Intention pt. 2

Since I wrote my last post about the stability of intention, compared to emotions, my father died. 

I can remember so vividly how important that insight was during one of the most difficult weeks of my life.  The week I thought my father was getting better, until he turned so quickly for the worse.  In the end he had a more peaceful death than any of us could have hoped for.  I owe that, I believe, to my grounding in The Way of the Bodhisattva. 

And now as long as space endures,

As long as there are beings to be found, 

May I continue likewise to remain

To drive away the sorrows of the world. 

It has been my intention in the last three months, to tranform my grief into strength. I think I'm getting there.  But it's also ok to let that grief be.  Stability is a good goal, but it's not the objective.  That is balance and balance means having the equanimity to stay poised in difficult situation. 

To drive away the sorrows of the world, it's good to have a light. But it's essential also to be able to see in the dark. 

Remorse

As I become more fully and regularly in touch with the basic goodness, the awareness of which arises and is strengthened by my hour a day morning practice, I'm confronted with other feelings.  Grief. Remorse. The need to forgive and be forgiven.
  I spent so much of my life just wandering around looking for help and healing. The path is clearer now, but now I'm processing the realization that the path was always there, but I chose differently.  I chose television, hopeless relationships, isolation, numbness and escape. Not always. I also chose books, made and maintained friendships, psychotherapy, Zhan Zhuang.  But sometimes I only see the confusion.
This may be because I've been wandering off the path of late. Looking for other teachers and not quite devoting myself to the Tergar program, as I kind of vowed to do.
  Kind of vowed.  That says it all.  I'm still not committing. Not committing to this, to my writing career, to the non-profit I'm starting, to Ben. To any one thing really.
  And I'm beating myself up about it.
  Let's look for this moment at the things that I am committed to.  An hour a day practice, which is no small thing. My Tergar retreats, which take time and money.  My running.  And I have been editing my book every morning.  It feels ready.
  There's a commitment there that arises automatically out of the energy that I build through these commitments. It steadies me, even when I wander off.
  This week, I will return to my level three practice routine.  Keep to the algorithm of the path I've been engaged in.  I'm not ready to commit to Ngondro. It's interesting, but I'm not there yet.  So I'm going to keep to the secular path for now. It's more sustainable in the life I'm living. If and when I feel grief and remore, I will recognize them as signs that I'm making progress, deepening my awareness, which included the recognition of where I went wrong and the consequences of those behaviours, and letting go, which always brings with it the sharpness of grief.  These are purifying emotions.  I can handle them.
  But for now I return.

Refuge

I have made a religion of writing. And this, I suspect, is not a good practice. Editors, publishers, the book industry is not a refuge.

Or, not a wise refuge. And neither is the world of technology.

Take refuge in the things that have lasted, and will continue to last. The pith instructions of the great religions, love, surrender, be kind and compassionate and find, build and maintain communities dedicated to true peace and true wisdom.

This spot in Maine where I have vacationed with my family for 50 years has been both a refuge and a hell.  I have had my most mystical moments here, and my most violent.

I have treated every summer here in the last few years as my last, knowing that when I leave, I say goodbye to an intimate, healing relationship with the sea, the sky, the falling stars. But I also say goodbye to what still feels like a hopeless cycle of emotional discord.

This summer has been better than most. I've been less reactive and have been able, for the most part, to protect myself better than I ever have, which means that I've made progress in my emotional stability.

And I leave with a beautiful picture of the dawn.

But I now prepare to grieve this place.  Because nothing lasts. Nothing. Not beach houses, or books.  Not bodies, not the people we love most, or the people who love us most.

What I learned from the place though, the space, the grandeur, the smell that I will never forget. That will last deep in me to my last breath.  Because that is the awareness that is no different with breath. I am one with tis place until I am gone, and after.