Monday, November 01, 2004
In the Park
I am interested in states of consciousness. There is, of course, mystical consciousness (at one with all ), and bliss consciousness, and ecstasy and rapture and transcendent consciousness. (And the list continues to include many, many others, including stages of grief, psychic awareness, trance states—who knows how many there are?)
But there is another which is also one of my favorites which I call simply “Nice Day” consciousness This is the experience which lacks the intensity of the dramatic kundalini embrace or romantic love or personal crisis. It is like the bread which sustains us between deserts, the pleasant encounter with a neighbor or friend which we depend on to give shape and continuity to our daily lives. It is ordinary experience at its most familiar and best expression.
It leads us into a kind of “I’m o.k., you’re o.k.” state (once a popular notion). It tells us life is good, even when calmness abides. It assures us we don’t have to keep on suffering or worrying about whatever it was that has been bothering us, that it is all right to let go and know that things will, in fact, work out—both for us and the world.
Here is such an experience from yesterday morning:
In the Park
As soon as I stepped outside, I knew that something was different. Instead of the frequent fog and mist of the Sunset District in San Francisco, there was bright blue sky, well defined fleece-like clouds, warm sun. A rare day, I thought, not to be wasted.
Nora and I arrived at the lake about eleven. Some say Nora is four, others think she is two. Nora is black and white, a pure bred border collie (well, perhaps with just a tad of husky). She attracts lots of notice wherever she goes, partly from her glistening coat, partly because her eyes don’t match (one is blue, one dark.) She, of course, immediately begins to tug on her leash, excited by the smells and sights around her.
The first thing I notice as we step up the small incline to the sidewalk which circles the lake is the grass. It has rained slightly last night, the grass has a special glow. Its green is fresh, like spring, though it is now October. “Ah,” I think, “something like what Walt Whitman must have had in mind when he wrote his famous poem.” (“Leaves of Grass.”)
We start our obligatory circumambulation around the water. The air smells like eucalyptus, strong enough that even I can notice it. It is reassuring, like the scent of a healing herb in an acupuncturist’s office.
I like coming here. First of all, you are never unaccompanied for you are always in clear sight of someone or other. There are no dangerous bushes or shrubs to conceal hidden assailants. I have learned that in the city, you must always be vigilant, aware of your surroundings and the people nearby. I have also learned it is extremely dangerous to “space out” when you are walking the city streets. Your purse could be quickly snatched, or a car whizzing around a corner could harm or annihilate you. In others words, mystical consciousness is dangerous.
This is Stowe Lake in Golden Gate Park. The light and the crisp fall air remind me somehow of my visit to Walden Pond, which I finally got to see just one year ago. Walden is a little bigger. I was there in autumn, and indeed the gods had scattered their golden coins along the paths to Thoreau’s little abode. The place where Thoreau had built his cabin was clearly marked. Indeed, it was tiny—no wonder he had no room for visitors.
Stowe Lake (or is it Stow?)is not in the wilderness, but when one dwells in an urban environment one has to make do. It is about one mile around, just right for Nora and me. It has lovely trees and greenery, and many flowers. In the spring the calla lilies bloom in abundance on the little island which sits in its center. The lake is irregular in shape, so you never see all of it at once (as you do at Walden.) But it is nature, `and reminds us of whence we come.
Indeed, the lake itself has a long and fascinating history—I have seen pictures of boaters from the nineteenth century, the women wearing dresses with leg o’ mutton sleeves and the men clad in dark suits and boater hats. Now you can rent motor boats, or else paddle boats that you propel with your feet. But today, no one is on the lake. Everyone is conscientiously progressing along the sidewalk (the group moving along in different directions), but there aren’t that many of us here either.
As usual today’s other strollers are a mix. Many are elderly. Ancient Chinese fathers are accompanied by dutiful daughters, aging Russian matrons with large bosoms plod stoically ahead with their faded husbands. I hear other languages spoken as well: Spanish, French—almost every part of the world is represented here. Some I don’t even recognize. I fit in well with the group, for I am also an elder. I walk faster than some (particularly those on canes), not as fast as others.
There are also a few runners dashing past. This is a good place to run—absolutely flat, not too much foot traffic to slow you down, lots of easy parking nearby. Occasionally a mother wheels her infant past in a baby stroller. There is even a fellow with a backpack and a scraggly beard who looks like he has been on the road awhile, but he appears harmless (in the city, you learn to check out every stranger who looks a bit unusual, especially if you yourself are somewhat vulnerable and can’t run very fast).
There is also a thin woman who seems to be in hiding—she wears a dark jacket with a hood draped down over her forehead as well as dark glasses. I wonder if she is some celebrity who doesn’t want to be recognized (but reflect that her weird garb simply draws attention and curiosity.) Again, perhaps she is too sensitive to the sun and has to take care when she is outdoors.
There are ducks and seagulls screaming and circling on the lake, and occasionally Nora makes a dash for them. I have to hold tight to her leash, hoping that she won’t pull my shoulder out (the one I have worn a hot pad on for the past two days.) Generally, she is a well behaved, but once she gets sight (or smell) of some enticing prey, there is almost no stopping her. I shout at her, and jerk her back to the sidewalk. I don’t want to lose her. If she breaks away, I could never catch her. She can outrun a greyhound, and has. She settles down and we continue serenely (until the next bird or hidden squirrel.)
The light today is special. We approach a knot of slender trees (I never know names) and I notice their glossy surfaces. Next to these lovelies is another, thicker one, with a rumpled veneer. Their beauty manifests as simply “that which is”, no fanfare, no display—just the way they are (but I have never noticed these particular trees before.) I am almost in mystical awareness—everything is lovely.
Suddenly I realize that I have left my little fanny pack, with my money and credit card, back in the car. We are now halfway round the lake. Should I hurry back? I shrug, decide it is probably safe, and we continue our leisurely stroll.
As we pass the concession stand, I realize that a dog is standing ahead of us, tied to a bench while his “owner” makes a purchase. I wonder if there will be trouble, so I walk Nora up and away from the bench. Then I see the other dog is wagging its tail, and in fact is involved in scratching its belly with one leg while it balances on the other three. No problem here.
On the final lap, I see more brilliant greens, more ducks to attract Nora’s notice, and pass the hooded mystery lady and the “traveler” once again. On the side a tall plant drips with clusters of bell-like purple blossoms. Are they bluebells?
We reach the car. My red pack is safe, there in full view on the front seat.
We stop at the grocery store on our way back. I am thinking how efficiently I am locating all the items on my list, when I realize I can’t remember locking the car. Will Nora be safe? They say dogs of this breed fetch a high price, and a city parking lot is more dangerous than the park where we were before.
I pay and check out. I hurry to the car.
Nora is in the back seat, taking a nap. She doesn’t even look up as the helper and I load the groceries into the trunk.
We head home, both reassured that there is joy to be had in the world around us.
But there is another which is also one of my favorites which I call simply “Nice Day” consciousness This is the experience which lacks the intensity of the dramatic kundalini embrace or romantic love or personal crisis. It is like the bread which sustains us between deserts, the pleasant encounter with a neighbor or friend which we depend on to give shape and continuity to our daily lives. It is ordinary experience at its most familiar and best expression.
It leads us into a kind of “I’m o.k., you’re o.k.” state (once a popular notion). It tells us life is good, even when calmness abides. It assures us we don’t have to keep on suffering or worrying about whatever it was that has been bothering us, that it is all right to let go and know that things will, in fact, work out—both for us and the world.
Here is such an experience from yesterday morning:
In the Park
As soon as I stepped outside, I knew that something was different. Instead of the frequent fog and mist of the Sunset District in San Francisco, there was bright blue sky, well defined fleece-like clouds, warm sun. A rare day, I thought, not to be wasted.
Nora and I arrived at the lake about eleven. Some say Nora is four, others think she is two. Nora is black and white, a pure bred border collie (well, perhaps with just a tad of husky). She attracts lots of notice wherever she goes, partly from her glistening coat, partly because her eyes don’t match (one is blue, one dark.) She, of course, immediately begins to tug on her leash, excited by the smells and sights around her.
The first thing I notice as we step up the small incline to the sidewalk which circles the lake is the grass. It has rained slightly last night, the grass has a special glow. Its green is fresh, like spring, though it is now October. “Ah,” I think, “something like what Walt Whitman must have had in mind when he wrote his famous poem.” (“Leaves of Grass.”)
We start our obligatory circumambulation around the water. The air smells like eucalyptus, strong enough that even I can notice it. It is reassuring, like the scent of a healing herb in an acupuncturist’s office.
I like coming here. First of all, you are never unaccompanied for you are always in clear sight of someone or other. There are no dangerous bushes or shrubs to conceal hidden assailants. I have learned that in the city, you must always be vigilant, aware of your surroundings and the people nearby. I have also learned it is extremely dangerous to “space out” when you are walking the city streets. Your purse could be quickly snatched, or a car whizzing around a corner could harm or annihilate you. In others words, mystical consciousness is dangerous.
This is Stowe Lake in Golden Gate Park. The light and the crisp fall air remind me somehow of my visit to Walden Pond, which I finally got to see just one year ago. Walden is a little bigger. I was there in autumn, and indeed the gods had scattered their golden coins along the paths to Thoreau’s little abode. The place where Thoreau had built his cabin was clearly marked. Indeed, it was tiny—no wonder he had no room for visitors.
Stowe Lake (or is it Stow?)is not in the wilderness, but when one dwells in an urban environment one has to make do. It is about one mile around, just right for Nora and me. It has lovely trees and greenery, and many flowers. In the spring the calla lilies bloom in abundance on the little island which sits in its center. The lake is irregular in shape, so you never see all of it at once (as you do at Walden.) But it is nature, `and reminds us of whence we come.
Indeed, the lake itself has a long and fascinating history—I have seen pictures of boaters from the nineteenth century, the women wearing dresses with leg o’ mutton sleeves and the men clad in dark suits and boater hats. Now you can rent motor boats, or else paddle boats that you propel with your feet. But today, no one is on the lake. Everyone is conscientiously progressing along the sidewalk (the group moving along in different directions), but there aren’t that many of us here either.
As usual today’s other strollers are a mix. Many are elderly. Ancient Chinese fathers are accompanied by dutiful daughters, aging Russian matrons with large bosoms plod stoically ahead with their faded husbands. I hear other languages spoken as well: Spanish, French—almost every part of the world is represented here. Some I don’t even recognize. I fit in well with the group, for I am also an elder. I walk faster than some (particularly those on canes), not as fast as others.
There are also a few runners dashing past. This is a good place to run—absolutely flat, not too much foot traffic to slow you down, lots of easy parking nearby. Occasionally a mother wheels her infant past in a baby stroller. There is even a fellow with a backpack and a scraggly beard who looks like he has been on the road awhile, but he appears harmless (in the city, you learn to check out every stranger who looks a bit unusual, especially if you yourself are somewhat vulnerable and can’t run very fast).
There is also a thin woman who seems to be in hiding—she wears a dark jacket with a hood draped down over her forehead as well as dark glasses. I wonder if she is some celebrity who doesn’t want to be recognized (but reflect that her weird garb simply draws attention and curiosity.) Again, perhaps she is too sensitive to the sun and has to take care when she is outdoors.
There are ducks and seagulls screaming and circling on the lake, and occasionally Nora makes a dash for them. I have to hold tight to her leash, hoping that she won’t pull my shoulder out (the one I have worn a hot pad on for the past two days.) Generally, she is a well behaved, but once she gets sight (or smell) of some enticing prey, there is almost no stopping her. I shout at her, and jerk her back to the sidewalk. I don’t want to lose her. If she breaks away, I could never catch her. She can outrun a greyhound, and has. She settles down and we continue serenely (until the next bird or hidden squirrel.)
The light today is special. We approach a knot of slender trees (I never know names) and I notice their glossy surfaces. Next to these lovelies is another, thicker one, with a rumpled veneer. Their beauty manifests as simply “that which is”, no fanfare, no display—just the way they are (but I have never noticed these particular trees before.) I am almost in mystical awareness—everything is lovely.
Suddenly I realize that I have left my little fanny pack, with my money and credit card, back in the car. We are now halfway round the lake. Should I hurry back? I shrug, decide it is probably safe, and we continue our leisurely stroll.
As we pass the concession stand, I realize that a dog is standing ahead of us, tied to a bench while his “owner” makes a purchase. I wonder if there will be trouble, so I walk Nora up and away from the bench. Then I see the other dog is wagging its tail, and in fact is involved in scratching its belly with one leg while it balances on the other three. No problem here.
On the final lap, I see more brilliant greens, more ducks to attract Nora’s notice, and pass the hooded mystery lady and the “traveler” once again. On the side a tall plant drips with clusters of bell-like purple blossoms. Are they bluebells?
We reach the car. My red pack is safe, there in full view on the front seat.
We stop at the grocery store on our way back. I am thinking how efficiently I am locating all the items on my list, when I realize I can’t remember locking the car. Will Nora be safe? They say dogs of this breed fetch a high price, and a city parking lot is more dangerous than the park where we were before.
I pay and check out. I hurry to the car.
Nora is in the back seat, taking a nap. She doesn’t even look up as the helper and I load the groceries into the trunk.
We head home, both reassured that there is joy to be had in the world around us.
