Lezlie Laws

Get quiet, soften, a way will open.

Monday, 22 February 2010 19:01 Written by Lezlie Laws

I’m being told on a lot of different fronts these days that uncertainty is liberating.  It’s a good thing.  And I’m so trying to get that, believe that, live with that idea.  But it’s really hard.

     Just this morning, I read an inspiring article on uncertainty by Elizabeth Matti-Namgyel in the current issue of Tricycle magazine.  In it, she begins with a small story about rock climbing, and the experience of “being suspended on a rock and not seeing any possibilities for moving up or down.”  Thirty years ago, I did a little bit of rock climbing in the Sangre de Christo Mountains of New Mexico and had this very experience.  My first climb revealed much about my personality.  When I reached that point of seeing no possibilities for movement up, I looked down at the person to whom I was belayed, and said, “There are no more holds, I’m coming down.” 

     How foolish was I?  Like they would get a novice half-way up a face that was impossible to finish.  Still, in my characteristic recoiling from situations that did not provide obvious paths for movement, I was convinced the best action was to stop my attempts and back down the face of the rock.  But the wise person at the base of the climb looked up at me and said, “No, don’t come down, Lezlie.  Get quiet; work it out.”  Such good advice, because the inside of my head was thunderous, full-out racket.  I was rattled beyond description, fearful that I might fall, or hurt myself, or, worse, fail in my attempt to climb.  In the confusion of that racket, I could not bear even a few minutes of not knowing what to do next.  I had to move down.

    This desire was, of course, my reactive mind, a mind-state, Mattis-Namgyel says, in which we “lose our reference points, our body tightens, our breath shortens and our vision narrows.”  And of course, when the vision narrows, we have few options for moving forward (or in my case, up).   

     If Mattis-Namgyel had been on the ground advising me during that first climb, she would have taught me about residing in uncertainty, and what happens when we allow ourselves to reside in unknowing.  In a state of unknowing, we can soften, and on the face of a rock, when you soften (both the mind and the body), “new patterns and shapes begin to emerge from the rock.  We see places to balance we didn’t see before.  As we soften and open, we access a special intelligence, unimpeded by habitual, reactive mind.”

    Somehow, I did “work it out” as I was told, and I made it up the face of the rock, to my huge relief.  But it would be years of eagerness to act before I would see how residing in uncertainty is fruitful, learn that it opens new and surprising options for action.  It has been so hard for me to relax my grip on wanting to know, wanting to figure things out, wanting to have a plan.

     Mattis-Namgyel says periods of uncertainty “lead us beyond habitual, reactive mind so that we can engage in our life with intelligence and openness.”  That is, our thoughts and actions are not guided by unconscious fears or defense mechanisms, set in place to protect our sense of self.  We can more easily stay present with whatever is before us, and through softening and opening, call upon a deeper wisdom that resides within us.  That is the purpose of a practice, she says, “to habituate ourselves to openness.”

   I so want to get this.  It is a practice for sure:  I react unconsciously or mindlessly to an event, and then I catch myself and pause.   I get quiet.  I soften.  I open. I resolve to be more vigilant.  I practice more.  I fall again into reactive behavior.  I catch myself and pause again.  I get quiet.  I soften.  And it goes on and on.  This is the cycle of “habituating ourselves to openness.”

    In so many ways, I am still that young woman hanging in sheer panic to the side of that rock face in New Mexico, seeing no way up, and desperately wanting to be lowered to firm ground.  It so many circumstances I want to back away from the moment, the challenge, the difficulty and rush back to the comfort of my comfy nest.  When my teacher refused to let me take the easy out, when she saw me unwilling to face a difficulty with equanimity, she held her ground and held me suspended on the face of the rock.  Legs splayed, arms shaking, bereft of options, I clung to the enigmatic stone, seeing no way out.  After an excruciating period of time, I made a move that lifted me a bit, and then a bit more, and finally I was able to swing my pathetic, quivering legs up over the top. 

     But I didn’t really get the important lesson that day, the lesson Elizabeth Mattis-Namgyel is teaching in this dharma talk.  She is saying, as do most spiritual teachings, that something new happens when we truly give ourselves over to uncertainty.  It is a deep practice for sure, and the practice is not always comfortable.  The practice is to accept what is, without having to explain it, know it, figure it out, or manipulate it to my needs.  And when I can do that, that is let myself be suspended on a rock, I can, miraculously, see new, surprising, and creative opportunities for moving. 

     So now, thirty-two years after hanging in panic on an outcropping of the Sangre de Christos, I might like to re-frame the advice of the person advising me on that first climb.  When I find myself wanting to inch my way back down the mountain, when I see no hand-holds available to pull myself upward, I want to hear (and really believe), “Get quite,  soften, a way will open.”

The Worst Thing About Living Alone

Sunday, 24 January 2010 12:18 Written by Lezlie Laws

The worst thing about living alone is when you come home late afternoon on a Friday, and sit out on the back deck with a glass of wine, you sometimes think the spectacular blue streak of the jay swooping over the yard is not quite as spectacular as it might be if someone were sitting with you.

Or when you make a new soup--like lentil and sweet potatoes with onions and garlic and carrots, curry and a little bit of Greek oregano from your garden—and it’s really delicious, and then you eat a bowl standing in front of the TV instead of sitting at the dining room table with a cloth napkin and a nice pinot noir.

Or when you get a powerful urge for Ben and Jerry’s coffee ice cream with chunks of Heath bars buried in it, which you would never, ever keep in the house, there’s no one who says, “Honey, I’m running up to the grocery store.  Need anything?

Or when you put clean sheets on the bed and iron the pillowcases so they’re smooth and soft to your cheek, and there’s no one to mess them up.

Or when you wash your hair and use the Moroccan oil on it so it’s shiny and soft and falls around your face like it did when you were little, and no sees how frivolous and loose it makes you feel.

Or when you come down to the kitchen in the morning to find the amaryllis bulb exploded into five outrageously frilly pink blooms over night, and you drink your coffee and smile, but it’s kind of a fake smile.

Or when you’re teary because you miss your mother, and there’s no one to sit real still sit next to you for a while.

Or when you’re deep to the bone tired but there’s still so much to do, and you have to tell yourself to slow down, breathe, and eat the roses.

Or when your favorite song comes up in your Ipod scramble, and you feel excited energy rising in you, you slip into your rock star self and begin to dance and sing,

“Hey, I put some new shoes on and suddenly everything is fine.

Hey, I put some new shoes on and everybody’s smiling, it’s so inviting. 

I’m short on money but long on time, slowly strollin’ in the sweet sunshine. 

I’m runnin’ late but don’t need an excuse.  I’m wearin’ my brand new shoes.”  

You sing at the top of your lungs and you fling yourself around the house with joy and abandon.   You’re quite sure Twila Tharpe would want to use you in her next dance concert if she only knew about you.

Everyone knows that learning to dance alone is one of the hardest things you will do in your life.