Sunday, July 16, 2006
The Up and Down Mystic
In the post from yesterday, I stated that we all follow a cyclic pattern of highs and lows, uppers and downers in our lives. The mystic is no exception to this. Very few of us are firmly established in the higher state at all times. Certainly I am not. Ecstasy is inevitably followed by pain, rapture by some unwelcome physical reaction.
Friday had been a near perfect day. I (once again) felt exquisite bliss flows as I listened to Tibetan chants. I went out into the city, and even then, felt soft waves of pleasure from time to time. I wrote the "Four Love Poems to the Invisible" on the bus coming home. My joy was interrupted at one point when someone started screaming obscenities at the next bus stop. Like most people, I turned away and pretended not to notice. But my inner bliss came to a halt.
But my faith was restored on the next part of the ride. The bus was very crowded, but a woman sitting near me insisted I take her seat. She herself was well into her sixties. She was rather heavy, and as she stood before me hanging onto her strap, she swayed so that I was a bit fearful that she would fall on top of me.
Finally, a seat opened next to me and she sat down. I thanked her again, and mentioned what a pretty jacket she was wearing. She seemed to have some difficulty understanding, and I sensed that she was not an English speaker. Then she answered, obviously very pleased, "Linen. Linen." And it was indeed. We did not try to say anything else to each other, but I felt she was indeed a very good and kind woman.
When she left, she looked at me and said , "Goodbye." I think she also had been cheered by our little exchange.
So I felt good when I got home. That night I watched "Brokeback Mountain," one of the most moving films I have ever seen. Anyone who has ever suffered deep loss, who has known happiness of a special kind and then had it snatched away (whether by society or other circumstances) will resonate with this story. But for me, it was especially significant, since I know what it is to be judged and oppressed by society at large for private experience, and what it means to lose that which you most love. Generally I don't think about these matters, most of which occurred long ago. But now something was coming up like a drowned body rising to the surface of a lake. I was awake much of the night thinking about these issues and indeed was slightly ill next day. And I felt ill again today.
And then suddenly my stomach ache released. I was in fact reflecting on something else and this reflection brought up anger. And I realized (once again) that I had been repressing anger, the anger underlying the grief which the movie had aroused. This is my chronic problem--repressed anger leading to physical symptoms. Maybe this time I'll remember the lesson and "let it go."
I wrote the following poem as a reaction to the movie. For me it was an experience of catharsis, saying how I felt. Perhaps it will also speak to others when past sorrows come back like ghosts demanding recognition once again.
Brokeback Mountain
I keep telling myself
it was only a movie,
but no,
that grief has taken over
my soul,
moved in like a thief
and now inhabits
the whole house,
this house with dark ribbons
on the door.
Old wounds throbbing
once again,
old sorrows weeping
like statues in a burial
ground.
I myself
lost in this fog
of remembrance,
how it was
to be bludgeoned
by sorrow,
how it felt
to be carried out to sea
on that reckless wave,
to be slain
again and again
by the blade invisible
to everyone
but me.
And the abandoned shirt
still hanging
on the closet door.
Dorothy Walters
July 15, 2006
Friday had been a near perfect day. I (once again) felt exquisite bliss flows as I listened to Tibetan chants. I went out into the city, and even then, felt soft waves of pleasure from time to time. I wrote the "Four Love Poems to the Invisible" on the bus coming home. My joy was interrupted at one point when someone started screaming obscenities at the next bus stop. Like most people, I turned away and pretended not to notice. But my inner bliss came to a halt.
But my faith was restored on the next part of the ride. The bus was very crowded, but a woman sitting near me insisted I take her seat. She herself was well into her sixties. She was rather heavy, and as she stood before me hanging onto her strap, she swayed so that I was a bit fearful that she would fall on top of me.
Finally, a seat opened next to me and she sat down. I thanked her again, and mentioned what a pretty jacket she was wearing. She seemed to have some difficulty understanding, and I sensed that she was not an English speaker. Then she answered, obviously very pleased, "Linen. Linen." And it was indeed. We did not try to say anything else to each other, but I felt she was indeed a very good and kind woman.
When she left, she looked at me and said , "Goodbye." I think she also had been cheered by our little exchange.
So I felt good when I got home. That night I watched "Brokeback Mountain," one of the most moving films I have ever seen. Anyone who has ever suffered deep loss, who has known happiness of a special kind and then had it snatched away (whether by society or other circumstances) will resonate with this story. But for me, it was especially significant, since I know what it is to be judged and oppressed by society at large for private experience, and what it means to lose that which you most love. Generally I don't think about these matters, most of which occurred long ago. But now something was coming up like a drowned body rising to the surface of a lake. I was awake much of the night thinking about these issues and indeed was slightly ill next day. And I felt ill again today.
And then suddenly my stomach ache released. I was in fact reflecting on something else and this reflection brought up anger. And I realized (once again) that I had been repressing anger, the anger underlying the grief which the movie had aroused. This is my chronic problem--repressed anger leading to physical symptoms. Maybe this time I'll remember the lesson and "let it go."
I wrote the following poem as a reaction to the movie. For me it was an experience of catharsis, saying how I felt. Perhaps it will also speak to others when past sorrows come back like ghosts demanding recognition once again.
Brokeback Mountain
I keep telling myself
it was only a movie,
but no,
that grief has taken over
my soul,
moved in like a thief
and now inhabits
the whole house,
this house with dark ribbons
on the door.
Old wounds throbbing
once again,
old sorrows weeping
like statues in a burial
ground.
I myself
lost in this fog
of remembrance,
how it was
to be bludgeoned
by sorrow,
how it felt
to be carried out to sea
on that reckless wave,
to be slain
again and again
by the blade invisible
to everyone
but me.
And the abandoned shirt
still hanging
on the closet door.
Dorothy Walters
July 15, 2006
