All This and Heaven, Too!

I was walking to the car intent only on getting out of the heat again when I saw my neighbor, Kelley, leisurely watering and deadheading his border. We exchanged pleasantries and the topic quickly devolved into the hot, humid weather.

"I love it!" Kelley said.

"This heat, this humidity? Even walking is a struggle!"

"When it's summer I want to feel summer," Kelley explained.

In the evening, he sits on his deck looking out on the lake. "Maybe I won't enjoy it as much if a pleasant breeze did not blow in from the lake. I've seen owls flying by with their prey in their beaks. One time I saw a hawk fly so low I felt the air stirred by its wings."

After saying goodbye, I hurried on into the refuge of my air-conditioned car. Kelley's words kept echoing in my head. He's right. We should be so lucky. Our senses are intact and we can feel life on our skin, our eyes, and our ears, an ever-changing cornucopia of sensations we take so for granted.

Kelley's words finally hit me today. I stopped at the community beach when I saw this pontoon boat moored in the lake. Oceans and seas are what I dream about when I think of water but this tiny bucket of water, this little backyard lake, is as pleasant to the senses, and imminently here now.

Some people have the natural knack for enjoying the physical world. They glory in their bodies. Some of us, like me, spend our lives in our minds. There is no dichotomy here but shouldn't I enjoy the body, too, as I enjoy the mind? Summer gives precedence to bodily experience. The sun, the heat, the scarce and precious breeze, the laboring breath as we walk briskly through soupy air: instead of fighting off the sensations we can glory in it.

Five times a day Muslim imams invite other Muslims to acknowledge the glory of the one God. God is all this, and heaven, too.

This Morning's Practice

This morning’s practice involved additional readings from Meditations from the Tantras, a collection of essays centered around the teachings of the Dashnami sannyasin, Swami Satyananda Saraswati. Preceding the core of the book, a collection of specific meditation techniques taught by the swami, were essays introducing the teachings at the Bihar School of Yoga that he founded in 1964. Satyananda was a student of Sivananda whose books I have enjoyed through the years. This book on tantric meditations is more recent than Sivananda's books although it was published in 1983. Its teachings are decidedly more ecumenical, including in its broad statements about the efficacy of technique all the major religious traditions of mind-cultivating practices like Christian mysticism and Zen.

My practice is largely founded on the Theravadin scriptural and oral traditions. The bulk of my study has focused on the various Buddhist schools in Asia, and more recently, the translations and commentaries by European and American scholars. My work in yoga has been largely based on Patanjali's synthesis and teachings from Thakor Patel, a disciple of Shri Kripalvanandji. Satyananda's book blurs the distinction between Buddhist and Yogic teachings. The book proposes an end goal of practice not dissimilar from what Buddhism teaches: the elimination of ignorance. Ignorance, as also taught in Buddhism, is ignorance of who or what we are and the profound ramifications this has on how we perceive and live life.

In describing "the experience of dhyana," Satyananda waxes poetical: "Life becomes so joyful so that it needs no ambition, no justification, no reason: it is sufficient just to be."

Manuals of style recommend that the writer avoid hyperbole. To make statements of exaggerated truth makes the whole work suspect. Ordinary life is imminently ordinary. Only in poetry is hyperbolic sweetness condoned. Perhaps only in poetry and in what to me is a similar state, the experience of the sacred, do our minds shift from immersion in the ordinary to be torn free to experience a fuller, more vivid reality unhindered by rationality and intellectuality. Bach's music is intellectually mathematical and perfect but its real impact comes when we forget the architectural construction of the pieces and lose ourselves in the music itself. Living the music is a different function of mind. Dhyana is understood as approaching the limits of mind itself. When consciousness breaks out of the confinement of mind, subject and object become identical. In that union is unlimited space and time, both aspects of experience dissolving into the simplest terms.

I remember a Japanese Zen monk at Barre when I was there to study the elements of Pali. The monk was not in his robes but had not yet given them up. He was seeking a way to return the robes, gifts of a community he was no longer in touch with. He described why he was not sure he wanted to pursue the practice. In his meditation practice, he felt he was losing himself and that was sheer terror.

The majesty of freedom is an amalgamation of all the possible emotions a human being experiences. Like flour, yeast, salt and water, they unite into a common substance, dough, although this metaphor too is flawed. Substance exists when there is someone outside substance that apprehends it. The agent that apprehends is what we refer to in ordinary, unenlightened life as "I". The concept is so ubiquitous that we don't see "I" anymore. We become absorbed in the delusion. This is ordinarily what we call being practical.

Satyananda writes that someone who touches and lives in the nameless still operates in the world of forms. There just is no longer identification with the forms. The forms, whether self or other, are shapes of eternity passing like the shadows of numberless days, numberless years, centuries and aeons beyond count.

Food in the Early Western Christian Monastic Tradition

When we strip our needs down to the barest minimum, there are only two things necessary for life: oxygenated air and food. Unless you dove below the ocean or flew above the troposphere five to ten miles above the earth's surface, oxygen is abundant and free. Food is ultimately what human beings labor for, according to Jewish scriptures, as price for their disobedience. Everything else is extra.

No wonder then that food is at the heart of most if not all religious traditions. St. Benedict in his famous Rule that most Western Christian monastics follow devoted several chapters to food and how the monks took it. Chapter 39 deals with the apportionment of food, chapter 40 with drink. The saint recommended two cooked dishes at each meal so monks had a choice. There were two meals a day, at the sixth hour (noon) and the ninth hour (three in the afternoon). Each monk was allotted a pound of bread a day regardless of whether the monks have one or two meals. This was long before Dr. Robert Atkins. Recognizing that individuals had differing needs for the amount of food, St. Benedict did not specify amounts for the rest of the meal. In the summer, when vegetables and fruits are available he recommended a third dish of these fresh produce. In earlier times, monks grew their own vegetables and fruits. He also made allowances for the elderly, the sick, and those who worked harder than usual that day. The flesh of "four-footed" animals was reserved only for the sick.

The saint wrote his Rule at a time when it was safer to drink wine than to drink water. He would probably have prohibited wine but decided his monks would not accept this so he suggested wine intake be limited to 1/4 liter or 8 ounces a day, again with allowances at the abbot's discretion for the sick and those who performed unusually demanding physical labor that day. Vespers were scheduled to allow for meals to be finished in daylight. All monks took turns at kitchen duty and waiting on each other.

At Lent, monks were enjoined to observe the 40 days by depriving themselves of usual comforts or adding special activities like more prayers or fasting. The monks submit their intended observance to the abbot who approves or modifies the list based on his knowledge of the monk to avoid "presumption and vainglory." In his concise Rule, St. Benedict shows prescience and common sense, regulating only what needs regulating, and he recognized the importance of food as well as abstinence from food.

What we know about St. Benedict is largely from his biography written by Gregory the Great who before he became pope himself followed the Rule as a monk. Gregory praised the Rule for its "discretion and clarity of language." I think we could all learn from this sixth century saint and teacher of men (and, later, women) that our lives in the 21st century become once more moderate and healthy.

An Uncommon Commodity

"Fasting had made me more alert and more appreciative of the richness around me. I began to comprehend the sense of life anew, more intensely. This sense is an increasingly rare commodity nowadays, because the sense of the Holy, of things that are completely different, of the profoundly secret, has gradually become lost."

Bernhard Müller, Fasting in the Monastery

The early Christians fled to the desert where they confronted themselves. They called demons those features of the mind that even today, maybe more so today, tempt us to immoderation and thoughtlessness. Distinguishing themselves from other Jews, they set aside Tuesdays and Fridays as fast days (Jews fasted on Mondays and Thursdays) to remind them of the passion of their rabbi, Yeshua (Iesous in Greek, pronounced YAY-sus), that began on Good Friday.

When we're fasting, the mind becomes clear as if a giant vacuum cleaner had sucked every detail from the sky—clouds, vestigial moon, flying geese—to leave it an empty blue hemisphere above. When we do see ourselves in this dwarfing landscape, we're as ants, insignificant specks on the vastness of timeless space.

In this vast panorama, we are not the center or point of reference. We see how puny our desires are, how utterly silly our pretensions to power and importance.

No longer the center of being, everything becomes transmogrified, luminous and fresh. We're back in the garden before we took things into our own hands and lost the primal vision. In the garden, every thing is new, pure and essential. There is nothing here extraneous or unnecessary, and every thing is good.

We need to regain this vision of Paradise. All too often we are lost in our own world of thoughts and images, in the project-management attitude we learn early in life. Purpose is great. It pools our resources and directs these towards creation. After a while we forget the true nature of creation. We begin to believe we make things happen, all by ourselves, by our own resources and strength. We forget the deep roots that connect us to worlds of being so vast and empty they boggle the mind. We lose this sense of bogglement. Instead we become comfortable seeing the world from our tiny speck of a reference. Fasting restores us to the whole shebang.

And in the whole shebang, everything we see is replete with light. We can even see death and life, not as tragic events we seek to ignore but as natural punctuation marks in a timeless, endless statement that being is. Each time, our sense of ownership loosens somewhat. We see as gods do, the whole panoply of human sadness and joys laid below us like a model train loop, or the valley below when we reach the summit of high mountains.