Cloud Cover

When I told Salima that Rod and Clair were separating she said he would connect again to his essence.  I believe he has.  And the kids are OK.  And here is where the yawning concern opens up before me.  Sidi said not to dwell in the past; that I am a new creation.  So I choose to turn toward a more beautiful picture of who I am and who I am meant to be. And still the question beats on my chest and skull.  Do we every really change?  Do we ever really breakout of our habitual patterns, our conditioning and our old buried-deep-down beliefs? 

“Are you listening deepest drummer?  Are you playing loud enough to be heard?”

The screen clears, doors open wide to an unending sky.  The “landscape” disappearing; only cloud and sky remain.  I have been trying to reach you for days now, months and weeks.  And still the sense that I am alone pounding on the door.  Then you hint: I am the door, the arm that pounds, the forest that surrounds.  There is no real separation here.  There is only this.  There is no other; no one to reach; no place to go.  And then I stop, stop because the idea just begins to penetrate.  Is that it?  There is no other?

 

I have become very fond of this experience, this witnessing myself inside my body.  This body is such a miracle.  Seems better care of it is in order.  Feeling present to its working and not sure of the extent to which I have or have not cared for it.  It is such a gift to be here in the visual, tasting world; such a gift to touch and taste and smell and walk and hear and see, feeling sensation.  The other side of this being possible also:  pain, suffering, loss.  But here, now in this moment, in this physical form, to feel ever so slightly removed, like watching a river flow or a clock tick.  Aware of the awareness of being, grateful for this moment, this life, this chance to be in the world, yet to be inside the world, to be the stream of the world.  Ah la!

I wish I could say more.  I wish there were more words to us to express the moment, a mere glimpse, not a merging yet.  Just a taste.   I long for the immersion principle, but maybe that only comes when all this is let go.  And is that only possible in the final finah, the final parting?  Or is there a state of being in this world where the complete immersion is possible, where union with Your deep, rich, sweetness, that place of comfort and knowing familiarity, intimacy beyond what seems possible, that ever present essence, that knowing beyond belief resides?  I am hoping by describing this memory that I might catch the corner of it and pull the whole experience back to me, like the poet who felt the inspiration of a poem coming to her as she stood in the field and running into her house grabbed a pen and paper, and just catching the tail end of the poem as it went by, pulling it back to herself, writing the poem perfectly, every word, last word to first, completely backwards.  Maybe I can catch this memory and draw it back to myself, have it unfurl around me and enfold me, like a leaf dropping into a bed of leaves becoming one with the background; not to disintegrate or dissolve but to remain whole and singular, to become one with the intricate, infinite patterns of leaves, no longer distinguishable from the whole….  One and only….

Happy Birthday Mom!

An email I wrote to my siblings:  Today is Mom's birthday and I've been thinking about her so much these past few weeks.  Seems like I'm having a chance to remember her as an individual, separate from my usual mother-daughter memories.  The first thing that struck me was her unswerving devotion to God, her unrelenting faith and trust which has meant most to me as I struggle with my own faith and trust.  She never varied even when things looked bleakest, she held tight "to the rope of God."   So much strength in her resolve and so much gratitude in me for her example.  It helps to know she persisted.  So that's one thing.  The other thing that struck me just yesterday or the day before was how young she was when dad died...  I know, to some of you, 66, may still seem old... but aren't we all getting to that age where the separation between age and youth is no longer the gap it was; the gap is so narrow now.  Even at 67, soon to be 68, there is an ageless being inside me that is still somewhat shocked to see the outer expression in the mirror, no longer matching the inner sense of self.  So when I thought about dad the other day, he died in 1985 at age 71, I thought "Oh my God, mom was only 66! A year YOUNGER than I am now." and I wept for her loss.  She seemed so old at the time, and of course you expect people to die when they get old but suddenly she was myself, staring ahead at a life without her dearest friend and most loved companion... OK, so maybe my spin on this is due to me suddenly facing how I might feel to lose my "sweetest heart," but still, it was a stunning realization at seeing how little I knew her and appreciated her struggle.  So this is sort of a mea culpa for my arrogant, childlike view of you mom, and a chance to maybe remember you in the light of who you are... a wonderful woman, a loving companion and a brilliant star. 

What Drew You To This Path?

I don’t know what lead me to this path.  Dumb luck?  God loved me first and then I loved Him?  It’s hard to write an essay on this—where does this path begin?  When I took the promise?  When my good friend, Jody, invited me to the seminar on Money in the Holy Way by Rahim Bronner?  When Sidi al-Jamal married me to the heart and soul of my beloved?  When that first light dawned and I felt something move inside me?  Has it been lifetimes or just this time?  Was it the years in Catholic school, First Holy Communion, a mother whose devotion to the Blessed Virgin linked us for the first time to holy beads?  Was it thirty years of meditation, three marriages, the death of my daughter?  If you are wanting a sound bite for a good PR presentation, I don’t know if you will find it here.

And what is this path? Is it the Shadhiliyya Sufi path or is it the path of the ages?  The only true and beautiful path.  The path of knowledge and love of God.  Is it the path of Divine intervention in our creation, in our humanness?  Is it the teachings of all the Masters, great saints, the enlightened?  I have tried several times to begin this essay, to answer your question and all I am left with are questions of my own.  Who is asking?  Who is answering?  My heart aches with the longing to know.

What brought me to this path—my heart’s longing for its Self.  My soul’s aching desire to know You.  I have had hints, glimpses, moments, even days, of complete annihilation, complete weeping surrender to You, the goal, the source, the path of all my longing.  And then nothing.  Lost again in the shadow lands, unable to distinguish truth from non-truth; fantasy from reality.  What brought me here is what has brought me anywhere, everywhere.  This longing, this aching to know You, to be You, to become You.

Perhaps pain and suffering drove me to You.  Perhaps the sweet, subconscious memory of those times You were near and maybe I knew it as You, maybe I didn’t—but You were there surrounding me with the most ineffable love and light.  My earliest recollection in the beautiful silent church as a young girl, sitting alone in the cathedral like arch of the sanctuary.  Light, filtered and golden above the altar, a sense of holy wonder and nearness.  Or was it in the nights by the big bed in my parents’ bedroom, where we as children would kneel and recite the Rosary as mother led us through the mysteries of Jesus.  Where, upon the morning of my mother’s death, praying the rosary by her bedside, I was taken back to those early rosaries and saw for the first time Mother Mary’s presence in our circle and her imprint on my soul—a child of God.  Or was it the day in Chicago O’Hara International Airport, on my way home to Oregon to my daughter’s funeral, who died in the night while I sat in deep, silent meditation in the fields of Iowa.  Maybe then, while I wrote the eulogy for my daughter who was 10 when she died; maybe then when You showed me that my soul and all the souls of all the busy, rushing travelers were linked, linked together in Your passionate embrace. 

I don’t know when I came to this path.  You pick one.  I am at a loss to choose.

Only God is Perfect

Just finished the Colorado Cleanse--14 days of intense work to buy, prepare and eat a variety of veggies, soups, khichadi, ghee and occasional light protein, culminating on day eleven with a castor oil purge and then winding down to the finish line on day fourteen.  I have never worked so hard with so little energy.  It has been surprising and somewhat disconcerting as both John and I felt like walking zombies throughout the cleanse unable to maintain even a half day of work, much less a full day.

During the cleanse I began to notice my tendency towards perfectionism.  The cleanse material described the emotional component of the cleanse process.  Old emotions get stored in the fat cells in our bodies so as we begin to burn fat, these stored toxins are released and our mood can reflect these old emotions.  I began to think it was my husband's tendency to perfection I saw but then older emotions associated with my father's perfectionism showed up. Finally I realized these tendencies were deeply rooted in me, in my own need to be perfect.  Over the two-week cleanse I got a clear look into my need to get it right, get it done, to be perfect. As I finished each task, it seemed I noticed something I had missed or a sequence I did not do according to the directions. As I picked up the last few crumbs from the floor, those I had missed with the broom, I remembered my dad and his focus on those small imperfections while ignoring the glaring obstruction of his then untreated alcoholism.  Even when he got sober, it was the detail, the tiny crumb that got his attention and in this behavior I saw myself.  I am not aware of what I don't see about myself that really needs my attention.  As long as I think I can make it perfect, I don' have to look. But now I am aware when I reach for that tiny crumb on the floor or the smudge on the edge of a glass that I am the perfect imperfection in God's creation and release that particular tension into the universe.  And maybe, just maybe, one day I will find the Perfection I seek.

Keep A Writer's Journal

“Keep A Writer’s Journal… keep an ongoing journal of ideas, quotations, ponderings, anecdotes” from the book Writing the Sacred Journey-the Art and Practice of Spiritual Memoir by Elizabeth J. Andrew.

There is an anecdote I want to recall from my recent trip to Oregon.  I had driven over from Bend to see my sister and her husband in Portland for a couple of days, then down to Salem to see my brother and family for the night and then on to Eugene to visit the grave sites at Mt. Calvary Cemetery—Mom, Dad, sister Dawnie and daughter Jill.  It was a glorious fall day in Eugene—the day of the big Oregon Ducks/Oregon State game.  I got into town just before noon, stopped at a lovely new grocer at 29^th and Willamette and bought flowers and lunch and then drove to the cemetery.

I placed the flowers first at the gravesite where my parents and sister rest and then walked over to Jill’s grave. 

Doug, Jill’s father, had been here about 10 days earlier and had trimmed the tree my friend, Teri, and I had planted there 34 years ago.  It looked much better now, more open, mature and joyful.  As I stood there, I felt nothing but gratitude—gratitude for this beautiful spot on the side of a hill, surrounded by tall pines and firs, overlooking Eugene and the hill where we once lived and the school she had attended.  I felt a sense of peace and joy and satisfaction.  After a few minutes I started to leave. I needed to use the bathroom but when I checked, the facilities at Mt. Calvary were locked tight so I had to drive back to town.  But as I walked away, I felt a tug, “Don’t leave yet, Mommie.”  So I came back and sat again in that beautiful space feeling that familiar intimacy with Jill.  Finally the need to find a bathroom became urgent and I got up again, once more feeling that sweet tug.  “I have to go, sweetheart,” I said and walked up the hill to my car. 

Back down the hill at the market where I bought the flowers, I parked and ducked into a charming little bistro next door.  There I used the facilities and bought a latte to have with the lunch I had planned to eat at the cemetery but, alas, my bathroom needs brought me here.  So I sat in the sunshine down the hill from the cemetery at a table in front of the market.  While I ate music played overhead. When Pachelbel’s Canon in D began to play, the music we played at Jill’s funeral so many years ago, I recognized the connection immediately and began to cry.  I sobbed for her loss, for her continuation,  and for her immediacy. I sat there in the sunshine, remembering, feeling her presence like Life's little kiss on the check.

Later, much later, after coming home to WV, while sitting at the computer entering my travel receipts into Quicken, I picked up the receipt from The Supreme Bean, that little café where I had used the facilities that bright September day and saw the name of the clerk who served me coffee.  Her name was Jill.

Vicki Davies

October 6, 2009

Pachelbel’s Canon in D link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stCKjZniMsQ&feature=related

I Got Up On Purpose to Write This Story

I was tired, jet lagged, drugged and had had little sleep having flown in from Sydney on Wednesday, arriving at Dulles 27 hours later, still on Wednesday.  I had caught a cold the previous Sunday while sitting at the Iceberg Café overlooking Bondi Beach, on the second to last day of our 15 day trip to Australia to visit John’s family.  By Monday, I was sneezing and blowing but still managed to attend a magnificent concert at the Sydney Opera House performed by “The Sixteen,” an ensemble of strings and voices so sublime I seemed to merge into the music. The next day, Tuesday, a sunny, bright Sydney morning, we sat at Petrol Café for breakfast and then walked to the Sydney Museum to see the Picasso exhibit, afterwards eating at the Museum’s outside café, where we were visited by bright green, blue & yellow parrots, landing on our table, to eat the crumbs left from our lunches. That night there was a birthday party for a friend and then dinner out in the “Paris of Sydney,” an upscale community near John’s sister’s bohemian community on Springfield Avenue.  As we walked home that evening, it began to sprinkle, the promise of the rain predicted for the next morning.

By Wednesday morning we had been in Oz for more than two weeks, flying into Brisbane and slowly making our way down the Pacific Highway, stopping a day or two here and there, visiting, connecting, loving and laughing with various members of  John’s family.  It had been an intense but  loving experience, blessed with many intimate connections, beautiful settings and deep, sometimes difficult conversations. 

Working through these difficult conversations required a great deal of focused, loving attention, and though painful at times, it seemed a positive outcome overall. John and I hoped to convey this outcome to Bron on our arrival in Sydney as most of our conversations were with her grown sons and their concerns around their relationship with their mother.  But plans changed, timetables did not meet expectations, and we arrived later than expected on Friday afternoon with no time for the intimate conversation we envisioned.  The rest of the weekend included visits with old friends, another dear sister and a friend of Bron’s who’d come to Sydney for the concert and still no time to talk with Bron, to ease her sorrow and help her through the more difficult parts of these conversations.  So our last day, Wednesday morning at Petrol Cafe, rain drizzling down, we sat and tried to get closure—a closure that would take days and weeks and hours, where none were available.  And then it was time to leave.  We grabbed our bags, hailed a cab and left for the airport, leaving Bron in the street, waving good-bye, alone with her pain.

Twenty seven hours later we landed in DC.  By the time we got to Dulles airport, I couldn’t breathe and couldn’t stop couching, asthma turning my cold into bronchitis.  Our friend, Gail, picked us up and immediately drove me to the Reston Hospital Center where for the next 3 hours I was tested and treated for various possible complications including an EGK for chest pain, CAT scan for possible blood clots in the lungs, nebulizer treatment for breathing constriction and intervenes antibiotic.  John came back for me around 3AM and drove me back to our friend’s where we finally got to sleep around 4AM for a few fitful hours.  I awoke around 8:30AM and went out to the kitchen where I sat with Gail, drinking coffee and talking about travel, Spirit and consciousness.  When she left for work, John and I showered, dressed, prayed and threw our bags into the car.

We drove across the street to a local CVS where I had 3 prescriptions filled and while waiting, ate a smallish breakfast at Starbuck’s and then began our drive home, stopping in Frederick on the way for much needed groceries.  We had been gone for just over two weeks and there was nothing to eat at home.

It was in Frederick that this story really begins.  So here we are at the Common Market, tried, jet lagged, sick and drugged.  It’s now 5PM and we have to check out, drive home another 70 miles and then unload groceries and luggage, and put it all away before there is any chance of rest.  And we have house guests.  Two friends have come to stay at the house in our absence and will be there when we get home.  Company!  We need to get moving.

But we had not eaten since Starbuck’s and that was really just a snack, so I pick up a take-out box, fill it to the brim with fresh, organic veggies and tuna mix and take the salad to a café table in the market, sit down and drop my head in prayer..  Thank you Lord for everything, for the table, the chair, the salad, the trip, the fatigue, the home coming, the store, the moment, the silence, the peace—all conveyed in about 30 seconds of intense stillness.

As my head comes up my eyes meet those of another patron, sitting along the windows, about 15 feet away.  He smiles and nods his head and gestures across the room, “Are you praying?”  “Yes.” I respond, nodding my reply.  “Are you Christian?”  “No,” I say, “Muslim.”  His startled expression, surprise and disbelief combined, brings him to our table.

 For the next hour we talk about faith, God, religion, Islam and Christianity.  Our mutual understandings, our deep love and commitment, weave in and out, as three souls linked by love of God, devotion to His will and openness to something bigger than our limited human understanding, connect.  He did not agree with everything we explained about the Islamic faith but he kept saying, “I can feel the love in both of you.” And finally that is what we agreed upon.  The love we each felt for the other was the essential message of both Christ and Mohammad (peace and blessings be upon them), and in that we were linked, regardless of dogma.  We were living the love God asked from us and in that there is no disagreement, no separation; we are one.

It was a long trip.  I am extremely tired, but this one hour in the market, brought confirmation, that regardless of my day to day worries, beliefs, struggles, there is a field beyond the limited sense of me and mine, where we can meet, and that field is love. 

“Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing,

There is a field, and I will meet you there.”—Rumi

Vicki Davies

March, 2012