Coupling, De-Coupling, and a Theory of Entanglement

Sometime after we parted ways after ten years of marriage, my former husband said something to me that was profoundly healing.  He said, “Sue, we were together for a reason, and we parted for a reason.”  His words had a deep impact on me and gave me pause for reflection about relationships in general.  In essence, he had performed a ritual for the both of us with that single sentence.  Embodied in it was a sense of acknowledgement, honor, and letting go.  The other message that I got from these words has to do with nonjudgment.  The truth is, everything happens (and doesn’t happen) for a reason.  We don’t always know what it is, but we have to trust in the Universe.  This is often easier said than done.  But when we do, the lessons and gifts can be gleaned, even (and perhaps particularly from) the adversity.  I will always be grateful to my ex for our peaceful divorce.

Despite some good times and sweet moments, I have felt more challenged by relationship in my life than I have felt fulfilled by it.  This has been my path in this lifetime.  This is probably because the choices I’ve made in the past when it came to partnering up have been colored by fear and insecurity, and the consequences of such choices would start becoming very apparent soon after the relationship began.

Given what I’ve experienced and discovered in the last few years about myself, the human condition, and “the bigger picture,” I have come to the realization that when choosing a mate or a lover, there are so many forces at work that are invisible and that slip under the radar of our conscious awareness.  Like many, I would welcome “right partnership.”  But what I prefer more at this point is a joyous life that supports my higher self.  And so I’m feeling very content at this moment being and going solo.  There is much that I wish to explore, do, and experience further, and I am really savoring myself.  This might sound strange, but I don’t want to risk wasting time on “the wrong choice.”  And I mean that wholeheartedly.  Been there, done that.

I am fully aware of the necessity for compromise in relationship.  So much so that I feel I have compromised too much in my relationships.  When I would ask for something for myself from my partner, and then not get it, instead of lobbying for what I wanted or ending the relationship when it became clearly apparent that reciprocity was not forthcoming, I would put up with the disappointment for far too long.

We’ve all been there.  For me, giving has always been much easier to do than receiving.  Too easy, as a matter of fact.  In the past, not only did I not take the time to figure out what I really wanted in and from a relationship, but the mere thought of asking would stop me in my tracks.

I have often said in the midst of a relationship, “I am no good at this.  I don’t know how to do this, and I don’t know how other people do it.”  I know people sometimes say such things when trying to figure out how to raise kids, but you really don’t hear people say, “I don’t know how to do this” when it comes to relationships.  

When it comes right down to it, after all is said and done, in the comfort of my four walls, I know I rock.  I am at a hard-won peace, and I am happy.  I embrace it all.  All good.

Happening Upon The Shire; "Retreat, Re-Treat!"

If you have been following my previous blogs, you will have inferred that 2004 was a watershed year for me.  I made many discoveries where many seeds were planted that are still bearing fruit ten years later.

I happened upon another great find on July 4, 2004 when a friend introduced me to Harbin Hot Springs, located about 2-1/2 hours north of San Francisco.  Perhaps you know of Harbin, perhaps not.  I wrestled with the idea of writing about it because it is such a special place, and I do not wish to carelessly bring attention to Harbin for the wrong reasons.  But if I am to fully reflect on the spiritual influences in my life over the past ten years, a discussion of and homage to Harbin Hot Springs is essential.

Harbin has a rich history.  In times past, it was a gathering place for Native Americans to partake of its natural spring waters.  In the late 1800s to mid 1900s, Harbin had morphed into a summertime resort for Bay Area families.  Following a trend of transformation driven by social change in the 1960s, Harbin as we know it today was born in the early ‘70s when a visionary purchased what had become a very run-down and neglected property and, over the course of the next 40 years, would shepherd the evolution of Harbin into the New Age retreat community and village that it is today.

My first visit to Harbin stirred feelings of surprise, wonder, and keen curiosity.  I was charmed by its Tolkienesque setting, with various pools of natural spring water of varying temperatures and sizes amidst a beautiful natural setting.  Twice more that summer and early fall, I asked my friend to take me back to Harbin.  Enchanted by this place, I know I wanted more of it.  In retrospect, it is perfectly synchronous that I met Harbin during a year of reflection, exploration, and expansion.

 

Through a foray into Yahoo online dating in late 2004, I encountered a profile that mentioned Harbin Hot Springs, which led to a phone conversation where Harbin was one of the highlights.  Over the next two years, we made many trips to Harbin together.  It was the highlight of our relationship.  Our visits were an almost-monthly ritual. 

As has been the case, I’m sure, for many, over time, visits to Harbin took on new significance.  While at first I saw Harbin as a brief respite from work and urban life, I gradually began to feel that Harbin was an essential and integral part of my life, a counterweight balancing the faster pace and stress of Bay Area living.

I have soaked and swam in the waters of Harbin, hiked its hills and paths, marveled at its natural beauty, camped on its grounds and enjoyed its rooms, attended yoga classes and music performances, browsed and bought many books on consciousness and spirituality, and there, have met many interesting and amazing people from all over the country and the world.  At Harbin I internalized body acceptance and became more attuned to the sensual aspect of life.

Upon reflection, I am gratified that I discovered Harbin when I did and not earlier when both Harbin and I were less mature.  While my history may not be quite as colorful as Harbin’s, my appreciation for this “Shire” perhaps would have been less enduring at an earlier age.  Each visit to Harbin has been a meditative marker, a reflective pause along my path.

Get Thee to the Zendo; Idiopathic Origins

We’ve been hearing a lot in mainstream culture recently about the virtues of meditation; its health benefits, calming effects, as a means of centering ourselves.  I began “sitting” at the end of 2003 not only in response to a mind that had gone completely “monkey,” but to a spirit that felt broken.  Despite my psychic pain, I knew deep down that I was my medicine.  

When I began meditating, I sat on a couple of pillows, focusing on a lit candle.  It felt like a complete joke.  I could not keep my eyes focused on the flame, they were fluttering about so rapidly.  It was all so very uncomfortable.  Looking back, I now recognize that the observation of my discomfort, the awareness of my eyes, was an essentially progressive aspect of the meditative experience.  Back then, I had to operate on faith (and no small hint of desperation) that practicing meditation consistently would lessen the discomfort over time.  And for the time being, any aspiration of enlightenment had to be shelved (LOL).

So, guided only by myself, I simply sat every morning for 15 minutes on the pillows in front of the candle.  Well, maybe not every morning.  And, well, maybe not always for 15 minutes.  But I kept at it.  For a while, I continued to observe my feelings of discomfort.  Thoughts of all kinds came and went, fast and furious, and I would react to the “heavy traffic” with frustration.  But I did not – and this is important – allow the discomfort and frustration stop me from sitting.  From something I had heard or read somewhere, I know breath was important, so I began more and more to focus on my breath.

As time went on, I gradually noticed a shift.  I actually started becoming more comfortable with the discomfort.  I accepted it.  Sort of surrendered to it, I guess you could say.  Essentially, I stopped judging it…and I’ll bet you can guess what started to happen, Grasshopper…my meditations became more relaxed; more peaceful.  The “content” didn’t necessarily change at first, but as my response to the content changed, the content then DID begin to change.  Thoughts came less frequently (though, of course, they still came), they were more fleeting, and I was able to maintain my focus on my breath for longer periods of time.  Side effects of my meditation practice began to make themselves known.  I was more relaxed in my daily life, and less reactive to negative events and situations in general.

In the spring of 2004, I decided to reward myself with a dedicated meditation cushion, so I headed down to the San Francisco Zen Center to purchase one.  Upon entering the doors of the Zen Center, yet another world opened up to me.  In the process of acquiring my zafu (the Buddhist term for a meditation cushion), I spent an hour in the bookstore, intrigued by all of the titles related to Zen Buddhism, Zen, meditation, spirituality, etc.  I acquired a schedule of public sitting at the Zen Center and decided that I would take my meditation “up a notch.”

My first sitting in the Zendo (a Zen Buddhist temple of meditation) was surreal, mind-blowing, and somewhat brutal.  I sat for 40 minutes facing a wall.  After about the first 15 minutes, I was in full-blown observation of my monkey mind and increasing physical discomfort.  But there I sat.  Despite feeling thrashed and my foot going completely numb from sitting cross-legged, at the end, I felt triumphant, as though I had persevered through a major rite of initiation.  So interspersed with my sitting at home, when my schedule allowed, I would occasionally sit at the Zendo.  The energy of collective sitting with seasoned meditators is quite sublime.  There is a wondrous, pure silence and ethereal power when minds collectively go “within.”

I have not sought out meditation “how-to’s.”  I keep it to observing my thoughts without judgment and mindfully returning to my breath.  I have adhered to my intention of keeping it simple and making it mine, and this has served me well, as it did when my father was diagnosed with a blood condition of idiopathic origin in the late summer of 2004.