This living in Oregon these past months has been therapeutic for me in ways I never imagined. The time and distance from familiarity has provided a vantage point from which I am able to observe whence I came. More importantly, this vantage point has offered perspective on the person I was, and who I am growing into. Not that I feel I'm changing in anyway... more like shedding unneeded outer layers... the way a snake sheds his skin...
Anyway, speaking of who I was, I'm reflecting now on my early-early adult years: the awkward, uncertain years right after college - when I was groping blindly and struggling to realize who I wanted to be, wanting to be who my parents wanted me to be, but not able to shake the tickling feeling that beckoned me elsewhere. It was a period of being out-of-sorts, unsure, and antsy. I wasn't fulfilled by my job; the only reason I had it was because I thought it made my family proud. I had an obsession with knowledge, a secret dream to be a writer, and a harbored secret agony over the fact that I'd never be one (HA! Little did I realize all you need to do to be a writer is to write).
I read a lot, but didn't really read. I picked up a new book everyday on something I thought sounded intelligent and skimmed enough to pick out the intelligent-sounding words, then got bored and moved on to the next. I was on this haphazard mission to acquire knowledge because I thought it would lead me somewhere... maybe into being a novelist, or the most charming girl at the cocktail party... or something...
It wasn't until I followed that tickle down to Costa Rica for my yoga teacher training when I realized what my problem was. During that trip I travelled with Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow; I'll never forget having that big tome open on my lap as I jostled around in the backseat of a bus that made it's 7 -hour journey through the jungle from San Jose to Nosara. I fumbled over words only physicists could fully understand and struggled to grasp a convoluted story line with lofty themes. I guess it's a masterpiece, but I was trying too hard and I was missing the monkeys in the trees as we drove by.
Upon arrival in Nosara I threw myself into yoga, ocean waves, jungle-walks and quiet contemplation. My yoga teacher-training consisted of three sessions throughout the day: one pre-breakfast vinyasa flow, a lecture session from 11a - 2p, and then another post-dinner session from 6p - 9p. The nighttime sessions would close with guided relaxation, which would morph into meditation, or straight up, deeply satisfied snores.
On one particular night, our director, Don Stapleton, was leading us through a guided relaxation, intent on teaching us how to teach others how to listen in to the inner voice. We were lying on our backs in Savasana as I listened to Don and did everything his hypnotizing voice told me to do. I was at once highly alert to my surroundings and sensations, and deeply, heavily relaxed. The most poignant sensation I remember noticing was how deeply my heels were grounding into the wood floor. It felt as if the bones were making impressions in the wood - almost painful - but I was too relaxed and lazy to move them. After long days of swimming, surfing, walking, laughing with friends and practicing yoga three times a day, it sure is easy to melt into the floor - and that's exactly what my body did. As I was exploring - and relishing - this heavy, yet light feeling in my physical body, I heard Don's voice instructing us: "Now, open yourself up to anything you need to listen to."
I paused, noticed my presence, felt silence in my mind. I think I remember telling myself, "I'm listening." And then I listened. I listened to the thoughts that bubbled up. Didn't judge, didn't attach, didn't respond, just listened. After a bit of listening to the petty stuff, a thought came through that was attached to a powerful feeling... a feeling like this is important, listen up. Remember this. After that thought came through I stopped listening, and started repeating this thought, like a mantra over and over in my mind. I was holding on to that thought like it was a port in a storm, a beacon of light, anchoring me to right where I was.
My inward chant was interrupted by Don, who was gently leading us out of our Savasana. As I rolled onto one side and tucked my knees up, I cracked my eyes open a bit and noticed a pen and a piece of paper next to me. Without thinking or widening my gaze I grabbed the pen and scrawled my important message to myself on the paper. I cast the pen and paper aside and closed my eyes again, breathing my self back into a normal state of consciousness. I sat up into a cross-legged seat, pressed my palms together in front of my heart and bowed my head to my hands, sealing in the last bit of relaxation, listening to the hustle-bustle of students rolling up their mats and gathering their things.
After I had rolled up my own mat, I picked up the paper, curious to see the little thought I had deemed so important minutes before. When I read it, I was confused, and then I chuckled a bit. It read, in a messy scrawl,
I don't want to know anything anymore.
The next morning I went on a run with a friend and shared with him my little break-through, and expressed my confusion as the girl who desires to know everything. My friend looked at me knowingly, and said,
"It sounds like you want to empty your tea cup." At my quizzical expression, he related to me a zen story, about a young scholar who travels far into the mountains, seeking the teachings of a wise, old Zen Master. The Zen Master agrees to take on the scholar as a student, and begins with the first lesson. The scholar rolls his eyes and says, "Master, I already know this. We can move on to the next lesson." At the next lesson, the scholar feigns a yawn and says, "Master, I've already learned this. What's next?" And so it went... Until one morning finds the Zen Master pouring tea for the scholar. The Master filled his cup, then reached over and began filling the scholar's cup. He poured, and poured - and the scholar's eyes began to widen as the tea filled to the brim and welled over, spilling onto the table, dripping onto the floor. The Master kept pouring. Unable to restrain himself, the scholar shouts, "Master! What are you doing!? The cup is full! You can't pour anymore!"
The Master stops pouring, looks at the scholar and replies, "You are like this cup. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?"
So we go through life acquiring experience, learning lessons, absorbing knowledge and hanging on to it like it's all we got. The lesson here is that we can't really grow, or take on anything new until we've shed unnecessary frames of thought. Take a look at the history of Science. At one point in time people believed Earth to be the center of the universe. That's a piece of "knowledge" that had to be dropped after Copernicus, and even more so after the invention of heavy-duty telescopes. Think about atoms - life's building blocks - it was once thought that that's as small as it got - until we started exploring the exciting sub-atomic realm. Just when we think we know something, we get schooled.
Or how about this for an example: think of the poor child who's taught at home that it's okay to respond with anger. The child then moves through life thinking aggression is the way to go, and she won't know any differently until she's able to let go of the first lesson she's ever learned. We're constantly evolving as we move through life, and the knowledge, or "know-how"we needed before might not be what we need now.
Knowledge is a powerful thing, and my curious mind will never cease to be tickled by it. However, I don't think it's the end-all, be-all anymore. In fact I think if we attach ourselves too much to what we think we know, it might close us off from what we could, or should know. Better to be open, and approach learning new things with a child-like curiosity. Stop knitting your brows; don't try too hard. Don't be afraid to stop searching for answers and start listening. You might be surprised to find out what you're trying to tell yourself.
Let go of what you know. Empty your cup and pour yourself some fresh tea. It's delightful.
Namaste xo
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