The invitation into silence is a daunting one. At the beginning of any silent retreat, the anticipation of stepping into the unknown, the stripping away of distractions, can be nerve-wracking at best. For both those new to or experienced in meditation practice, retreat offers this cliff-jump into the mystery. The surrender to silence takes courage. What contact will I make with my own being? Will grief find me? Anger? Joy? What unclaimed aspects will come home?

I made a beautiful discovery on this past retreat. It was the quiet, still, spacious experience of no efforting. I’ve visited here before, but there was something new about it this time. I realized that we may never need efforting in our lives. That the focus on productivity and control that creates stress is actually not necessary. That we have a choice in each moment about how we do our lives. I love this about retreat. These discoveries.

Earlier this week I noticed that I was unconsciously turning something over and over in the mind to find resolution. I was lost in a familiar pattern of dissociation from the present moment. Once I realized that I was doing this, I made the conscious decision to surrender. To let go of the rumination, let go of the attempt to control my experience. Surrender doesn’t mean letting go of life, it means letting go of the resistance to life.

I’ve received a big lesson this year that I wanted to share with you. It’s one that I’m working with in my own life and seeing play out all around me. I think it’s an important one and may be especially useful as we move through these turbulent times. The lesson is simple: I am fully responsible for my experience. It’s the invitation to move out of victim consciousness and see that everything that happens to us is happening for us. That everything I feel about anyone else is a reflection of how I feel about me.

When a struggle appears in my life, it comes through the body. It might feel like a constriction in my heart or unease in the belly. In my old way of being, the mind would immediately take over to attempt to understand the sensation. It would create a story to analyze, turning it over again and again, wrestling with it and working hard to resolve it. I would talk about it to anyone who would listen but often wouldn’t hear their feedback or wisdom. I think my mind liked having problems to solve.

This human experiment is challenging. We spend most of our time stuck in our 3D reality, focused on our human selves, trying to resolve our unconscious programming. We’ve forgotten the aspect of ourselves that exists outside of our sensory experience. And culturally, we have lost the myths and teachings that may have pointed us toward our true nature. When we meditate, we touch into the soul, the eternal aspect of ourselves. The part of us that doesn’t know fear, that only knows an “is-ness” that might be called love. The realization, the remembering, the reclamation of the embodiment of our soul is the call of spiritual awakening.

My 12 year old’s face is changing. When I get a chance to stare at him (today it was at his piano lesson), my heart feels like it’s breaking. All at once he seems to be the man he is becoming and the boy he is leaving behind. Parenting is an invitation to constantly let go, to open to such a deep groove of vulnerability you think you might not survive. Of course, we are always being invited to feel into this rawness. Life is brutally beautiful, tempting us to break open our own hearts to touch the staggering sensation of being alive in mortal bodies.

In this morning’s meditation sangha at St. John's, a baby cried for nearly thirty minutes while we sat together above the preschool entrance. We were reading a teaching from Thich Naht Hanh about peaceful communication. Specifically, the importance of listening to another’s expression of pain. I was enjoying sitting with these ideas, but when the baby started crying, I felt frustrated. It was hard to meditate with all that suffering going on! It didn’t take me long to see what was happening. I relaxed and made room in my system for the crying. It was easier than I thought.

One of my dearest friends just navigated the deeply challenging waters of childbirth. We spoke on the phone as she was feeling into the contractions that were beginning to come in consistent waves and my whole being instantly remembered this intense ebb and flow. As each contraction arrived, she paused to be present with it. “Thank goodness there are breaks,” she breathed at the end of a cycle.

I’ve been talking with a friend lately about the challenges of unraveling our childhood and cultural conditioning. We both have a perfectionist/people pleaser part of our personality that we have moved out of the driver’s seat over the past year. We laugh that some days it feels like we have landed in “Loserville.” When your worthiness is hooked into validation by others or achievement or anything outside of yourself, it feels pretty awful (and terrifying) when it isn’t there anymore.

The path back home to myself is a bumpy and surprising one. It’s filled with twists and turns that I never would have anticipated. My desire for the path to be linear is laughable as I observe its complexity and brilliance, way out of the scope of anything I could have thought up on my own. I’m going along for the ride now. Self doubt and insecurity riding shotgun, yet we all seem interested in what’s happening, what’s next.

I’m leaving today for a three night solo retreat at Vajrapani Center in Boulder Creek. I am craving uninterrupted silence and time in nature. I love the feeling of excitement before a retreat. What will show up? What wants my attention? Retreat is always an opportunity to open to allowing…no agenda, no expectations. Just me and God. Of course this opportunity is always here. In my daily life, I think I need my agendas and expectations but they only seem to get in the way of the miracles, the gifts of life’s unfolding for me. So as I practice deep allowing, I invite you to get out of your own way too. What happens when we stop worrying and instead expect miracles?

This is a poem I wrote for my little self recently:

Let’s sit by the creek together and put our feet in the water.

I want to hear everything that is in your heart.

What stirs your soul and makes you laugh?

When do you feel most at home in your body?

What makes you worried or scared?

What do you dream about?

I want to really know you sweet one. I want to take you into my heart and hold you there so that you know you are never alone.

Over the past year, I have really slowed down. There isn’t much taking my attention away from my present moment to moment experience of life. In this open space, I am aware of holding a steady stream of both incredible vulnerability and heart-expanding wonder. The lived, felt experience of awakening is a humbling one. It’s a marathon of humility.

Recently my older son was baptized at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland. He requested the full dunk, not the sprinkle, and the church went for it, moving mountains to make this happen. It makes me emotional thinking about the community coming together to problem solve how to get this 5’8” young man fully immersed in water inside the small church. But they did it. And Jimmy realized his desire, taking in this blessing with grace and joy. I’m still processing everything that happened. It was incredibly touching, bringing both rectors and many of the congregants to tears.

Last week a retreat participant emailed me a beautiful blessing by John O’Donohue from To Bless the Space Between Us. I was touched by it and wanted to share it with you.

May you recognize in your life the presence, power, and light of your soul.

May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you intimately with the rhythm of the universe.

May you have respect for your individuality and difference.

I’ve been challenged in the past few months to look at some old patterning in myself and make some deep shifts. It’s hard. We don’t grow by staying in our comfort zone, I know this. We tolerate (or resist or embrace) the uncomfortable experiences of change in order to expand. It’s easy for me to see this and celebrate it in others. When a loved one or a client is experiencing the discomfort of change, I can honor the growth and expansion that is inherent in it. But it’s much harder when I’m in the midst of a period like this to hold the bigger picture for myself.

This weekend my fourteen year old son asked if we could play the lost game. I didn’t know what that was but apparently it’s driving around directionless. He said he wanted to spend time with me and well, say no more. We drove through Canyon and talked about life, love and spirituality. He shared a lot of insights with me that touched me deeply. I mostly listened. I wanted to share some of his thoughts with you.

This past week I’ve been particularly aware of my mind and its relentless activity. I’ve found it running old tapes of worry or regret or problem solving that seem to go nowhere. When these tapes are running, I am not in my body, not in the present moment. The mind’s activity is distracting me, protecting me from a feeling that I don’t want to feel. To see through the mind’s strategy of protection is wild. What happens if I don’t believe my mind? What is this activity trying to protect me from? What’s happening right now in my actual experience? These simple questions put me back in contact with myself.

I had an intense experience this week where I had a speck of dirt stuck under my eyelid and it was scratching my cornea every time my eye or lid moved. It was brutal. Ten out of ten on the pain scale. I didn’t understand what was happening and wasn’t able to get care for about 10 hours. During this time, I was so grateful to have my meditation practice (and the support of my husband). I had no choice but to surrender to the pain. It wasn’t easy. At times I would move into panic, but was mostly able to drop into a place of trust and silence underneath the panic where I could be with what was happening. I’m so grateful that I know this quiet place within. It held me.