Day 3 Transmutation of Faith

Day three at the ashram and I begin a new habit of being a scribe. I write down a verse or line that has meaning to me. The act of writing it again makes it a part of the body’s memory.

Today it was a particularly succulent translation of Psalm 19. These words rose up from the page and then seeped into my heart:

“God’s universe is perfect

awing the mind.

God’s truth is subtle,

baffling the intellect.

God’s law is complete,

quickening he breath.

God’s compassion is fathomless,

refreshing the soul.

God’s justice is absolute,

lighting up the eyes.

God’s love is radiance,

rejoicing the heart,

more precious than fine gold,

sweeter than honey from the comb.

Help me be aware of my selfishness

without undue shame or self judgment.

Let me always feel you present

in every atom of my life.

Let me keep surrendering myself

until I am utterly transparent.

Let my words be rooted in honesty

and my thoughts be lost in your light,

Unnamable God,

my essence,

my origin,

my life blood.”

From Ladinsky’s book Love Poems From God

I am in the temple meditating and the words and tune from an old Christian hymn drift inside of me

“Holy Holy Holy Lord God Almighty.

early in the morning I shall raise my song to thee.”

This verse and this song rose from the memory of a church I'd been part of decades ago. It was a place where many would have thought this ashram experience blasphemous, or at least dangerous. I let those thoughts pass. For the song was beautiful inside my chest. I recited the next verse softly:

“Only thou art holy.

There are none beside the.

Which wert and art

and evermore shall be.”

In the temple, beside me, a disciple of Yogananda begins the low slung tones of

OM… OM. 

I am filled with joy.

I join in with his rhythmical chant.

It is not only melding of beliefs here but also a transmutation of faiths I've experienced in earlier parts of my life. The duality thinking that this is bad that is good melted away for long moments in the meditation hall.

Am I crazy, singing evangelical songs and reciting old testament poems in an ashram? Yes, to the world perhaps, crazy. Probably crazy just for being here. Perhaps not.

The separation between sects and faiths falls apart like a brittle wall in an earthquake of devotion. None of that matters now. God is everywhere, even in church, even in the memory of an old song I thought I’d forgotten.

Between the Old and the New

Rick

Copyright Richard Sievers, December 201, All Rights Reserved

Day 2 Habits of Body, Mind and Spirit.

 Manly Development

I cried

reading a poem.

That is a good sign

for my development,

both the reading and

the tears.

From my upcoming book of Poems Simple Life

Our breakfasts in the community are always taken in silence. The silence is broken later with a devotional reading and prayer. I remember my first breakfast over oatmeal. Sitting with new people. Sitting with my wife and with wonderings about the coming two weeks. Thinking I should be calming and quiet. But that is not what my body had in its mind.

At the table with sun speckled leaves all around me I read Rilke’s Ninth Eulogy. He is describing how the angels are already experts on the miraculous and the wonderful. They long to connect with us in something that they cannot know: They want to know more about simple miracles of the ordinary life.

"...And the things, even as they pass,
understand that we praise them.
Transient, they are trusting us
to save them--us, the most transient of all.
As if they wanted in our invisible hearts
to be transformed
into-- oh endlessly-- into us..."

Rilke's poem ends with

Abundance of being floods my heart.

Quote from marvelous book Rilke's In Praise of Mortality, 

Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

When I read the word Abundance I break into a sob. It is spontaneous and even jolting. I sat over my bowl of oatmeal and weep, not just cry, but weep. It's embarrassing to say this out in the world where people trample what they fear. Yet my pride about being strong was not so stony in the shelter of community. I wanted to feel safe. My spirit must have informed my body that it was safe here. So I cry. Head bent and then held up.

 

I was fully a man and I felt everything!

For moments a poem sang in my body.

I cried in a way that might have been mocked in my own family, out in the world or even here in cyber space. But here on this retreat, my wife looks on with compassion. And the other people don’t seem to even notice. Like it’s normal to feel like this and even to show it out loud. (It is normal!!)

I felt like my whole body let out the storage of the strongman. The armor of being in the matrix of the world.

I look out over the field and see our little trailer up on the crest of the hill. I recite the Rilke lines “Praise the world to the angel: leave the unsayable aside”

I write in my journal

"These trees, my parishioners.

This meadow, my church.

This stone, my pulpit.

These grasses, my holy parchment.

This wind, my song.

This trailer, my hermit’s cave.

This being still, the light of the sun

This pen, my traveling heart,

moving from god into God."

Then I named the spirits that I have known and who have loved me deeply over the years. I recited their names, like doorways to God. This practice of seeing, reflecting and naming would become the habit of my stay here in the church of sky and people.

For long drafts of time I felt unafraid of tears and worship. I thought: Perhaps this is the way we are built, under the armor of survival and comparison.

Peace

Rick 

Copyright Richard Sievers, December 2012

Day 1 We are Stardust. We are Golden

Yuba River, Nevada City, California

We are stardust. We are golden. And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.

Stills and Nash form Woodstock Era.

The first things that strike me are the pictures and carvings and poems of the master and his lineage. All over this land. No matter where I walk or stop, a reminder is emblazoned on the wall or in the garden stone. A quote. A sacred symbol. Photographs. Why all the images of men and women? I am judgmental and afraid, at first, because I have been let down and disappointed by people over and over. But is that really the reason I recoil? I also am curious.

For years I’ve pontificated that The time for the guru is over. We have enough experts and parishioners worshiping books more than love. I repeat the well worn phrases of my reticence out loud as I gaze at Yogananda’s carved face resting on the garden altar. You are just a person, like me.

"Then why do I continue to be drawn to gazing at you?" I ask Yogananda? Like a memory in stone… me being the stone in my rigidity and him being like a memory that surfaces in my body and mind.

So I sit back and recognize how I feel stirred up, resistant to the statues and songs floating in the air. The sun light falls through the burning leaves of the autumn maple. I think “I can look at these images from any angle I choose.” 

The sun is tranquil and so quiet in its mighty fire. It is always there, burning, seemingly eternal. But do I really see the sun for what it is? Do I feel it, sense it, thank it? Or is it just a metaphorical bridge in a poem or thought (like here?) And what’s so wrong or right about a bridge into seeing deeper into life? Is that what the statues are? Bridges? Or distractions? Or tools and prompts to remember our divinity?

Then I stop the queries for a moment. I am here to re inhabit my body, to reinvigorate my health and to feel safe with other people. I long to do these things so that when I return to the outside world I can be the memory of the sun, too. I can be the stone, filled with mid-day fire. Warm, even in the cold nights to come. Ah, more metaphors. Perhaps that all human language has. Metaphors of what is holy.

Finally I rest back against the statue, the stony heat warming in the sun. I commit to be present as I can, for a long period of silences like the sun is silent, like Yogananda’s statue, silent.

I want to emanate light.
Light that is not afraid to grieve the losses that bring me closer to breaking through the stony surfaces. I want to b less drugged by my thoughts. Not thoughtless. But freer to catch the judgments as they wisp by in the wind. Just to be here for moments, until I am everywhere in the sun.

Peace

Rick

Copyright Richard Sievers, November 2012

Two Weeks in an American Ashram: An Invitation

On the road with our trailer near Mt. Shasta.

Hello,

This is the first entry describing two weeks that my wife and I spent in a community of people devoted to yoga as a path love, service and becoming more conscious. My wife was completing her certification as a certified yoga instructor. I was deepening my meditation practice.

I went with the intention to experience a loving community where I could be myself and feel safe. I also went to meet other men who desire to be open to their hearts and spirits as well as their intellect. I also wanted to grow in my understanding of how to proceed in my life as a young elder.

Our 1972 Compact Jr. Trailer

Along the way I found healing, challenge of my perceptions, judgments and peace. I hope to tell you the heart of my experience without doing any harm to the community that took us in and shared their particular path with us. I hope to share experiences that will be helpful and healing to you in your life on earth. Thanks for riding along with me on this spiritual road trip.

Over the next weeks I will use the term God a lot. I understand that this can elicit reactions and stories about one's own experiences, some happy, some hurtful. This term is used because it is the word I use in my devotional life. It is meant to be ultra inclusive in its use. I hope that you can see this name in terms of whatever is holy or inspiring or loving or cosmic or pure to you.

The Hermitage

I will also refer to Yogananda, a man who came from India in the early-mid 20th century to relay ancient and enduring, spiritual practices to the west. I see these practices as scientific in that they can aid one in being closer to be truly present and aware of life with less judgement and fear. I asked to meet men who are diligently exploring their spiritual path. I got even more than I asked for. I met a Master who is loving, wise and a beloved friend of my spirit.

I never wish to imply that this is the only way to enlightenment or truth. Yogananda and  communal faith are the reasons for the community that I visited. So I relate the information I have harvested there in hopes that it is inspiring to you in your life.

One of my callings as a writer is to

Make What is Universally Private Intimately Public

May this two week journal help me and you to not feel alone in our personal paths.

If you wish to come along with me on this brief dive into the life on an American Ashram check back here in the next three or four days. 

Or subscribe to this blog (see the box on the middle right). 

Thank You for Reading
I'll be publishing a new entry on this spiritual journey every three days until Christmas.

Rick 

Copyright Richard Sievers November 2012, All Rights Reserved

YES

 When I am open,

there are consequences.

~~~~

Is it worth the pain

to know the joy?

Yes

Is it worth the feedback

from the fearful

to be fully myself?

Yes

Is it worth the work

of planting these words

within my hungry spirit,

hoping for a harvest

of connection and beauty?

Yes

Is the health of my soul

worth the effort

of being free?

Yes. Yes Yes

Rick

* This sculpture is in The Vietnam War Memorial on the highway between Mt Shasta, CA. and Klamath Falls, OR.

Copyright Richard Sievers July, 2012

The Spiritual Light of Depression

It's drizzling again, like it has been through the whole growing season. While the rest of the country seems to burn, our area is locked in winter. I sit and watch out my window. The farm is heavy with the sky. Slugs are moving in from all directions. Berries rot. The growth of our livelihood is at a standstill, at least on the surface.

Yet the roots continue to dive into the clay. Flowers blossom deep in the soil where voles and moles seek to devour them, churning the crop rows in their feeding.  Life pushes ahead anyway.

I could be disappointed in what nature has dealt us this season. But I'm free to choose another way besides disappointment. All I can do today is what I've really have wanted to do all along: Write. Watch. Allow my spirit to wander. Then come here and tell you about the experience. Then, listen to your response.

Like so many people today, I've been cyclically depressed much of my life. It's as if a cool mist continues to fall, even in the summer season of my work.

Today I choose to go deep, even as the naysayers and doomsdayers approach from all sides. The challenges seem to come from every which way but from my spirit. Because there's a  central part of me (and I think all of us) that is totally healed. It may be very hard to find and see. But I cling to that holy place deep within.

So, what can I do now? Tend the garden anyway. Wait patiently for the words. Protect the tender blossoms. Be as free as I can in the drizzle. Be free while all around tamed expectations are burning in a climate change of forgetfulness.

A wildfire of inattention wants to claim me and all of us. Yet here, at this moment, the green crops and wild weeds are still reaching up into the grey.

Depression can be a great teacher or a boring  en-slaver. Depression can be a doorway into a joy which has little to do with superficial happiness. We, the clouded and damp, need the support of each other and the light that dwells deep in the heart of the Sacred Earth. Our souls have longings that can be touched down deep.

We are not alone and we are free, even in the rain.

What do you really want today?
Who are you down deep inside?


Here are a few links on the soulful aspects of depression:

Article: The Spiritual Side of Depression

Speaking of Faith Podcast on the Soul and Depression

Peace of the Mist Be Yours,
Rick

Copyright Richard Sievers, June 2012

Hounds

Remembering my Friend Tom, my Once Upon a Time Celtic Circle and the Wild Hunt

The Oran Mor: An ancient Celtic phrase for Song of the Universe.

This is a true experience while recently working on our farm, reminding me of the Song of the Universe… the One singing inside everything.

In the gloaming woodland I snaked over fallen logs and waded through heavy headed ferns. The reflection of the sun was asleep everywhere except for the very top of the ancient cedars and fir. Two hounds ran wildly, following their noses, plowing the humus and duff, charging into thickets of blackberry’s thorns, joined shoulder to shoulder.  They ran in frenzied flip fops of chaos, following a scent I could never know.

I had gone past the wood’s tangled boundary, high wired on a log over our rumbling creek. I had arrived in an open cathedral of wild vespers.

I was drowned out of my tilling and sowing by the reckless howling and braying that rose and fell from their wild tour of the borderlands. My curiosity pulled me into the forest that surrounds our land. I went inward without concern for the pain the loud noise had caused to my once silent reverie of mud and pipe and tines. 

I arrived in the near dark in an arc of limb and needles. I stood, wet and shivering, on a stump as the dogs ranged all through the field of vision. Their tails high and wagging. Tongues lolling. Shoulders hunched even as they ranged with a raucous swagger.

They ran all around me. The forest and me and the stump being the still points. They never saw me, never cared for anything beyond their wild task. They were intent on prey or joy or some hidden heart they'd smelled beating rapidly in the dander. They were pure in their mysterious purpose and their abandonment to joy.

It seemed like this was what the dogs came to earth for. This was their call and response of ecstasy. This wild hunt.

I paused until the darkness became deep. Then I meandered back, out of the forest. Crossed the swollen creek on the thread of arching wood. I walked into my field, heavy with dew, fingers of mist rising from the clay. I came back into the tailings and seedlings I had tended.

I thought about desire and passion, work and wonder. I had sweat and toiled all day. I wondered if my toil had brought the world more joy and freedom. Or, had I only distracted myself from the things I love?

I bent down and reached my hand into the sweet sacred soil of my home. I lifted the cold wet earth to my face and breathed in. I smelled spring and the sun. I felt the rains of winter drain from between my fingers. I smiled and sang a little tune recalled from my childhood summers. Then I dropped the scrutiny of my labors and my yearnings.

I was just another animal in the gloaming.

The two hounds brayed as the sun ran further into the night. Then their voices faded away. These beings had sung their own song of wilderness and joy. I heard them. I touched the mystery of my own happiness for moments in my home’s soil. And the field sighed. I breathed deep and then made my way toward the warmth of my home and my particular life… a wild memory in my heart.

Where is your home? 

What do you hear singing within you today?   

Who ranges the wild wood on the borderlands of your world?

Can I meet you there?

Song of the Wildwood be yours.

Rick

(c) Copyright Richard Sievers, June 2012