Thursday, December 15, 2011

A NATURALIST'S POETICS OF WINTER’S SOLSTICE (Parts I & II)


Part I: Experiencing the Seasons

“Days and nights, seasons and tides, cycles of fertility, rest and activity: all are reflections of the rhythms imposed upon us by celestial motions.  They have influenced where, and how, people may live; the elements that they must overcome; the shelter and dress they must construct, and the stories that they tell about it all.” (114)
-          John D. Barrow The Artful Universe (1995)

          Every season has a poetic as well as an experiential gist.  There are stations that we find in each passing season where we are able to come to terms with what that season might mean to us, existentially, subjectively and inter-subjectively—as well as how it is constructed, objectively; i.e., in terms that science and rational engagement with Earth & Cosmos can discover and then explicate.  In touch with our experiences, natural and personal, inward and outward going, we travel around the Circle of the Seasons, moving from one station to the next.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

A NATURALIST'S POETICS OF WINTER’S SOLSTICE (III)

Part III: Poetic Touchstones of the Winter Solstice

          Once we have explored the naturalistic parameters of the Winter Solstice, what can a more subjective and aesthetic experience tell us about it?   As someone open to Earth & Cosmos, the entire cosmos comes into play in my meditations.  Deep experiences of/in Nature at a particular season constitutes the Novitiate for Poetic Creation.  The Winter Solstice Season is replete with deep sensory and experiential associations.  This is an existential experience.  It is constituted by:

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Earthen Spirituality & Storytelling (26 November 2011)

“What we call fiction is the ancient way of knowing, the total discourse that antedates all the special vocabularies.”

- E. L. Doctorow  Esquire, August 1986

 “We learn who we are through the stories we embrace as our own. – The story of my life is structured by the larger stories (social, political, mythic) in which I understand my personal story to take place.”

- Sallie McFague  Speaking in Parables (1975)

 “The stories scientists tell are not simply bedtime tales.  They place us in the world, and they can force us to alter the way we think and what we do.” (49)

- Thomas Levenson  Ice Times (1989)

As we adventure though the seasons, meditating and reflecting on our experiences, a narrative inevitably emerges.  “Remember when x happened?”  “Last year, at about this same time …”  When did we last go to x (i.e., a particular place)?  Want to go again today?”  “All of the things that have happened there!”  The longer we immerse ourselves in Nature’s cycles, going deep and ever deeper into what the round of the seasons presents us, the more insightful will be our stories; even our anecdotes of ‘this hike’ or ‘that visit’ to a certain natural vista that has inspired or that sill haunts us with intimations of meaning.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Adventuring Through the Seasons (20 November 2011)

"Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality. When we recognize our place in an immensity of light-years and in the passage of ages, when we grasp the intricacy, beauty, and subtlety of life, then that soaring feeling, that sense of elation and humility combined, is surely spiritual.” (29)
- Carl Sagan  The Demon-Haunted World (1996)
“Days and nights, seasons and tides cycles of fertility, rest and activity: all are reflections of the rhythms imposed upon us by celestial motions.  They have influenced where, and how, people may live; the elements that they must overcome; the shelter and dress they must construct, and the stories that they tell about it all.” (114)
                                                                - John D. Barrow  The Artful Universe (1995)
“The practice of observing the natural world – of getting down on one’s hands and knees before a tide pool, a lichen, a quail, a silent stone, learning from such wild things all one can about their place, their life, their needs, and doing this over and over again, over days and years – is humility’s medium.  In such moments, our vision is renewed, our sense of proper place in the world is both strengthened and deepened.” (110)
- Lyanda Lynn Haupt  Pilgrim on the Great Bird Continent (2006)
 Life is an adventure; spiritually understood.  While there will be quiet times as well as stormy ones, and though we are sometimes more at home and at ease with ourselves and our path than at others, living is always a matter of negotiating the choices and maneuvering around or through the obstacles that come to be ‘in our way,’ whether by accident or intent.  We make plans, and think we know where we are going, but we don’t usually end up exactly where we intended.  This is the adventure_ to path consciously; not to be drawn along by the crowd; to be awake in the flux and flow—not to be a pawn of circumstances, if we can help it.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Ruins & the Harvest: Autumn Themes (23 September 2011)

“Beauty is a threshold event: it may make use of ordinary and uncomplicated things, but these serve as the bridge to a domain of meaning and significance.” (xx)

-        Robert P Crease
The Prism and the Pendulum: The Ten Most Beautiful Experiments in Science (2003)

In the turning of the seasons there are many thresholds; many events that mark the passing of time in its spiral dance; the onward movement of existence through the inevitable march of moments.  These moments may pass without ceremony; our lives slipping into the void slowly without notice or remark.  Or, we can mark these moments of transition; thresholds in the pattern of the annual cycle—and make our lives more distinct, more earthen, more tied to Earth & Cosmos.  By establishing markers for these thresholds, we can note time’s passage, nurture a quality of self-awareness that enables us to remember seasons that have passed, and plot out future directions and explorations for ourselves with conscious intent.  This ‘active pathing’ through the seasons lends vivacity to life in its inevitable passing, facilitating the generation of meaning out of what-is.
We are now in the cusps of Autumn, and I am marking time by engaging with touchstones, icons and familiar experiences related to the coming season.  The turn towards Autumn is usually first intimated, for me, with the coming to fruition of wild apples in the fields & woods through which I path in late summerwood saunters.  The smell of ripening apples is an early earthen sacramental of the onset of Harvest.  Then, in the latter part of August, I will always find that first leaf that has gone red and fallen onto a path where I am hiking, as if to say, “time is shifting; Autumn is coming.”  It’s always a leaf from the same species of tree: a longish, oblong leaf – three inches long or so – with barely discernible ‘teeth’ along its edges.  I pick one up, bring it home, and insert it in a book that I’m currently reading.  As I go back to books I’ve read over the years, I find these artifacts of earlier Autumns, dried between the pages where I left them, sometimes slightly discoloring both paper and text.  Time passes.  A final cue in Fall’s overture is when I come across the first ripening acorns in early September.  I always pick up three or four of them on a hike and bring them back to the house, where I place them on my meditation table.  There they stay until, in the weeks after Samhain (31 October), I start moving – spiritually; aesthetically – into the eaves of the Yuletide Season.
Once the overtures are concluded and I enter into the pathways of Autumn proper, two themes seem to recur annually in my poetic experiences, spiritual adventuring and aesthetic moods: Harvest and Ruins.
Summerwood passing; the time for Flourishment and Fructification have come and gone, and now Fruition is giving way to Harvest.  Summer is a time for ‘growth,’ ‘ripening’ and ‘bearing fruit.’  Autumn, thought of poetically and symbolically, is a time for Harvest, after which come the annual transition into dormancy and death.  Life ends, but first – if conditions have been right – there can be a culling of all that has been gained; a ‘gathering up’ of the fruits of living, and a storing away of its bounty in anticipation of the cold, dark journey to come; Winterwood – which looms on a not so distant horizon.
Though there is a ‘coming to fruition’ all summer long, many growing things have a longer time of maturation and only come to fruition in September or even October.  Where I live, the crops most indicative of harvest are wheat and grain corn, soybeans and pumpkins.  You see them in fields wherever you go, stretching out over the hills.  Beginning at the end of August, mechanical reapers can be seen moving through the varied fields.  All through September, harvest continues.
I experience a deep paradox between bounty and consummation at this time of year.  Fields as well as house-gardens are being harvested.  Nature’s fecundity is evident in the way that seed, once put in the ground, grows to maturity and bears fruit—assuming the right environmental conditions prevail.  Bounty, however, is always coupled with consummation.  While there can be repeated consummations throughout the growing season each year, there is a finality to the harvest (at least in the temperate zone where I live); a sense of mortality coming to the fore.  Harvest was long a time for celebration; especially in farming communities.  At the same time that we celebrate the harvest, however, an awareness of the consummation that it implies foreshadows the dormancy and death – actual (in the plant world) and figurative (in our spiritual lives)[i] – that inevitably follow the harvest season.
While ‘Harvest’ describes what is happening in the external world, it also metaphors a fact of our lives.  We have our own cycles of growth & fruition, followed by a settling into repose and finally death.  The seasons – Spring—Summer—Autumn—Winter – are an apt metaphorical parallel to the full cycle of a human life, and it may also accurately describe different phases within the space of a life.  Many of us go through cycles as life unfolds.  At different times in our lives, we start off on a particular path.  We path as far as that direction may allow, and then we may change course.  We may find that some other direction seems more fruitful, or we may be forced into a different life-course by circumstances beyond our control.  We may then ‘die’ to the previous phase of our life, and experience a new birth to a different direction.  Life, in this sense, is full of smaller births—deaths—rebirths.  A human life, however, assuming it is allowed its natural course and is not cut short by violence, disease or tragedy, may ultimately go through a final consummation before ending in the repose of the final death; the death of the body.
After Harvest each year, Nature comes to rest in the darkening, shortening of days, until Winter commences.  It is this ‘coming to rest’ that inspires my reflections on Ruins.  Ruins are to human culture what the reaped fields, denuded trees & bushes of wildwood & field are to Nature.  The red leaf and the acorns I pick up each Autumn intimate not only the coming Harvest but the fact of mortality.  The leaf is dead.  The chlorophyll in the leaf has stopped processing sunlight and thus stopped reflecting light from the ‘green’ range of the spectrum.  Thus, the leaf takes on the color characteristic of its physical structure; its ‘corpse’ – yellow, red, orange or brown.  The death and falling of the leaves can be taken as symbolic of the death of all of the vines and stalks of all the growing things that have made Summerwood green and lush.  It is also analogous, symbolically, to the ‘death’ of human structures. When humans let go of things they have made; when these things are abandoned or become neglected—they go into decline and become ‘ruins.’
BIRTH—LIFE—DEATH is the way of all animals.  We are animals, and as such we undergo this journey.  In the wider frame of human culture and history, what our species brings into existence also goes through stages like that of a life.  We build, we dwell in what we have built, and then we eventually abandon our constructions and move on to new horizons; we indwell new places and recreate ‘home.’  Once we have moved on, what we have previously built dilapidates_ and becomes a ruin.  Entropy wins out_ just as it eventually does with animals, plant life and all physical systems_ returning what-once-was to the Earth; to non-being.  Virtually everything on this planet comes from the Earth, and returns to it, eventually.  Ruins, for me, are intimately linked with the Autumn.  They evoke meditations on mortality.  Though I may visit ruins I know of all year long, during the Autumn I intentionally make time for this kind of personal poetic pilgrimage.
I’ve always been fascinated with ruins, and over many years I came to see them as an apt metaphor of mortality.  They are an analog to the end-phases of human life.  A ruin is a structure that has been let go; it is no longer being kept up, or it simply cannot be kept up any longer.  It has been ‘handed over’ to entropy.  Nature brings about the ruin of human artifacts once they are abandoned, and to reflect on this process of decay in its various stages is to find an analogy for our own eventual decline, decay and death.  As we come from the Earth, so we will someday be reunited with it in post-conscious states, the nature of which we can only speculate about until we experience them – or not – for ourselves.  A house or other structure, abandoned and returning to the Earth, goes through Stages of Decay, recognizable to anyone who has long visited some particular ruin, and that are as indefatigable as they are beautiful, in a certain ‘melancholy’ sense of that word!  Many ruins decay over time-scales longer than a human lifetime (stone and metal structures especially) while others seem to age and decay and fall to Earth even as we do ourselves, or even more quickly.
Ruins inspire in me what poets and other artists have long called ‘melancholy.’  The melancholy is a ‘beautiful sadness.’  It is an emotion characteristic of spiritual reflection on mortality.  It is not mere ‘sadness,’ nor is it a state of ‘depression.’  It is a manifestation of our awareness that all things must pass; that nothing is permanent—not even ourselves, much less the things we leave behind after we are gone (children, works of art, things we have built or created, maintained or reconstructed, etc.).  Nothing is immortal in the Earth & Cosmos—maybe not even the Universe itself.  Death is as natural as birth.  The end should be just as expected – and is just as surprising – as the beginning.  An existential melancholy tinges all genuine self-consciousness.

Over the course of my life I have had the good fortune to happen upon a number of ruined places; usually old houses, though sometimes relics of a more industrial time.  I have visited these ruins as frequently as I was able and came to have a kind of ‘friendship’ with them.  They became familiar to me.  I felt a certain melancholy ‘comfort’ sojourning amidst their wooden walls, bricks, broken windows and the artifacts of what once must have constituted a home or other human habitation and in this way have come to ‘know’ them in a poetic way.  I tried to understand their symbolic presence and was often led into interesting re-imaginings of their past; who were the people who lived or worked there and what kinds of things happened that led to the abandonment of this place?  Through all my experiences at ruins, I was reflecting on mortality.
There was once an old tool shed on the edge of a local wood, near where I grew up, that became a frequent haunt; a place that drew me to it when out on hikes.  I discovered it on a walk down a disused section of the old railroad near where I lived.  Just beyond a small trestle over a rural stream, a little foot-trail led off to the west from the tracks.  I was enticed to follow the footpath, which took me directly to the old toolshed.  It was quite a surprise the first time I happened upon it!  The path did not continue-on from the toolshed, which I thought was odd.  Whoever had walked that footpath – over and over again? – had gone from the railroad to the toolshed and back, but nowhere else?  The wooden shed was on the edge of an overgrown farm field; one that must not have been planted for many years, as there were young trees growing up here and there within it.  The shed was enclosed on three sides.  In front of the open side was an area that was also under the roof, which was slanted from the front to the back of the enclosed area.  Within the enclosed area was an old iron plough and a couple other farm machines, rusting away into the earth.  It was a lonesome place, and I loved standing by one of the posts that held up the old sagging roof at the front of the shed, listening for poetic echoes of human dwelling.
I never met or saw another human being there, though I saw numerous deer in the old field, saw ground hogs and squirrels and other small animals.  There was a conspicuous absence of “No Trespassing” signs.  The ruin seemed to have been lost to the web of human connections.  The shed was surrounded by Dame’s Violets in May, by Black Snakeroot and Thistle at High Summer, and by Goldenrod, Ironweed and New England Asters in the Autumn.  Autumn was my favorite time to sojourn there.  I was a visitant through a dozen years, quietly listening and watching as the structure dilapidated and finally collapsed, ultimately being covered in leaf mulch, under which I knew it would eventually become but a small ‘mound’ in the landscape.  On my last visit, I said my “goodbyes” as I left.  _A melancholy moment.  I missed it once it was finally gone, and I still remember the place fondly for the quiet lonesomeness I was able to experience there.

Ruins not only represent a ‘natural’ mortality but sometimes reference a more tragic scenario; a letting-go of something at the height or in the prime of its existence.  A house that has burned down, for instance, and now stands lonely in ruins on an abandoned property, ignored and forgotten, may remind us that life doesn't always end well, and that many things can befall us that we wouldn't have wished for.  Not everything in life works out for the better; disasters and disease undermine our ability to flourish and even to continue to exist.  Some people get caught in cycles of self-destruction or victimization from which they unfortunately never escape.  Many human lives have been wasted or are so tragic as to inspire only despair upon reflection.  Such has been and always will be, once dimension of the human condition.  Much of human existence has been lost or wasted that might have been saved, had the right set of circumstances prevailed; if love, justice and compassion had come to the fore instead of other forces.  Ruins sometimes inspire reflection on this darker dimension of the human situation and may inspire a humanizing hope which, if realized, might at least curtail much of the suffering we bring upon each other; though it would not end the suffering that results from the action of natural forces, nor bring an end to death itself.
To visit ruins is one way I’ve long found of engaging actively in a meditation on the decay and death that ultimately overtakes us.  Just like the structures we have built and dwell in, we may keep ourselves fit and healthy so long as we can, but – at some point – all our self-maintenance will fail, and death will become our imminent destination.  Hopefully, it comes after a life lived to the full; a fortunate flourishment and a culling of everything one can gather from one’s life-situation.  Yet we may find intimations of our fragility as well as the touchstones of flourishment in the ruined structures we visit.

A few years ago, an old student of mine emailed me pictures of a ruined church that he and some of his friends had come across near where they were in the habit of hiking.  He reflected in his email on the many times that we had gone hiking together down the railroad tracks south of the town where I was living at that time, to an old house, abandoned and decaying.  There, we would sit together on the weathered and moss-edged stairs of the back porch, talking for hours about spirituality and mystical experience, often engaging in devout storytelling and then a period of quiet meditation and reflection before returning to town.  My own experiences at that house – dilapidating over the course of the 30 years that I was a visitant there – became the inspiration for the Whittiers; the central family in all of my storytelling and the main focus of my book, Heart and Hearth (2009),[ii] which explores the subject of the loss and reclamation of a home; a house, a property, and of a family’s vision of life-together-in-Earth-&-Spirit.
I first discovered what came to be known to me as ‘The Old House’ when I was 12-years-old.  I’d been told of it by some older friends, who in the years to come often rendezvoused with me there.  Adventuring down the old abandoned railroad tracks, I arrived at the house, and was immediately captivated with it and its environs.  There was an old wooden bridge over a creek that came to be known – in my imaginative world of Ross County – as “Willow Creek.”  The house had burned but had not been fully consumed.  While the attic was gone, the first floor was relatively intact and safe to walk around in.  The ceiling of the second floor was charred, but the floor was relatively sound, though decaying owing to the rain let into the house through the roof, about one-third of which had been destroyed in the fire.  The cellar – lined with stone – was a cool, cave-like space, and always felt haunted to me.  There were old pieces of furniture and other bric-a-brac of a home scattered over what was once the lawn.  There was a spring down to the NW of the house, discovered a decade after our initial visit, and another small wooden structure near the access road as you went in.  This initial impression of the place became the template for the tragic fire that destroyed the first Whittier house on Deer Hill in 1949.
We often had the sense of tragedy at The Old House, though we never heard tell of who had lived there or why it had been abandoned after the fire.  We explored each room and became familiar with the artifacts of human dwelling left within its now empty spaces.  The idea of an empty old house; lost to human habitation though ‘haunted’ by memories of past dwellants and the experiences had within its walls, germinated into the poem I wrote in 1982 called “Empty Boxes.”  There was a sadness about the house, especially in the Autumn, that I did not experience at the tool shed.  This sadness affected us narratively and imaginatively, and it became manifest in the sense that there were ‘ghosts’ thereabouts.  A couple of us believed we actually saw a ghost of a woman at The Old House, once upon a time.  She ‘appeared’ to a friend of mine who was circling around the back of the house on one of our ‘explorations.’  He said she was elderly and she was standing in the doorless doorway that opened into the little hallway between the stairwell and what we called the ‘little back room behind the kitchen’—for lack of understanding of its purpose in life.  Another friend with us went to see what had happened when he heard our friend let out a little gasp, and thought he saw a bit of fog or mist spilling out of the doorway.  It was a damp and rainy day, so such a natural phenomenon was not beyond possibility.  But our mutual friend said he saw a ghost, and not a fog or mist.
What is a ghost but a memory of human dwelling?  What do they portend but our own end? _Whatever they actually are.  I have no beliefs, though in my life I have seen two phenomena that meet all the usual the characteristics of a ‘ghost.’
I often met with mentors and friends at The Old House over many years and had great conversations about life, mysticism and spirituality.  Over the course of a decade and a half, as I matured and discovered my poetic vocation, a series of friends watched with me as the house dilapidated; ultimately returning to the Earth.  This reflective watching became manifest in my poetry in the early 1980’s as the theme of “Stages of Decay.”  It fostered reflection on the impossibility of returning to the past, about which I wrote one poem by that name, and another poem and two or three short stories dealing with it.  The decay of the house marked the passing of time for me, and it taught me that the past is ever receding from us.  The past no longer exists.  It is only maintainable through memory; only touchable via the artifacts left behind.  More than anything else in the first three decades of my life, the decay of ‘The Old House’ schooled me in the fact of mortality.  No one ever reclaimed that house, and by the early 1990’s it was entirely collapsed.  When I revisited it in 2005, it was entirely covered with leaf-mulch and fallen branches.  It had collapsed into its interior space – the once-upon-a-time space of human dwelling – its stone foundation barely discoverable amidst the bracken that blanketed it all around.

While ruins are a touchstone of the spirituality and mysticism of Autumn, sometimes, out of ruin, there does arise new life.  The plant world is an icon of this possibility, where rebirth often follows upon death in the turning of the seasons. There can be a resurrection; a reformulation of life and a regeneration of hope and energy and possibility—and this is the second of the narrative themes explored in Heart & Hearth (2009); the reclaiming of home and the rebuilding of an authentic life after great loss.  Symbolically, this process of reclamation can be seen in Spring following Winter after the death of Autumn, but that is the subject for another blog.[iii]




[i] When I first posted this blog, a reader asked about the ‘figurative death’ to which I was referring.  I explained that, in a spiritual and poetic sense, the year begins for me on the day after Winter Solstice (22 December) and that it ends the next December at midnight on Winter’s Solstice.  Birth—Growth—Maturity—Repose and then a settling into a devout anticipation (during November) of a symbolic death and rebirth at the next Winter Solstice.  This is the Wheel of the Year that I follow, year after year.  You cannot be spiritually reborn unless you ‘die’ first.  For me, an earthen spirituality is a spiral journey through the seasons, over and over again, learning from Nature and experiencing your own transformation via metaphors drawn from the seasons.

[ii] Heart and Hearth (AuthorHouse, 2009) is available online at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com and at Authorhouse.com]

[iii] See “A Revel Towards Spring” (27 February 2011) and “Resurrection and Rootedness: A Beltaine Blog” (1 May 2011) at this blogspot.


Thursday, August 25, 2011

Naturalist Meditations (Focusing Exercises) 25 August 2011

 “I’ve found that you can come to know the universe not only by resolving its mysteries, but also by immersing yourself in them.” (21)
-    Brian Greene  The Fabric of the Cosmos (2004)

This afternoon, having gotten off early from work, I went for a walk in a local wood.  The days are getting shorter, and I was out on the cusps of eventide.  All around me, there were subtle signs of Autumn’s approach: I saw green acorns fallen on the ground and, as I was coming down off the ridge, a single red leaf on the ground.  I picked up an acorn and the leaf and brought them home to use as foci in meditation this evening.
Focusing is a crucial part of a mature meditative praxis.  It is what gives depth to our meditation and fleshes it out.  To focus is to ‘meditate on’ some thing; some object or idea or phrase or quote—is to allow oneself to dwell ‘with’ the object or idea; to ‘participate’ in it, sensually and intellectually—and thereby to allow its potential 'meaning' to infuse us.  Thus it is very important to pick your foci well; it is difficult to undo the intimacy you will accrue as you ‘meditate on’ an object or idea that fascinates you over a period of time.

Monday, August 1, 2011

What is Meditation? (A Naturalist's Perspective)

“Meditation is really very simple; there is not much need to elaborate techniques to teach us how to go about it. ... Meditation has no point and no reality unless it is firmly rooted in life.”
-        Thomas Merton
Contemplative Prayer (1969)
“Language shapes consciousness, and the use of language to shape consciousness is an important branch of magic.”
-        Starhawk
Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex, and Politics (1988)
"Science is not only compatible with spirituality; it is a profound source of spirituality.  When we recognize our place in an immensity of light-years and in the passage of ages, when we grasp the intricacy, beauty and subtlety of life, then that soaring feeling, that sense of elation and humility combined, is surely spiritual." (29)
-        Carl Sagan The Demon-Haunted World (1996)

        Perhaps because I’ve written a lot in my blogs about meditation, I’ve been asked the question recently, “What is meditation?”  I’ve practiced meditation – under one guise or another – for forty years, and – as a general runing – I would say that meditation is a procedure for centering oneself in oneself, and also as a process through which to come to peace in one’s body and in one’s life in the Earth & Cosmos.  It is a practice, often daily, of stepping out of the flux and flow of daily our ordinary routines for a brief time for resourcement through a return to one’s still-point.  Its benefits include a reduction of stress, a refreshing of our natural energies and an opening of our vision.  It prepares a person to return to the daily ordinary in a way that allows for increased insight, humility and a healthy connection with others.
        I open this blog with quotes from differing spiritual perspectives to honor the traditions through which I have come to understand and practice meditation over the years.  I first learned to meditate in the context of wicchan mysticism in the 1970’s, and later practiced it within a Goddess-centered spirituality in the mid-1980’s.  Along this path, Starhawk’s The Spiral Dance (1989) deepened my spiritual praxis and led me to a more mature Pagan framework for meditation than I’d been using up to that point.  I employed her exercises for meditation on the Circle and the four cardinal directions for several years, eventually augmenting it with Celtic mythological references. Through Merton’s Contemplative Prayer (1969) and other texts – including those by Richard Foster, Fr Thomas Keating, John O’Donohue and Noel Dermot O’Donoghue – I learned to translate the practice of meditation into a Christian worldview, first in the late 1970’s and then in the late 1980’s.  Through the mid- to late 1990’s I was immersed in a hybrid Christian/Pagan Celtic meditative practice that was inspired by the works of Nigel Pennick, Tom Cowan and Caitlin and John Matthews and many others.
        What I found, though all of these transformations, was that the basic ‘procedure’ for meditation stayed the same, while the artifices of belief and the myths in which it was encoded and through which its effects were understood changed.
       Finally, beginning around 2001, I began translating my praxis into more naturalistic terms as I came to realize – through devout study of the revelations of science – that meditation is, at root, a process grounded in our neurology and cognition.  I have come to realize that there is nothing supernatural about the process itself.  It is something that all human beings are capable of learning and is an intensification of experiences common to all people, regardless of culture, gender or class.  Have you ever stopped in the course of your day, perhaps taken a deep breath and suddenly felt a sigh of relief?  A student of mine once characterized such moments as the “Ah_ life is good” moments.  Have you ever found yourself caught up in a moment of beauty?  Perhaps seeing a sunset or in the presence of an wondrous natural vista?  _And then found yourself more at peace or feeling ‘connected’ to life in a healthier way?  Have you ever just stopped in the midst something you were doing, sat down and suddenly felt a brief respite that seemed to refresh you?  Experiences such as these are the rudimentary ‘meditations’ in which we all occasionally participate.  The practice of meditation builds upon this kind of experience, expands upon it, deepens and sustains it – in order to increase the benefits and the effects.
       This ‘practice of meditation’ is common to all humanity and is found expressed in many cultures under various guises and descriptions.  It is not dependent upon one’s being religious.  It does not require a belief in ‘God.’  It ‘works’ regardless of one’s religious beliefs or lack thereof, because it is, at root, a learned behavior that grows out of the particular kind of consciousness we have as the particular evolved animals that we are.  It has taken me a long time to realize this.

       I had an experience in the late 1980’s that has become a touchstone for my naturalistic understanding of meditation.   At that time, I was seeking to work out an ecumenical approach to faith and the divine, and I had the good fortune to meditate in a group that consisted, first, of two Buddhists, three Christians and myself.  We had good experiences, and in our meditation sessions sometimes a kind of ‘group state’ of peace and well-being embraced all of us in the circle.  We had this ‘group-experience’ three or four times, at which point I invited two wicchan friends of mine into the circle to meditate with us.  Everyone used their own symbols and chanted words and did imaging exercises appropriate to their own belief system.  There was often cacophony at the beginning, but then a kind of harmony would emerge, leading ultimately to a sense of peace in our collective silence and a deep sense of love and togetherness.  For Buddhists, Christians and Witches?  Yes.  It seemed to ‘prove’ the ecumenical belief that all religions are variations on the One Theme and that what one calls God and another Nirvana and another The Goddess are all human – if also revealed – ways of expressing the Truth of the Divine-Beyond-Names.
       Once or twice an atheist friend of mine, who was learning to meditate, sat in on the sessions, and the second or third time he was with us, to our amazement, he came to a profound peace and silence in his own self, and felt – so he said, “at one” with the rest of us and with “the universe.”  It was a sublime moment for him – being in a circle full of religious people who were being as open as they could be to his non-belief.  It was a sublime experience for us!  The problem arose when someone suggested that even atheists must ultimately be connected to the Divine-Beyond-Names and that my atheist friend was, somehow, experiencing the Divine.  He left and never returned to our circle, and I fully understand why!  We were co-opting him, even if with the best of intentions and out of a sense of wonder that he might have been experiencing the same thing as we were; namely “the Divine,” by whatever name we each called it. 
       We just didn’t understand how this was possible!
       For years this experience nagged at me.  On the one hand, I wanted to affirm the ecumenical ideal that all religions can lead their adherents to the Truth and to the Divine-Beyond-Names (God, Allah, Yahweh, the Goddess, Buddha, etc.).  But my atheist friend’s experience was a fly in the honey.  Over the next few years I shed my religious aspirations and beliefs.  Along that path, I believed that ‘God’ led me to turn to science as a way of re-grounding myself and my spirituality, and then what I called ‘God’ ‘vanished,’ _whatever that might mean.  I am neither an atheist nor a theist at this point; I prefer to study Nature and seek Wisdom, and I don’t spend much time talking about ‘the Divine,’ by whatever name or under whatever religious guise.  My journey from religion into science has inspired in me a desire to re-frame the wisdom of religious traditions in naturalistic terms, as I learned a great deal about being and becoming human from my religious experience; whether I was Wicchan, Celtic or Christian in my orientations.
       I still meditate; almost every day.  And I have come to see the solution to the conundrum of my atheist friend’s experience all too clearly.  It’s not that by meditating we were all brought into communion with the Big Something; the Divine-Beyond-Names, but that by meditating in a genuine way we each ended up in a similar bodily state; neurological and cognitive—one of peace, in which we were unstressed, revivified physically and mentally, and feeling very good together as a result.  It has been true – in my experience, at least – that meditating in a group can generate a positive, collective experience.  Everyone is feeling relaxed, unstressed, and you can sense that the people around you are full of a positive energy.  I now understand that this is what was happening in that circle 30 years or so ago.  I don’t mean to say that those of us who were religious in that circle weren’t experiencing ‘the Divine.’  I’m saying that the experience of peace and silence that was the result of meditating was at root a physical state, and that we were wrong to confuse that with an experience of ‘the Divine’ _whatever that might mean.

       Today I meditate using the same praxis that I learned when I was religious.  Whether I was a witch, a Christian engaged with monastic or Celtic spiritualities (or all at the same time) there is a procedure for centering oneself in oneself.  A Naturalistic Praxis of Meditation begins with three preparations and then unfolds according to three basic steps.  I’ll present these here in brief for anyone who is interested.  The three preparations are:

           (1) Finding a place to meditate
           (2) Establishing a time to meditate, and
           (3) Choosing a ‘posture’ for meditation. 

In the beginning days and months of meditation you should use a single place that you have ‘set aside’ for the practice of daily meditation.  You should also start off by meditating at the same time every day, if at all possible, but don’t force it.  I have found that gently re-organizing one’s daily rounds is the best way for beginners to get to a place of regular daily meditation.  To meditate is to re-train our bodies, and regularity-reinforcing-repetition is one of the best methods.  Once you find a place and pick a time, you need to decide how best to posture yourself.  Most people sit on a chair or on the floor.  I’ve known one person who could meditate standing up, but I think it was an acquired taste; something he didn’t do regularly or in the beginning when he was learning to meditate.  I’ve also known two or three people who lay down to meditate; but the great danger there is falling asleep.  In my experience, sitting is the moist common posture, and if you sit on a chair, choose one that will allow you to sit comfortably with your feet flat on the floor and your spine relaxed.  Whether you sit on a chair or on the floor, position yourself so that your torso is ‘balanced’ over your hips, so you are not struggling to sit still or to maintain your posture.  You don’t have to get this right at the very beginning.  Just do your best; over time, the ‘right’ posture will emerge as you let go of stress and your body comes to peace.

The three basic steps to meditation are
          (1) Breathing
          (2) Centering (sometimes called Detachment), and
          (3) Focusing (sometimes called Attachment). 
       I usually ask novices to begin by taking two or three deep, relaxed breaths.  Breath in slowly until your lungs are full.  Don’t strain your lungs.  Stop when they feel ‘full.’  Over time, with practice, you may be able to breathe more deeply.  Hold the breath for a couple seconds, and then begin to exhale just as slowly until your lungs are emptied.  After this initial exercise, begin breathing in and out, perhaps counting quietly as you do.  By inhaling and exhaling neither too shallowly nor too deeply, we create an ‘environment’ in our body conducive to the release of stress.  If you breathe too deeply or too fast, you will hyperventilate.  If you breathe too slowly or too shallow, the body will rebel against too low a level of oxygen, and you will start to breathe more normally.  The aim of meditative breathing is to slightly raise your oxygen levels in the first minute or two of meditation, as this will help your muscles unclench and relax.  Then, you will settle into a rhythm of breathing that quiets you and brings you to silence.  Only by practice will you learn how to do this.
       Associated with this breathing is what can be called “Centering.”  We are often a bundle of disparate intentions, going this way and that; we need to do ‘this,’ we need to get ‘that’ done; we need to go ‘there,’ we are thinking about ‘this’ and ‘that’ and cannot seem to stop!  _And as a result, we are all over the place!  Centering is the use of an image or a word or phrase to collect the mind and let go – at least for a few minutes to up to a half hour daily (the ‘normal’ length of a meditation session; though it can be longer or shorter) – of all the things that are making demands on our time and our attention.  When I talk in blogs about “The Dolmen on the Heath” or “The Hut of Dwelling,” these are images of ‘places’ that I ‘go to’ imaginatively wherein I can experience myself in myself; where I can come to stillness in the solitude of myself—and not be my usual outwardly directed spiral of intentions and objectives!   Centering is a process of letting-go; of coming to rest and of being still and experiencing my-self as I am in my-self.  It is usually temporary, at least for the beginner, but it is a valuable state to achieve.  In time, you will learn to be ‘centered’ as you go about your daily rounds, and not be as distracted.
       Focusing is the third step in meditation, and usually involves “meditating on” something.  When I spoke in the last blog about meditating on the Periodic Table of the Elements, I was describing a focusing exercise.  Focusing involves using something with a bit of content that you find edifying or that you feel contributes to your knowledge and understanding of Earth & Cosmos.  What you focus on should be enriching; it should remind you of the goodness of Nature or perhaps be a rann of wisdom; a saying or phrase that you feel promotes your becoming the best version of yourself that you can be, alone and in community with others.  The things we focus on in meditation will become deeply encoded in our minds and in our being, as the Christian Richard Foster once said in Celebration of Discipline: The Path to Spiritual Growth (1978):
“The mind will always take on an order conforming to that upon which it concentrates.”
 And as wicchan practitioner Starhawk said in Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex, and Politics (1988):
“Language shapes consciousness, and the use of language to shape consciousness is an important branch of magic.”
 So, we need to choose the things we focus on with care!  Language shapes the way we experience and understand the world.
       When teaching meditation, I’ve found it best to start with posture and breathing exercises for the first session or so.  Once the novice has begun to get a sense of their breathing, I usually ask them to add a word to the breathing; something that intimates peace, health, or balance—whichever strikes them as most important to them in the moment.  The use of such a word will simultaneously allow for the beginning of detachment and is also a focusing tool.  In time, I usually suggest the addition of a phrase or image; depending upon the cognitive orientation of the novice.  [Some people respond more to images than to words; others rely more heavily on words.]  Over time, as you meditate, it is good to try and use both, and see what benefit comes from it.  Once the novice is experiencing a sense of centering; the letting go of the daily round—the instruction usually takes off on one of several paths, depending on the needs of the novice.  To describe all of the variations would take a book.
        Remember that every person who meditates is unique.  While we have a common human biology and psychology, there is a wide range of manifestations of our ‘human nature.’  Thus, there is no one meditative practice for everyone.  Yet the three ‘steps’ discussed here provide the common basic naturalistic framework.
       There is a lot to be learned once these three steps are mastered, yet – as Merton so correctly intimated – eventually is just enough to meditate.  Somewhere down the road you may come to see how effortlessly simple – and yet amazingly difficult, some days – it is to meditate.  Meditation proffers positive change and growth and – hopefully – intimations of wisdom.  It opens the way to self-transformation and ultimately self-transcendence.  To be on the journey often requires guidance, so devout reading – about topics salient to your own experience and to the process of meditation – are useful and often necessary.  If you can learn to meditate with others and if you can find a person experienced in the processes of meditation to guide you along the way, you may flourish mush sooner and go further than you might alone, though solitary meditation is not impossible.

       Well, I did not intend to quite a manual when I started this blog, and there is no way to cover everything one can experience and all of the variations of meditative praxis in a blog.  My point was to affirm the idea that the meditative praxis is a naturalistic one.   But if you find this blog interesting and want to know more or have questions about what I’ve written, feel free to contact me by email.

Blessed be! 


Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Meditation on the Elements (revelatione natura) – 12 July 2011

“Instead of being overwhelmed by the universe, I think that perhaps one of the deepest experiences a scientist can have, almost approaching a religious awakening, is to realize that we are children of the stars, and that our minds are capable of understanding the universal laws that they obey.  The atoms in our bodies were forged on the anvil of nucleo-synthesis within an exploding star aeons before the birth of the solar system.  Our atoms are older than the mountains.  We are literally made of star-dust.  Now these atoms, in turn, have coalesced into intelligent beings capable of understanding the universal laws governing that event.” (333)
                     - Michio Kaku
                       Hyperspace (1994)

Ever since turning to science in the late 90’s as the primary resource and touchstone for a lived spirituality, I’ve sought new meditative foci to orient me to the objective dimensions of reality.  As I moved out of mythology and ancient mystical ideals into an experience of reality infused and informed by the revelations of the modern sciences, I became inspired to meditate on the Periodic Table as a way of reflecting on Nature at a fundamental level; i.e., as a naturalistic form of lectio divina (i.e., the monastic habit of devout reading) ­­– and through it come to a deeper communion with the Earth & Cosmos and ourselves as an expression of the universe.  The “Table of the Elements” has come to replace the “Ancient Four” elements on which I had meditated for 30 years prior to my ‘conversion’ to science from various religious quests.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

A Dolmen on the Heath – A Summerwood Meditation (21 June 2011)

“Wonder is our human reaction to the exuberant and astonishing power of things to be – that is, their sheer is-ness.” (76)
-          Paul Brockelman
Cosmology and Creation (1999)

The natural world around us is greening to its fullness_ coaxing me into verdant meditations on the nature of Summerwood; drawing me to reflect on the spiritual themes appropriate to this time of the year.  Summer Solstice stands at the pinnacle of Nature’s resurrection each year; it is the height of the ‘Olden Wheel’; the ever-repeating earthen cycle.  It is the longest day of the year, embraced by the shortest nights.  Traditionally, Summer Solstice was associated with ‘luck’ and ‘fate,’ as at this point fields, gardens and forests were fecund with the promise of bounty, yet people could not predict the outcome of the summer growing season—whether it would come to fruition or not, or how fully.  There is also an inner ‘contradiction’ in Summer’s Solstice; that while this is the longest day and life seems to be flourishing, and although the plant world will continue toward fructification and fruition for the next couple months or so, from here on out the days will get shorter and shorter.  This irony portends an intimation of mortality amidst all of the delicious ripening and fullness; a first hint that Autumn and then Winter will yet come again.  But for now_
Dance!  Sing!  Play!  Revel!
For years I’ve engaged in a vigil at Summer’s Solstice, staying outside in the evenings as Solstice approaches, only retreating indoors once I allow that day is gone and it is finally ‘dark.’  Weather permitting, I like to go to the woods and wander about until dark on Solstice Night.  If there’s a Full Moon on or around 21 June_ I may even stay out after dark and enjoy a night hike in the moonlight!  In the week or two after Summer’s Solstice, there always comes a point at which I say, “well, the days are getting shorter, once again.”  Only at this point will my annual vigil come to an end.  The rest of the summer is left to be enjoyed, though always with this perhaps nagging awareness that day by day the light is diminishing, and soon enough darkness will overwhelm it.  There is always this ‘mortal tension’ in any deep spiritual engagement with Summerwood.  _There cannot be life without an awareness of death; and in this particular setting we must enjoy the vivacity of life as summer passes with a touch of regret for its eventual demise.
As Summer Solstice approaches, I am drawn in meditation to a potent poetic place that I call The Dolmen on the Heath.  Dolmens are old stone structures found across northwestern Europe, included England, Scotland and especially Ireland.  They are typically comprised of three or four standing stones atop which a large flat stone is ‘resting.’  While these structures have excited much imaginative speculation over the centuries, archeological investigation has suggested in recent decades that these lithic monuments are what remains of prehistoric burial mounds.   The theory is that a body was once placed in the hollow between the standing stones and then dirt was piled up all around them.  At the last, the cover-stone was moved into place.  Over the passing millennia, the dirt eroded away along with the remains of the person buried within the dolmen, leaving only the standing stones and the cover-stone accidentally in place.  As such, they make a great place for earthen meditation, as – sitting within the dolmen – one can look out across the local landscape in three or so directions, and affirm life, while sitting in a place associated with mortality.
For many years I’ve used images of dolmens in verdant settings as icons in my summerwood meditations.  As May turns to June, I begin to ‘visit’ the dolmen in meditation, imagining myself sitting in the ‘hollow,’ turning from one ‘portal’ to another to look out at verdant landscapes.  I feel the coolness of the stones, even on the hottest days, and am refreshed while also being reminded of the ‘chill of death.’  Mortality is always awaiting us on our most ultimate horizon, whether it is close by or afar off.  I ‘listen’ for the sounds of the insects and birds that I know are out and about at the onset of High Summer.  I’m occasionally visited by symbolic animals, such as snakes, bears or deer.  I experience the Dolmen on the Heath in different weathers; one day hot and sultry, and then at other times being beset by a rain storm—the weather at the dolmen often reflects the actual weather outside, but this is not a requirement.  My moods, and what I need at any particular moment, may do as much to determine the ‘weather’ at the dolmen as what is going on in my external environment.  I will sojourn at this dolmen in my meditations until Autumn comes.
I envision this Dolmen as established upon a Heath from which I can see farther than I would from down in a nearby vale.  I use this artifice to remind myself to always be seeking to peer beyond the horizons that I now inhabit and that now define me.  I resist imagining the dolmen as set upon a high mountain, as that seems to portend a lack of humility.  One’s horizons are usually not pushed out very far from their previous station in a single earthen season, and so sitting in a dolmen on a heath; a more or less small hill – seems appropriate to actual natural and personal revelation and transformation.  Over the course of a summer – or any other season – a mortal may hope to see somewhat further – through study, reflection and one’s active, waking experience in the world – but not necessarily to be ‘enlightened’ all at once.  If startling insights come or self-transforming epiphanies occur, we should accept them_ but I don’t think it good to ‘expect’ them.  This is, for me at least, consistent with an earthen humility.
What do I see from within this dolmen?  Flourishment. 
Living things all around us at this time of the year are ‘flourishing.’  That is, they are on their way to fruition.  This is the season of their glory_ their fulfillment.  Though the degree of flourishment differs from year to year, it always comes.  Sometimes it comes through peaceful stages of growth, while in other years storms and weather and sometimes even natural disasters mar the fruition we expect from the resurrected world.  Yet it comes_ and will until the end of Nature as we know it, whenever that will be.  At Summer Solstice I look for the first-fruits of the summer growing season.  While these are dependent upon the latitude in which I live, I think of blueberries and the varieties of flowers in bloom at this time of the year – both domesticated and out in the woods & fields – as symbolic of the fructification yet to come.  First there is resurrection and rootedness, then there comes the green flourishing of leaves and finally the bearing of fruit.
This annual pageant in the natural world has spiritual ‘analogs’ that we can make use of and benefit from for, like Nature, we all go through cycles in our lives, and come to bear fruit and reach fulfillment, season by human season, through the different stages of our lives.  While Flourishment is a general goal in human life; something to be sought throughout the year and through all of our life’s phases—the flourishing of Nature all around us in the summer months provides a vivid tapestry against which to reflect on our own flourishment, or lack thereof.  When I see Nature flourishing all around me, I’m led to reflect on my own spiritual progress; whether or not I’ve reached any better degree of flourishment—material, aesthetic or psychological – since the last time I passed through the shadows of Summerwood.
For me, the idea of ‘flourishing’ is connected back to the old Greek idea of eudaimonia; a term usually translated as ‘happiness,’ but which means so much more than what that word has been reduced to in our culture’s lexicon.  In literal translation, eudaimonia means to have a good (“eu”) “daimon”— a word referring to the general energy that drives us to live life well—our ‘spirit’ in a naturalistic sense.  When we have a “good daimon” we have a desire to live our lives to the fullest; we are more prone to find ways to become the best person we are capable of being; we long to to ‘full-fill’ ourselves.  In this sense, eudaimonia is ‘happiness’ in a deeper, philosophical sense of ‘reaching our full potential.’  It is the state of ‘happiness’ represented in psychological terms as ‘being self-realized.’  Being ‘happy’ in this profounder sense requires that we are free to self-realize.  Such freedom results in the unleashing of our passions; in the positive sense of the word—resulting in our having the necessary verve to live life as fully as possible.  We cannot flourish if we are prisoners of opinion or fashion; mere mask-wearers trying to get ahead in ‘the world.’  Mere conformity to the forms we are presented with as ‘options’ for our lives breeds boredom, frustration and ultimately the loss of potential that characterizes so many lives no longer lived.
Like trees and bushes and flowers and vines, having the right ‘growing conditions’ is essential to our ultimate flourishment.  According to ancient Celtic saints, one of the grounding directives in the spiritual life was that you must find the place of your own ‘resurrection.’  I discussed this in an earlier blog this Spring.  Here, I suggest that this implies that, in order to live in a spiritual way, we cannot just go through the motions.  We have to make the place in which we dwell into a ‘nemeton’ – a ‘sacred place’ – that is, a place where we are nurtured in our daily lives.  For some, to find the place of their resurrection may necessitate having to ‘uproot’ and ‘replant’ themselves in a new place in order to flourish.
Looking around at the natural world, you see plants everywhere coming to fruition, growing greener and bearing fruit.  Do some struggle?  Do others wither?  Some are planted well; others may need transplanted to better soil or to a place with a more agreeable balance of light & dark.  At Summer Solstice, it is fitting to reflect on your own state and ask, “Am I flourishing?”  In meditation, you might discover that the answer is a more or less simple “yes.”  Less simply, you may find you are in a better state than you were a year or two or three ago—and thus you can say with confidence, “I’m flourishing more now than I was then.”  If the answer is a more or less complicated “no,” however, ask yourself what you might reasonably do to better flourish in your circumstances?  What might you need to do to reach a deeper, fuller state of being in becoming.  Do you need refreshed by having new soil spaded into the soils in which you grow?  Might better – or different – spiritual food benefit you?  A more regular diet of spiritual practice?  _Or perhaps something more drastic_ like removal to a new setting?  These are incisive and life-directing questions, and should not be asked lightly_ nor should decisions about them be made rashly.  Yet flourishing may require us to ask them, from time to time.
While I love using the whole of Nature as a metaphorical template against which to understanding our own flourishment or lack thereof, I’ve long found ‘gardening’ a more focused metaphor; one that some people prefer.  We garden ourselves; together and in solitude.  Thinking of your own ‘being’ as a ‘garden,’ perhaps set within the larger tapestry of gardens that represent your family, friends and your wider spiritual community, might help you discern what needs done in order to bring your Self to fruition.  We can ‘till’ the ‘soil’ of ourselves; we can ‘feed’ ourselves or seek a place where we can be fed, hopefully choosing the ‘nutrients’ (what we study, what we do, how we experience the wider world in which we live) wisely.  We can ‘spade’ and ‘weed’ the garden of ourselves, and eventually harvest what has come to fruition in our own little plot.  While this harvest need not coincide with annual harvests on farms and in gardens in the wide world, meditating on tending our own earthen ‘plot’ is one way of coming to be_ and remaining_ awake in our lived circumstances; i.e., the place where we act out our spiritual desire to be and become what we are at our best.  To flourish in this sense is to achieve ‘happiness’ as eudaimonia.
The Dolmen on the Heath is the spiritual counterpart of the Hut of Dwelling, to which I’m always drawn from November through March.  Over the course of the Summer, the Dolmen on the Heath is like a second home to me; an interior nemeton that enlivens me and brings me restoration, symbolic sustenance spiritual succor.  Visiting it daily in meditation, I discover myself centered within it.  Likewise, Flourishment is to Summerwood what Enclosure is to Winterwood; these are twin focal themes for spiritual praxis and progress that orient me to the particular season in and through which I’m currently adventuring.  I believe we need guiding metaphors such as these if we are going to live our lives well and dwell deeply in Earth & Spirit.  By identifying themes and iconic places in each season, we anchor ourselves and our spiritual quests in the external experience of Nature and thereby provide a more or less stable context for interpretation and reflection for our internal, subjective journeys.  Grounded in the experience and understanding of Nature, we will find our inner lives enriched.  If these metaphors that have guided me help you in your own pursuit of flourishment; happiness—so be it.
Blessed be!

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Resurrection and Rootedness (A Beltaine Blog; 1 May 2011)

        For almost a month, between wind & rain storms, I’ve been working outside whenever possible, preparing flower beds and repairing my little bit of lawn.  Spring inspires in me a savoring of the natural world as plants come back to life from their winter ‘sleep.’  Stepping carefully through flowerbeds, pulling weeds and transplanting the less fortunate drifters, I’m struck with the sense that everything around me is reviving from a mysterious dormancy.  While we can understand it in scientific terms, the revival of the plant world each Spring still inspires awe and wonder.  Scientific understanding does not do away with mystery; it deepens our appreciation of the mystery of all that is.  Walking in natural places – along field-side paths and through the woods – fills my meditation with images of soil, buds and new leaves, early flowers – crocuses, daffodils and tulips – and the scents of Spring – Black Cherry and now Forsythia.  Each Spring, I become enraptured with New Life!