Twenty minutes more or less

 

 ”My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.”

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939), in part IV of his poem “Vacillation” from The Winding Stair and Other Poems, (1933)

This poem for me speaks of being surprised by rapture, when the soul is at ease perhaps, or not, of moments where for no apparent reason, we find ourselves relishing the sweet taste of pure, causeless joy.

The poet is sitting in a crowded London shop, could it like sitting in a coffee shop in our day, alone with our thoughts, thinking of the passage of time. His fiftieth year had come and gone. He was reading a book, it seems, and now he has left the pages to allow his mind to wander, to look around, and to take in the sights of the crowded shop. The open book and the empty cup no longer have much pull, as they rest on the marble table-top.

Then his body of a sudden blazed. His mind is no longer wandering, no longer seemingly melancholic. And his happiness in that moment was so great that religious tones now appear-he felt in his bones that he was blessed and could bless.

Twenty minutes more or less, to me sounds timeless, and a bit playful.

We could read into this all sorts of things, and it doesn’t matter, really, what actually happened. What matters for me is the evocative quality. Of feeling our aliveness break through the slumber of our humdrum days. We sense this in so-called special moments, of noticing a child’s first tooth, or a sunset, a birth or a death.

Meditation turns special moments on their head. For twenty minute so we explore how it is we succumb to the tranquilization of the trivial, the numbness of the mundane. It turns out we don’t need special moments to do this. All moments are seen as special.

For twenty minutes or so we enter the timeless, we take our seat in eternity.

The poet speaks of his body being ablaze. It’s interesting he doesn’t mention his mind. At the beginning of this excerpt he is self-centered, melancholic. For twenty minutes his body comes alive.

Let’s not underestimate the power of our simple practice. We sit, we become aware of sounds, and then we settle the mind into the sensuous, lush undulations of body sensations. We shift from being a witness to our life to living our life moment by moment within the fold of our life. Within the beating, rising and falling heart of experience itself.

For twenty minute more or less we morph into reality itself, bare, bottomless, and beautiful beyond description.

We allow our body to live its life. And it responds by suddenly blazing into life.

The gateway to the blaze of bliss is simply the willingness to feel. To feel the body just as it is, moment by moment. We can call this willingness to feel openness.

This week I spoke a little about openness, with a little help from the dictionary. One definition of to open is to unclose so as to allow passage. Another is to unlock, to remove the covering. Two others which are particularly appropriate for us are to make known what is happening and to burst and discharge, as in an old wound.

Openness is not a goal; rather it’s a relationship to what is happening as its happening. And since what is happening is already happening, there isn’t much room here for accomplishments, effort or special feats.

I feel we could summarize the whole spiritual path with the acronym O.I. A. – openness, intimacy and acceptance. In the next two weeks I would like to explore with you the remaining two aspects of intimacy and acceptance.

Why I Meditate (After Allen Ginsberg) by Wes Nisker

“I meditate because I suffer. I suffer, therefore I am. I am, therefore I meditate.

I meditate because there are so many other things to do. 

I meditate because when I was younger it was all the rage. 

I meditate because Siddhartha Gautama, Bodhidharma, Marco Polo, the British Raj, Carl Jung, Alan Watts, Jack Kerouac, Alfred E Neuman, et al. 

I meditate because evolution gave me a big brain, but it didn’t come with an instruction manual. 

I meditate because I have all the information I need. 

I meditate because the largest colonies of living beings, the coral reefs, are dying. 

I meditate because I want to touch deep time, where the history of humanity can be seen as just an evolutionary adjustment period. 

I meditate because life is too short and sitting slows it down. 

I meditate because life is too long and I need an occasional break. 

I meditate because I want to experience the world as Rumi did, or Walt Whitman, or as Mary Oliver does. 

I meditate because now I know that enlightenment doesn’t exist, so I can relax.

I meditate because of the Dalai Lama’s laugh. 

I meditate because there are too many advertisements in my head, and I’m erasing all but the very best of them. 

I meditate because the physicists say there may be eleven dimensions to reality, and I want to get a peek into a few more of them. 

I meditate because I’ve discovered that my mind is a great toy and I like to play with it. 

I meditate because I want to remember that I’m perfectly human. 

Sometimes I meditate because my heart is breaking. 

Sometimes I meditate so that my heart will break. 

I meditate because a Vedanta master once told me that in Hindi my name, Nis-ker, means “non-doer.” 

I meditate because I’m growing old and want to become more comfortable with emptiness.”