On the Edge of a Cliff

Me and, left to right, Riggs, Obi, and Rios, Skyline Park, Haliburton, Ontario, 2012. I hiked and snowshoed with them up the “mountain” nearly every day. Rios is still with us; he’s 14!

October was a crazy month for me. I wrote and assisted writing two grants that were due mid month. At the same time, I was promoting and organizing a morning of artist workshops and demos to happen the following week. Then I was supposed to start teaching a meditation course at the end of the month. It was cancelled due to low participation and I figured that was the universe telling me to take a break! There were also a couple of medical appointments, rehab, and really trying to prioritize my mobility and health. Fatigue, brain fog, and mood swings played in there as well due to the drug tamoxifen. The most intense moments were leading up to the art day. I experienced a kind of performance anxiety that ran all kinds of stories about letting people down, not having done enough, poor attendance, forgetting something important, and so on. In the end, the day was a great success and, most importantly, everyone seemed happy and many wanted another day of art.

I learned a lot in those intense moments leading up to the day. Every time my mind got flooded with panic, I could catch it, recognize the unhelpful thought patterns, and remember to trust in Life's natural unfolding. I find that often when the mind is insistent on something, there's a reason for it such as: call the sponsors, pay for the rental, check in with the artists. There is some kind of Wisdom at work that knows when things need to be done and it sends little nudges at the right time. For most of my life, I wasn't good at listening to this voice, but I've learned to trust it. Even with such trust, at some point it felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff. I had no idea how the day was going to go. I'd never organized anything like this before. I didn't even have a visual of the space we would be holding it in or of how the artist stations would look. I was leading one of the workshops, and I didn't know what my energy level would allow me to do or if I could last the whole morning. So it was like this big cavernous unknown ahead of me. I remembered Pema Chödrön talking about standing on the edge of a cliff with her son. He found it exhilarating and she found it terrifying. She realized that the sensations were exactly the same; it was only the perception of them that was different — he enjoyed the experience and she did not. In my circumstances too, I didn't have to be terrified; I could instead be excited. I could also take that lesson a bit further to see that I didn't even have to be one way or the other; I could just watch the sensations as they came and went without getting emotionally involved.

There is a unique Buddhist temple in Asia at the top of a mountain. One makes the climb, which I believe is an arduous one, to finally reach the pagoda that would normally shelter a Buddha statue. Except in this case, there is no statue. There is only the view. There is no one standing at the edge of the cliff. There are only sensations and mental activity as they come and go like weather passing over a sweeping landscape. The wide open awareness that can hold all manner of phenomena without reactivity is Buddha nature. (There is still response-ability, just not the habitual overreaction of the conditioned mind.) As Christianity has the grace of God which is an emptying of all barriers to His love and wisdom, Buddhism points to basic goodness, an innate nobility of character that is in harmony with Life. Or, for the Taoists, following the way of the Tao.

A well-known Zen koan asks, “Does a dog have Buddha nature or not?” The question is not meant to elicit a practical answer, but to help one delve into the experience of Buddha nature. Looking for a yes or no answer leads one into thinking and concepts about dogs and whether or not they have a soul or go to heaven. Of course they do, as much as any other being, but trying to think your way to an answer leads away from the experience of Buddha nature. Instead, spend some time with the question; with everything that arises ask, “Buddha nature or not?” There are stories of monks returning over and over to their teachers with an answer to the question only to be turned away, told to keep practicing, keep questioning. The spiritual journey is like climbing up a mountain. We start out dragging a large bundle tied behind us with a rope. It is full of opinions, resentment, guilt, worry, fear, hatred, greed, doubt, unworthiness, and so much more. As we ascend the mountain, the bundle gets lighter and lighter because we learn to shed the stories about ourselves and others that we took so seriously and that got in the way of seeing clearly. It all becomes “unnecessary baggage,” a helpful phrase from the Tao te Ching. Until finally you arrive at the top of the mountain and there is the empty pagoda. What?! Where is Buddha? But this is not a disappointment. You can take shelter in that refuge and let the panorama fill you. For you are that vast. When you head back down the mountain, you are living from a larger space, a bigger heart, and with greater clarity. There is a little less certainty, and a whole lot of curiosity. Knowing things for certain creates divisions among us. Willingness to be surprised leaves room for understanding. There is less fear of the unknown and greater trust.

As I am trying to rebuild strength and mobility, the following memory has been coming up. Almost a decade ago now, I joined an artist collective that had a long, narrow commercial space. Even with my walker, it was challenging to cover as much distance as was required during a half-day shift. After three years of managing on my own, I needed help to complete my shifts. Regardless, I enjoyed that time — tending the shop, talking art, and meeting people. One remarkable woman wheeled herself in and perused the artwork. I felt an affinity with her in her wheelchair and me with my walker. We started a friendly banter and I asked, “How did you get your wheels?” In retrospect, it was insensitive to imply a familiarity with the challenging circumstances unique to her. For when we parted she said, “Enjoy your mobility while you have it.” She had been in a car accident in her teens and in a wheelchair since. She appeared to be about my age and by the obvious length of her legs, a tall woman. Her words shocked me into the realization that, yes, wow, to stand and walk and care for this body with relative ease is a true blessing.

That was another example of Life delivering what's needed at the time: an encouraging reminder when I’m discouraged. The trajectory of the MS has been one of slow, but steady decline from a decade ago snowshoeing up the “mountain” pictured above to now spending the winter indoors. At each stage of my journey, I have experienced hardship, frustration, fear, and grief. As has anyone on this human journey of birth, loss, illness, and death. But here’s a twist. If I look back on the greater ease I had a year ago, at that time I could have been grateful for the mobility I had, “enjoy it” as the woman in the wheelchair advised. Right now, I can remember to be grateful for the mobility I have. Enjoy it. Because in a year’s time it's possible I will look back to today and wish I still had that much ease.

These moments of discouragement are, too, like standing at the edge of a cliff. There can be exhilaration or terror or some emotion in between. Or I can enjoy the view, take the next step, with love instead of anger or despair. We’re not on this earth for very long. According to many traditions, a human birth is a rare and precious one. Each moment counts. Head back down the mountain then with a mind that is open and a heart that is full to overflowing. Because once you've seen the panorama, you know, that no matter how messy or beautiful, we are all in it together.

~

A conversation with Pico Iyer — with PZI Zen Luminaries, this world-traveller and author talks about the value of the unknown, travelling in countries in strife, losing one’s home, the dangers of certainty, and finding paradise. Embracing the unknown, Pico declares, one is open and receptive whereas asserting that one knows for certain only creates divides. He finds paradise within that goes with him everywhere rather than as something one has to travel to find.