Hers: Reflections on Days of Metta

On a Monday:
I walked up the stairs at the studio and felt light, light in spirit – a deep inner peace, joy.
Did it last? Do moments like these ever?
Well, I suppose if they did we could, as my teacher has said, roll up our mats and go home.

The day was lovely, classes went smoothly, time with my private students rewarding, but these glimpses of what can only be called perfection are as brief as a breath.

And like the breath, we must notice them.


On a Wednesday:
Gary’s brother stopped by this morning at 6:20am. He was hoping that Gary would be awake and go golfing with him. Of course Gary was awake and of course he went golfing. These two things are givens. I came out of our room with a smile and an unlit candle, looking for a lighter.

“Helllloooo Brother.”

“Hellloooo Sister. Whatcha doin’? Meditatin’?”

“Yup.”

And off I go into the yoga room. I start my metta practice. It becomes a morning of men….Gary’s image appears. I direct to him. Then his brother, their dad, my dad, my stepdad, my brother, men that come to the studio, friends, more family….they come and go. I keep returning to Gary. His image fills my heart and I send that love to him.


On a Sunday: 
Some days, today, I feel strange directing these sentiments toward myself. I thought I had long gotten over that, back when I first explored metta work. But as I sit each morning, as I begin my sitting practice with "May I, may I, may I..," it seems so self-centric. Some days, I try to bring someone to mind, someone I love or someone who challenges me. But I regularly return to "may I."

Jack Kornfield suggests that we spend months focusing our metta toward ourselves. Months taking care of our selves before we turn our attention to others. Yet still...it sometimes feels strange.  

His: The Preciousness of Life

Sometimes it takes a long trip to realize the value of what we have:

Buddhist tradition teaches its followers to regard all life as precious. The astronauts who leave the earth have also rediscovered this truth. One set of Russian cosmonauts described it in this way: “We brought up small fish to the space station for certain investigations. We were to be there three months. After about three weeks the fish began to die. How sorry we felt for them! What we didn’t do to try to save them! On earth we take great pleasure in fishing, but when you are alone and far away from anything terrestrial, any appearance of life is especially welcome. You see just how precious life is.” In this same spirit, one astronaut, when his capsule landed, opened the hatch to smell the moist air of earth. “I actually got down and put it to my cheek. I got down and kissed the earth.”

--Jack Kornfield, A Path With Heart

 

Hers: Metta for Us All (In Honor of Sergeant Mike Wilson)

I read an article in the Wall Street Journal a couple years ago. It was an article about the grand scale installation artist, Christo and his life after the passing of his wife and collaborator, Jeanne-Claude. While reading, I came across a line so poignant and beautiful that I copied it into my journal so as not to forget it. It seemed then and still does now an important idea to contemplate.

One of the less-spoken truths about grief is that you don't just lose the deceased person; you lose the person you got to be when you were with him or her.

....Today our community is in the midst of a small tragedy. Only days ago, Charlotte County Sergeant Mike Wilson was killed in the line of duty. The first officer to be killed by gunfire and only the second to have fallen in our county's history. Our small little city has been spending the last couple of days preparing for his memorial, our streets and trees decorated in blue ribbons to honor Sergeant Wilson's service and sacrifice. My own Thursday afternoon was spent wrapping the trees outside of the yoga studio. It's a strange thing - decorating a building, wrapping trees in ribbon, knowing that a family has been torn apart...because a family has been torn apart. I can only hope that our compassion somehow makes it to their hearts.

People die. Sometimes horribly, sometime peacefully. All that gets taken from them at death is probably of no consequence to them now. But what of those left behind? What becomes of them? Who do we become once they're gone?

You lose the person you got to be when you were with him or her.

I woke up the morning after decorating the studio trees and, as is becoming my habit, went into our yoga room for sitting practice. I took out my mala, took my seat, and after a few deep exhalations,  started reciting my metta phrases. As is also becoming my habit, I began my practice directing the phrases toward myself.

 

If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete. - Jack Kornfield

Soon, 10 - 15 repetitions in, Sergeant Wilson came to mind. I don't know that I've ever met him and the only image I have is what's being used in the papers and news feeds. His image made just a fleeting appearance. It was his family, his wife and children, that truly came to settle into my heart. I've no idea what they look like, no idea their age, hair color, no idea even if his kids are boys or girls. But I continued, "May they be filled with loving-kindness. May they be well..." What could they be going through? What are they doing right now? Who will they become?

You lose the person you got to be when you were with him or her.

The consummate multi-tasker, my mind repeated my phrases while simultaneously exploring those questions and then creating a story for a woman and family I've never even met. I began to answer my questions through this story. I answered them by putting myself into their place. What might I be doing?

Oh.... A deep sense of grief began to fill me, sadness.

I tried to focus harder on my metta phrases, pushing them out in their direction, whatever direction that may be. And then more broadly toward his extended family and friends, and then to all those whose lives he may have touched, and then to our entire community and all those who have experienced the loss of someone important in their lives. ALL of us. We all have, or no doubt will, experience that loss.

Who do we then become?

I'd love to end this post with some kind of answer, some kind of idea. But I don't know. I only suspect we're constantly finding out, constantly becoming who we will become.