I’m sitting still. I
am a freshly fallen maple leaf resting at the edge of a deep blue lake. No one is talking. No one!
It’s day three of a five day silent retreat in the Bay Area and I am
growing desperate. My mind has begun to
fold in on itself. It’s like there is this
uncharted region in my brain that got signed up for this retreat and now I’m
falling headlong into the emptiness. What
I thought would be a retreat to hone my meditation skills has turned out to be
my own personal black hole!
I opted for the vegetarian meals because I thought I might
be able to drop a couple of pounds on this retreat, but now my blood sugar is dangerously
low. The floors, the walls, and even the air in this old monastery drip with a
palpable mystic energy. I am open to the energy of the universe even
as my mind folds in on itself. I look
with a bit of desperation at the faces in the room, hoping that some smiling
soul will throw me a life line.
A woman
just got back from walking the labyrinth; she is glowing, her feet barely touch
the ground.
A small group is gathered
around a giant singing bowl that moans as its handler caresses its rim with a
wooden mallet. The catholic nuns here
dress like the rest of us so they are a bit tough to spot when you really need
one.
Daylight begins to recede. I feel myself starting to snap. As the mystics begin to make their way to
their private cells for the night, I start looking for a way out. I slip down the back stairs like some thief
in the night, hit the panic doors at the basement level and find my way to the parking
lot. I jump into my old VW and drive as
fast as I can down to a local bar.
I’m sitting on a bar stool.
I am a fallen maple leaf at the edge a deep blue lake. Everyone is talking.
Everyone! The bar is pounding with the energy of complex lives that seek some solace in the mixed drinks and the company. Martini in hand, my anxiety begins to find its place back on the shelf where it belongs. The talking is like music. She struggles with a relationship. They argue over some work drama. They catch up. He talks about himself, and goes on and on and on. The noise; it is mystical!
Everyone! The bar is pounding with the energy of complex lives that seek some solace in the mixed drinks and the company. Martini in hand, my anxiety begins to find its place back on the shelf where it belongs. The talking is like music. She struggles with a relationship. They argue over some work drama. They catch up. He talks about himself, and goes on and on and on. The noise; it is mystical!
The bar room chatter opens up like some
eternal landscape that stretches over the unchartered territory of the
collective soul. Is this
meditation? Could this be what I was
seeking when I signed up for this week long silent retreat? All the noise the bursts free from life
itself?
In his book Velvet Elvis, Rob Bell talks about the way in
which Jesus gathers up people who clearly don’t have the aptitude for being
very religious. They are fisher
folk. They are people of the streets. They are people down at the local bar. Then, within their normal everyday lives, he
folds back that thin veil and reveals the very mystery of the holy. They are taken aback. A widow sees that her struggle is a holy
one. A disenfranchised day worker sees
he is valued. A hooker finds some
respect. They become the ones who follow
this wisdom teacher down the dusty path of life. A band of bar room mystics. Everyone is talking. A band
of folks beginning to awaken to the very heart of the universe pulsing in what
the social elite could only classify as “their miserable little lives”. Yep, down at the local bar they are abuzz
with the very heart of the mystery of life.
I am sitting still. I
am a fallen leaf at the edge of a great and ancient sea.
Why do I work my soul to the bone constructing a contrived mysticism
that feels especially holy? Why do I
spend so much energy immersing myself in an abstract reality that requires a
registration fee? Why do I think the axis
of the holy encounter is centered in places set apart? Where along this religious journey did I lose
the ability to hear holiness in the everyday pulse of a bar?
As a self-professed progressive christian I think I might have
torn down an old dogmatic monastery only to erect another more sexy one. Oh to push myself out of the special places
and back into the mystical mundane. Oh
to look into the eyes of my daughter as she cries about another disappointment
and see all that is holy in that moment.
Oh to hand my book back to the librarian and embrace the experience in a
way that stops time. Oh to hear in the
blues as the lament of the soul. Oh to
break bread around a table for four in the heart of downtown and know that this
is the holiest of meals. Oh to stare at the food in my CSA box and see
the very pulse of the universe. Oh to sit
on my bar stool and know I am in the monastery.
I don’t need to pay for a mystical experience, I am a mystical
experience!
Christianity , the religion I have learned to love may have
let us all down by turning fishing village wisdom into an abstract theological
construct put to liturgical music. I
want bar stool mysticism! The challenge
is how to get there. If I just spend
time on a bar stool will I really see the wonder that surrounds me? If I just spend my time in the monastery,
will I miss the mystery held within the mundane? Maybe I need both? Maybe
I need the eyes and ears I can develop in silent meditation to be the awareness
I bring to the mundane.
I am a fallen maple leaf resting ever so gently within a vast sea of
noise down at the local bar. I can feel
the vibration of it all and my soul is rested.
Restored, I make my way back to
the monastery. The ominous gates are
locked shut for the night. Not wanting
to sleep in my VW bus, I push the little stained button on the gate but hear
nothing. Fifteen very long minutes
later, an old security guard unlocks the gates of paradise and lets me in. I think he smells the alcohol on my
breath. He locks the gate behind us and
I can feel him watching me wander up the hill, back into the beloved community. I am a mystic. I am a mystic who needs the panic door in
order to find myself in this world of ours.
How about you?