Hello you,
Last weekend I was playing catch-up with a dear friend who is up to big things in the world.
As we sipped our whisky (it was that kind of catch-up), he reflected on his current state of affairs.
Everything was amazing. Wildly so.
His private practice was brimming. He was being courted for a book proposal. His spiritual practice was cracking him open in unexpected ways and there was healing being done in his heart-marrow.
And yet, every time it seemed like he had landed in a good place, some solid footing and stability to rest on, the next opportunity, expansion or setback emerged, and he was called to plunge forward into the unknown again.
In his career. In his relationships. In his spiritual practice.
Perhaps you can relate. I know that I certainly can.
"There is no getting comfortable on this path." he concluded.
Not if you're committed to growing and opening, I suppose.
Cut to the next morning, where I was seated cross-legged in front of a Theravadin Bhikkhu (read: Buddhist monk from the old-school tradition), at a loft somewhere in Brooklyn.
As we geared up for a daylong mediation retreat, he meticulously transmitted our instruction for sitting + walking mediation before setting us off into the wild*, to practice in silence for the day.
*The wild was actually a 15-foot strip of hardwood floor
that I would be pacing back and forth on all afternoon.
Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.
Image via @BuddhistInsights Instagram
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot again.
What I've found with these sorts of things is that once the tedium of doing the same thing over and over again breaks loose, and the distractions wear thin, what emerges is a sort of mundane magic-- A relaxed appreciation for the experience itself.
What emerged here was that my second whisky the night before was a questionable decision.
And also-- that what my friend was describing was simply the process of walking. The essential action of moving forward.
As I began to pay attention, moving mindfully across the hardwood, a similar pattern came into view.
With both feet on the ground I felt stable, secure. Comfortable even.
However moments after landing, my back foot would lift, suspended in space.
Once the right foot found certainty beneath me, the left foot would rise. Slowly hovering. Knocking my stability off base. As it landed to bear the weight of my body, the process of upheaval would begin again.
Comfort, security. For a split second only. Disruption again.
Left foot. Right foot. Left foot again.
Walking (verb) : Tiny moments of instability. Just practiced into perfection.
For most of us able-bodied folks, walking is fundamental to forward motion. And yet something we've learned to do so well in our lifetime, that we don't often consider it's turbulent nature.
There is always one foot hovering in space, without guarantee that it will find touch down.
Creative aspirations, relationships, career ventures... and walking.
If there's no getting comfortable on this path--
Perhaps there is only acclimating ourselves to the movement.
With faith that the left foot will land.
Onward and Upward,
