were dead; a deep sea of muddy droppings from unconscious creature selves; weeds I'd imagined pulled forever; the waste of years spent serving an ego-image.

I keep in mind this quote from William Bryant Logan's Dirt: The Ecstatic Skin of the Earth: "Not only the grain in the mealbag, but the full-blown rose are, in one sense, the gift of turds."

What "The Big Picture" May Miss

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, drawn from Jungian psychology, groups people by cognitive function, and the starkest contrast lies in two broad ways of gathering information: Sensing and Intuition. 

Sensors―interested in facts―are good observers, focusing on the present, on facts, on what can be processed through the five senses; concrete, literal thinkers who value realism, common sense, and ideas with practical applications.

Intuitives--interested in frameworks--are introspective, looking for possibilities, patterns, impressions, imagination, reading between the lines. I test as high as possible on Intuition.

Neither is better than the other; however, the stronger the difference in cognitive style, the greater the tendency to disparage such a different way of seeing the world. I grew up in a family where both my parents and my older brother had a Sensing preference, so in spite of my good grades in school and college, I thought I had something missing until I was in graduate school in my thirties, where big picture thinking was a great asset and I learned about these cognitive differences. What a relief!

My deficit in the cognitive pathways of Sensors, however, continues to haunt me, most recently in a poetry workshop where we're learning to model our poems after Sharon Olds, Dorianne Laux, the teacher, and former students--all writing "accessible, detail oriented, image-driven poetry," of course following poetic principles, but focused in tight on a moment that can be visualized. As excited as I've been to be involved again with a critique group, I was really struggling until I found an article about the Sensing/Intuition difference in creative writing. 

Writers and poets tend to be drawn toward creative work that matches their cognitive preferences and, of course, their own writing reflects their way of perceiving the world.

Sensing Poets:                                                                Intuitive Poets:

are detailed, empirical, and concrete	are abstract, symbolic, and figurative
prefer plot-driven themes	prefer concept-driven themes
employ similes	employ metaphors
like to stay on-topic	are comfortable with fracture
tend to be explicit	tend to be implicit
tend to be linear and chronological	are comfortable with split timelines
prefer scenes to summary exposition	use scenes as a jumping-off point to explore larger themes
point to what’s present to the eye	bring to mind what’s absent from view
They ask: What happened? Were police cars light or dark blue in Wichita in 1970? Does this stanza progress logically line-to-line? They may be wary of speculative leaps and abstractions in a poem.	They ask: What larger question about the human experience does this poem explore? Which opposing forces create tension?  They may look for hidden patterns between the lines of a poem.

 
I can't change the wiring of my brain, but I can develop new neural pathways with practice, and because I want so much to learn this way of writing poems, I'm determined to give it my best effort.

 

Grace and Grit

"Friends and family often wondered, is she being unrealistic—shouldn't she be worrying? fretting? unhappy? But the fact is, by living in the present, by refusing to live in the future, she began exactly to live consciously with death.

Think about it: death, if anything, is the condition of having no future. By living in the present, as if she had no future, she was not ignoring death, she was living it. And I was trying to do the same." Ken Wilber, Grace and Grit.

After I finished reading Grace and Grit I couldn't sleep, not sure what was going on, but when I told someone about the book I started weeping. Then I knew what was going on.

Treya Killam Wilber fought so hard and died anyway within five years. I had a good prognosis and knew I could easily live another twenty years after my December 2010 surgery. Or not. The Buddhists tell us to live our death. This doesn't mean worrying all the time. It means living NOW, whether you have twenty minutes or twenty years left. 

I try to do the same.

I Know What Endarkenment Is

I don’t know what enlightenment is, but I know what "endarkenment" is… a way to get endarkened really well is to be narrow, to only see things one way (Charles Tart, Enneagram Monthly, March, 1999). 

So many people I talk to describe their own transformation process in terms of shifts in awareness, a sense of stepping outside a frame of reference they'd always held. And it does feel like moving from the dark into the light.

"The most profound moments in my life," said an Enneagram style Eight, "were actual events where I came out on the other side." She's strong, responsible and had tended to avoid signs of weakness or feelings of vulnerability. So you know the enormity of the shift when she said, "It scared the f------ shit out of me!"

Completely transforming one's awareness is a scary place, and it helps to know where the process is leading:

At the first level (of development) people simply realize… how much of the time they spend on automatic pilot.

The second level of insights are… psychodynamic or personality revelations. People begin to see more clearly patterns to their motivations and behavior…

There can arise a clear vision of the dissolution of self from moment to moment, and this often leads to a realm of fear and terror…

Later there arises… a spontaneous process of letting go of personal motivation, and… a vision of the true connection between all of us...

~ Jack Kornfield, "The Seven Factors of Enlightenment", pp. 56-59 in Paths Beyond Ego

Understanding your Enneagram style can be enormously helpful as a road map for your patterns of motivation and behavior. One psychological pattern I discovered in myself as an Enneagram style Nine, for example, was how I'd made myself passive-aggressive by setting myself up to feel discounted. This usually happened when I’d failed to state my needs clearly. Then, when someone failed to read my mind and act on my needs, I became passive-aggressive and the other person felt I'd set up a trap. And of course, I had. 

So I know what endarkenment is. You know, too, when you see how you set up and feed into the stories that reinforce old, narrow views.