in awe of the subtle
I am perched on a stool in my friend’s kitchen, looking out at the same mountains I see from my own kitchen stool on the other side of town. A reverse view. On the sill above the sink, a row of single paperwhites rising out of cobalt blue jars. Beyond the tiny star blossoms, on the other side of the window, a few flakes of snow dancing through the air. And then, in the time it takes me to type a sentence and look up again, the storm quickens, the dance becomes a fury, and the solid, slumbering mountains disappear behind a swirling veil of white.
My friend sleeps in the bedroom down the hall. When she awakens, I’ll be here. We’ll have a late breakfast together, drink tea, listen to the wild wind and watch the snow fall. I suspect there is comfort for both of us in that.
A sentence sent by another friend over the weekend about sums it up: “Sitting silently beside a friend who is hurting may be the best gift we have to give.”
Sitting silently is something I’m always happy to do. The gift, needless to say, goes both ways. We are all hungry for silence. To dive down, to find the beauty in a moment’s passing, to inhabit time with a breath, to be fully present to another’s beating heart, is both an act of perception and imagination. I love that even a time of stillness can be shared through the gift of presence; that silence, too, speaks a language of caring and connection.
At my own house, we’ve put the holiday decorations away and stripped the rooms down to a bare winter austerity that pleases me. I relish this gradual return to a simpler existence. There is a beauty in the empty surfaces, relief in the absence of stuff, a serenity and quiet order that meets my January soul where it is.
And, although I rarely (in fact, never!) write two blog posts in a single week, I want to offer a brief counterpoint to my reflections the other day about emptiness. Over these last few days, I’ve been re-filling my own empty pitcher, taking time to linger, to look, to savor. So here, now, allow me to share with you a small bouquet of words and images that have spoken to me – inspiration, perhaps, to look more deeply into these quiet winter moments, to find the beauty in the season, and to find within our own hearts a stirring of inspiration for change, renewal, and rejuvenation.
What better time than the frozen month of January to ponder the quiet miracles of everyday life? What better moment than this to remind ourselves that the potential for healing is always at hand, and that we begin to access it as soon as we say “yes” to whatever is true in this moment. Whether we like it or not, whether it’s what we expected or not, we can still say yes. And suddenly, with that small gesture of acceptance, we discover not only that life is manageable after all, but that our own spirits are more resilient, more compassionate, more capable of gratitude and joy than we ever imagined.
As yoga teacher Rodney Yee has said, “Train yourself to live in awe of the subtle, and you will live in a world of beauty and ease.”
Indeed. In celebration of the subtle, these offerings:
The rain came down all day yesterday, and then, as the skies cleared and darkened, temperatures plummeted. Early this morning, my husband whistled for the dog, pulled on his boots, and stepped outside, camera in hand, in awe of the subtle. Here, just a couple of his photographs, as clean and spare as lines of poetry.
Michael Grab devotes his days to the art of stone balancing; creating precarious formations in often turbulent conditions is for him both a form of prayer and practice, meditation and exploration, art and serendipity. His work is beautiful, fleeting, almost beyond description.
As Michael explains the process of contemplative stone arrangement, “I feel something divine when I practice. Immune to a complete explanation. Oftentimes I feel as if I’m glimpsing some kind of truth as I dance among an orchestra of vibration and poetic form. . . . Stone balance for me is, in a sense, my yoga. . .
“It is about dissolving the duality of myself and my environment. I must become the balance. . . . There is nothing easy about it. It can frustrate me to my limits. And then I learn. Or it can reveal magic beyond limits, and I learn.”
Michael has just posted a video featuring clips of his 2014 work. I’ve watched it several times, mesmerized, grateful for the transcendent, transient beauty of his extraordinary creations. Treat yourself to these 10 magical minutes.
Each Saturday morning, I look forward to spending some quiet time immersed in the weekly online newsletter of Krista Tippett’s popular, wide-ranging radio show On Being. This week’s written edition proved the perfect antidote to the vague melancholy with which I found myself greeting the new year.
Quaker writer Parker Palmer includes a poem by Anne Hillman, one of my spiritual “mentors.” Her verse seems to affirm my sense that perhaps “emptiness” is a good quality to bring to any threshold of change and transformation; that uncertainty doesn’t mean “lost” but rather alive and open to what’s next.
We look with uncertainty
by Anne Hillman
We look with uncertainty
beyond the old choices for
clear-cut answers
to a softer, more permeable aliveness
which is every moment
at the brink of death’
for something new is being born in us
if we but let it.
We stand at a new doorway,
awaiting that which comes. . .
daring to be human creatures,
vulnerable to the beauty of existence.
Learning to love.
As I wrote the other day, I often find my way forward by pausing where I am to ask a question. For me, it’s almost always my inner struggle to answer a question that inspires me — to write, to take a step, to make a change, to take a risk. And so I love the questions Anne Hillman’s poem inspired in Parker Palmer. I’ve already written them in my journal, to return to again and again as 2015 unfurls. I, too, feel pretty sure that a few open-ended, heart-centered questions will serve me better than any New Year’s resolution I might make. Do these questions resonate for you, too?
How can I let go of my need for fixed answers in favor of aliveness?
What is my next challenge in daring to be human?
How can I open myself to the beauty of nature and human nature?
Who or what do I need to learn to love next? And next? And next?
What is the new creation that wants to be born in and through me?
To all of you who take the time to linger here, to read my reflections and to offer your own thoughts in return, I am deeply grateful. Our ongoing conversation inspires me, and our ineffable, invisible heart-centered community makes my spirit sing. Thank you, dear readers, for always reminding me how much we have in common and how blessed we are to share this path through life!
And now, as we embark together into this brand new year, I offer you these words of blessing from John O’Donohue.
May you awaken to the mystery of being here.
May you have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.
May you respond to the call of your gift and find the courage to follow its path.
May you take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.
May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.
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