Monkey Mind

Quiet … I often think about quiet, bask in it, wish for it. Still, Monkey Mind is ever-present. It interjects itself between me and my good intentions, throws me off-center, and causes me to doubt and second-guess myself.

The Buddhists call our restless, ever-active minds “Monkey Mind.” Just like a monkey swinging from limb to limb, our minds swing from one topic to the next, one self-centered idea to the next. When my first t’ai chi teacher emphasized daily practice, she cautioned: “Monkey Mind will always try to convince you that there is something else you have to do…. Don’t listen. Just do your practice.”

Twenty years later—-and now as a teacher of t’ai chi chih moving meditation—-I continue to wrestle with Monkey Mind though I find more moments of peace in the midst of my moving meditation practice. Recently I listened to the CD, “Zen Howl,” by writer Natalie Goldberg. Like my t’ai chi teacher, Natalie counseled me to ignore Monkey Mind; to just start to write and keep my hand moving. Then Natalie said: “Monkey Mind is a guardian whose job it is to protect your heart.... Can you face yourself and what it is to be a human being?” Monkey Mind suddenly became a compassionate ally instead of an ill-willed, self-destructive influence.

Which inspires me to ask: Can I honor my self, my talents, my weaknesses and insecurities, and not be overcome by them? Can I give myself the gift of unscheduled time to come face-to-face with my own true Self? Can I take time to be?

“Light Years,” a memoir by Le Anne Schreiber, describes the author’s move from Manhattan (at the age of forty) to a rural location in upstate New York. She was, she wrote, seeking light after so many years spent under the unsatisfactory glow of fluorescent bulbs. She longed for inner stillness. Neither was easy to find.

Writes Schreiber: “There is simple basking, which has a lot to be said for it, but most of us lack the sublime temperament for prolonged, purposeless delight. It’s the price we pay for not being lizards.” Eventually Schreiber found an ideal spot, “In my early searches for idyllic basking sites, I had discovered a fallen sycamore whose double trunk spanned the stream from bank to bank, offering itself first as a cradle for my early, failed attempts at basking, later as seat and footrest for my contemplation of that failure.”

Same Spirit’s May retreat, “Nature’s Quiet Miracles,” offers each of us the opportunity to slow down and become better acquainted with Monkey Mind. Nature provides a multitude of opportunities for quiet observation. What’s most important is to keep coming back, time after time, to the present moment. It is here that Monkey Mind loses its power over us. It is here that we experience the essence of life on the Earth.

Winter Wonderland

I know that I ask too much of you, dear reader, to transport yourself from a sun-warmed beach in July to a snow-covered forest in late-December. Let me offer some assistance. Gently close your eyes. Imagine a hardwood forest where the glossy green leaves of sumer are touched by the cooling breezes of fall. All too quickly these leaves drop their orange-yellow-magenta selves to the ground. Now feel the chill of a cloud-covered day. Then visualize more days when brisk winds carry rain and then bountiful snow to cover the frozen ground.

Eventually the landscape is peopled with dark naked tree trunks and wispy branches that emerge in stark contrast to the overwhelming presence of white. Unexpectedly your eye catches the faintest hint of color: two swaying, yellowy orange leaves that dangle from branches. Were they bells, they might be ringing. It is now past winter solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas. The new year is upon us and it is time to bid farewell to the darkness and welcome the return of the light. The forest, released of its canopy of thick leaves, opens overhead into far reaching sky....

On Christmas Eve--three nights ago--Frances and I donned snowshoes about 8:30 pm to take a moonlit walk. A foot of new-fallen snow blanketed the earth and the full moon beamed like a huge yard light suspended from heaven. We walked deep into the woods past our property line and onto county forest land. With each step we left the leafless maples, poplars, birches, and oaks behind with our footprints. When we reached the snow-filled balsam fir trees, their snow-lacquered branches weighted heavily, we paused, and listened to silence.

We stood quietly for a moment then waited more minutes to hear the hoot of an owl, the howl of a coyote, the tiny footsteps of a mouse, or the faint whoosh of a breeze brushing treetops. We heard nothing. Silence surrounded us, breathed through us, nested into us.

Eventually I asked Frances if she heard the high-register hum of something unidentifiable. "What is it?" I inquired. "Is it the electrical impulses produced by my brain as it communicates with my nervous system? Does it come from inside my body--our bodies--or from without?"

"Perhaps it's the vibration of the trees," Frances responded. "Or maybe it's the earth or ionosphere," she added after more minutes of silence. Eventually we turned and retraced our steps back to the warmth and light of our house where unsplit firewood awaited us.

The next afternoon Frances speculated further about the previous night's moments of wonderment, "Maybe we heard the sound of stars talking to each other."