Today I rode my bike to Missionhurst, a hidden retreat in
the midst of Arlington, hauling yoga supplies on my Burly trailer. Up and down
the hills of 26th Street I arrived sweaty for my first-ever silent
meditation retreat…about time!! The day was structured with periods of sitting
in guided meditation, sessions of very slow gentle yoga, and walking the
verdant grounds to contemplate as each of us desired.
Thanks to my dear teacher goddess friends Jackie and aLex
for providing exactly the respite I needed. And here are a few of my
observations and reflections:
Birdsong and insect twitter, the
lullaby shusssshhhshshshsh of leaves in the breeze, and maybe a crunch
underfoot. And then the surprise of wind chimes hung from a tree, their lovely
tones in the air current.
Amazing
– it is so easy to slow down and find this restful space. No hurry. No stress.
Just thoughts and observations, and feelings in my body and in my heart and on
my skin.
The
shady outdoors is perfect – not too hot, or humid: nature’s palette of greens
and browns. The green tones are so similar, but the diversity of leaf shape and
pattern are astonishing. Things to see only when I’m slowed down enough to
look. Doing Natalie Goldberg’s “slow walking” – so nice – not impatient with
it. There is nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. But feel, and let the
thoughts filter through. Not drilling into them, just letting them float up, be
considered, float away.
Thick
tufts of grasses – in clumps, sprouting up from the soil. A hosta – leaves
broadening out to a pointed tip, lines along their length as though, while
moist and unformed, someone drew a comb through each. Rounded heart-shaped
leaves of violets. Clumps of bamboo-like grasses. A weaving of English ivy – contrasting vein running to each
pointed tip of the leaf, miniscule stars of spreading moss, and interspersed a
more spiky moss – looking soft and cool. Bright shamrock leaves poke out. All
peacefully coexist. And the splendid ferns, each thread extending, so fragile,
yet somehow strong enough to support a spray of delicate leaves. And some other
fern, with larger, sculpted leaves, smooth and broad. There is plenty of brown
earth, and little rocks and pebbles, tree roots bulging up, fallen twigs and
dead leaves.
I
don’t know what trees I’m seeing – cedar? Black walnut? As I walk along the
path I come to groves of bamboo – and it’s cooler – instantly, and quiet. I
grab the shafts of two bamboo poles – so green and smooth – one in each of my
hands, small flies dot their segmented length, unmoving, even as I undulate the
bamboo stalks, whose tops are stuck on the adjacent deciduous tree. And there,
near the ground, one lone sprout of a holly bush, its waxy leaves shiny, each
one ringed with a delicate pattern of sharp barbs, shouting DON’T TOUCH.
I
see the sun shining through the leaves, the one leaf casting a shadow on
another. There’s a moment of illusion, as though I’m looking through a green
window. I see delicate maples, and ancient oaks, and a monstrous silver maple
with it burly rough bark. And the towering giant of a tulip poplar that would
dwarf dinosaurs, leaves the size of dinner plates fallen on the path. I caress
the leaves of the cedar (if that’s what it is) and a small tough berry lands in
my hand. I carry it as I walk, rolling it between my thumbs, strangely
comforting. I grasp a wet drooping hydrangea flower – magnificent in its blue
contrast to the quieter surroundings, and rub the damp residue onto my face and
arms, leaving little specks of its pollen on my skin.
Some
troubling thoughts emerge, but I let them drift away and return to simple
observation of tree branches shifting and bobbing – leaves quivering and
bouncing, sun brightening patches of green, shadow darkening others. I’m
looking now at the patterns of tree bark – the vertical lines up the cedar
trunks, horizontal patches on some other tree that I can’t identify. And
another trunk – rough all over, looking whitish and grayish, and another tree
whose lower branches have all been cut off, leaving bumpy, painful-looking
stumps. Does it still hurt? Did it hurt? There are three crumbling cement steps
off the path, leading nowhere. A tiny white insect lands on my arm, content to
rest there, but when I examine it, it flies off.
A
small black insect trundles along the ground, its back sleek and smooth, shiny
and straight. I’m surprised I don’t see more – insects – but grateful that they
are not buzzing around me biting and ruining my enjoyment of the outdoors.
I
see two white moths chasing each other and some insect flying…could it be a
precious bee? What will we do if we lose our bees? The lunch I just enjoyed
with such sweet strawberries and watermelon – their shades of red – the
strawberries shiny and pocked everywhere by seeds; the watermelon, like a full
sponge, and the small yellowgreen slice of avocado whose creamy smoothness I
sliced from its bark-like skin with my teeth. And bright orange carrot soup –
so sweet – it must have had brown sugar, but also a hint of spicy, and the
crunch of some almonds…such a lovely lunch – filled out by warm cheese, on
French bread (yes, ok, white bread) with the contrasting sharpness of Dijon
mustard.
During
our final meditation, Jackie suggests we consider all that we know and all that
we don’t know, and helps us realize that, of course, all we don’t know is so
much vaster than what we do know. And she encourages us in our meditation to
resist the pull of what we know – the recurring thoughts and patterns and daily
concerns – and instead, allow ourselves to open to the unknown, an invitation I
eagerly accept,
I
have absorbed the green energy of the day, and find myself relaxing into the
present – whatever it is, whatever it is, whatever it is.
