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Posts Tagged ‘Claire Thompson’

O My servants! Be as resigned and submissive as the earth, that from the soil of your being there may blossom the fragrant, the holy and multicolored hyacinths of My knowledge.

(Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh  No. CLII)

My wife and I were sitting reading on the upper deck as the sun slowly sank towards the horizon. The sea was calm. There was a low band of cloud floating just at the bottom of the sky-line. It didn’t look as though we’d get the spectacular fire-forge of a sunset we’d been hoping for. Still, it was pleasant to sit, stroked by a relatively gentle wind, before a sky far wider than we usually enjoyed.

I took out my copy of Mindfulness and the Natural World by Claire Thompson. I had decided to use one of her meditations (page 124) to help me tune in more to nature.

‘Write a list of five things in nature that you noticed that day and feel grateful for.’ I started to work on my list, glancing at the sinking sun as I scoured my memory.

There was the fig tree in the square in Cadiz, at least I think it was a fig tree. The fruit hanging from its branches might have been just a tad too large to be a fig, but I wrote that down anyway.

Then there was the old tree in the coastal garden there. We’d been hurrying back to the boat at that point so I didn’t really have time to savour fully the complexity of its system of branches, but the impact it made even so had stuck in my mind.

I was beginning to struggle at this point. Clearly my campaign to connect with nature was getting off to a bad start here.

As I gazed at the slowly reddening sun, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a woman with an expensive camera leaning over the rail and staring at the water.

The melons I had eaten in my fruit salad came to mind for some reason. I wrote it down. That concoction was going to be a regular feature of my on-board diet, though I didn’t know that yet. Gratitude would shift into boredom.

Then I remembered the flocks of seagulls swooping down towards the waves as we pulled out of Cádiz.

As I worked on remembering another item to make my list of five, and tried to summon up a feeling of gratitude for the experiences I had remembered, the lady with the camera approached.

‘Hallo,’ she said, in a clearly Spanish accent.

‘Hi,’ I responded. ‘Glad you came up to speak to us. I was wondering what you were hoping to catch in your camera.’

‘Whales or dolphins.’

‘Ah, that explains your badge,’ I said, catching on slightly late to something I had noticed earlier even at a distance. I could read it clearly now. ‘Orca. What does that mean exactly?’

She gave me her opt-in card.

‘We’re giving a talk tomorrow. Would you like to come? It’s at 10 o’clock in the theatre.’

‘We will do. By the way it’s a bit of a coincidence that I was trying to tune into nature better when you showed up.’

I showed her the page I was working on and what the meditation was about.

She expressed polite interest before moving on to the next deck chair.

Later, at her talk, we learned, amongst other things, that the Orca, though it is known as the killer whale, is really a dolphin because it has teeth, which whales do not. There are 29 species of the whale/dolphin family in the Mediterranean. The tongue of the largest whale is large enough for an African elephant to stand on and its heart is the size of a VW car, apparently. The Orca is more modestly sized as a bus. The sperm whale can hold its breath for two hours. I’m not sure this factual approach was helping me in my efforts to tune in to the natural world.

After she walked away, I remembered the pigeons cooling off in the fountain just off the Plaza de España in Cádiz. I was kicking myself for not having taken a photograph.

I had a half-hearted attempt to meditate with gratitude on the five things in nature I’d recently noticed, before picking up the book to read some more, glancing at the setting sun as I did so, but failing to wonder why I hadn’t used that in my list instead of the melons.

Unfortunately I bumped up against one of my bêtes noirs almost as soon as I started reading (page 33

Like our bodies and our senses, our minds came from nature and were shaped by living in the natural world.

It is amazing to me how deep-seated and taken for granted this reductionist view of the mind is, spawned within the default materialism in which our minds swim. A materialistic model of the mind leaves us only with the Earth as a self-transcendent source of meaning and a motivator to lift our sights higher and behave more morally. This is the problem I have discussed before in reaction to Rifkin’s prescription for a change that would save our civilisation. Rifkin clearly feels our connection with the earth is the best hope we’ve got (page 350):

Although the origins of man’s capacity for empathy was a mystery to Schopenhauer, the teleology was clear. By feeling another’s plight as if it were our own and by extending a hand to comfort and support them in their struggle to persevere and prosper, we recognise the unifying thread that connects each of us to the other and all of life on earth.

As I expanded on in that post, my sense is that, sadly, nature alone will not be enough to lift us above our tendencies to self-destruction.

Of course, I also accept that some forms of ‘religion’ have led to the opposite problem, an exploitative contempt for nature and recognize that we need to integrate both religion and nature constructively if we are to survive.

Thompson’s reductionist assumptions continued (page 49):

To live in the realms of our minds and to cling to the idea of a constant separate ‘I’ experiencing our entire lives lies at the heart of most of our unhappiness.

It is true that our idea of who we are can cause unhappiness, but it does not prove that believing there is no self at all will make us happy. She is conflating mind with its contents. She is not considering the possible nature of pure consciousness, another issue I have dealt with at length elsewhere in a discussion of Sam Harris’ position in the light of his meditative practice. The part of it that is relevant to recall here, because of Thompson’s attachment to Buddhism, is this:

To explore this further with some hope of clarity I need to go back to something Harris says: ‘The implied centre of cognition and emotion simply falls away, and it is obvious that consciousness is never truly confined by what it knows.’

He may have disposed of the self in a way that preserves his atheism intact. What he skates over are the implications of the consciousness with which he is left. I can see that we are close to Buddhist ideas of the annihilation of the self as it merges back into the ground of being – blending its drop into the ocean once more.

But there’s a catch, isn’t there? There is still some kind of consciousness albeit without the usual boundaries. There is still an awareness with which he is connected and whose experience he remembers even if he cannot sustain that kind of awareness for long.

I put the book down again and picked up that day’s Sudoku puzzle, something the cruise printed off every morning for all passengers to battle with between watching the waves, the sunset or the dancing lessons in the Atrium (that term is an interesting remnant of the Roman civilisation which made it difficult to shake of the amphitheatre associations I described last time).

Instead of focusing on the numbers, I found my mind drifting back to another book I’d read before setting off on this trip, one that dealt with nature, this time in the context of poetry, and hadn’t pressed my anti-scientism button to quite the same extent, but enough to explain why my mind now drifted off in that direction.

Before setting foot on any deck, I had completed my reading of Jonathan Bate’s The Song of the Earth. Its rich and intriguing exploration of the relationship between poetry and nature was reshaping my understanding of both nature and poetry. I took it with me onboard ship along with his biography of John Clare, a sensation in his time as a peasant poet, an English equivalent of Robert Burns. The lifelong theme of his poetry was nature. His almost obsessional life’s work was a vast collection of poems rooted in his passionately intense and minute observations of the natural world.

I had naively thought that the cruise would bring me closer to the sea in a way that would deepen my relationship with nature. I had underestimated how hard the glittering carapace of the cruise ship would make connecting with the sea it sailed on, and how the instrumental architecture of the docks we landed at would virtually delete from sight the land we disembarked on. Cranes and containers, warehouses and duty free shops, competed for my attention instead.

Even driving through the countryside near Livorno, on the way to Pisa, had its ironic contrasts: on the right flourished green glades of umbrella pines opposite the war machine of an American army base.

Even so the conclusions Bate had reached in The Song of the Earth were still rattling round my head.

An important insight towards the end of the book comes from a poet whose complete works I recently took to the local Oxfam shop as not worth keeping. Bate writes (page 238):

Murray implies that the vastness and untamability of Australia mean that the peculiar power and sacredness of that land may still be sensed. He christens this religious sense ‘Strine Shinto.’ His own poetry – though tempered with wryness, irony and self-deprecation – undertakes a complex integration of the ancient idea that nature is the book in which a transcendent God writes his presence with a kind of secular Shinto which serves as the ground for an environmental ethic.

The insight, combining as it does the sacred and poetic with the natural, resonated strongly with me. I have written before of how repellant I find our exploitative relationship with the earth, a point that Bate touches on (page 244):

Advanced Western culture has a distinctive and perhaps exceptionally divisive understanding of humankind’s relationship to nature, an understanding which may for convenience be traced back to Baconian empirical science and Cartesian philosophical dualism, and which was further developed in Kantian idealism.

He pushed me to confront an issue that I hadn’t really thought much about before (page 251):

If ‘world’ is, as Ricoeur has it, a panoply of possible experiences and imaginings projected through the infinite potentiality of writing, then our world, our home, is not earth but language. . . . There is a special kind of writing, called poetry, which has the peculiar power to speak ‘earth’. Poetry is the song of the earth.

I’m not sure I agree with his point about where our home is, but I was eager to explore the idea of poetry as the ‘song of the earth.’

The sun was almost set now. Time to go back to our room and listen to the news before attempting to go to sleep, in my case with the usually reliable sedative of a good book.

As we took the lift down through the eight levels to Deck 5 after our conversation about whales and dolphins, I remembered the point in the mindfulness book that had linked with Thompson’s reductionism and Bate’s use of the example of one poet who has always intrigued me, though also frustrated my full understanding of what he is attempting to say (page 263):

In a letter of 13 November 1925 to his Polish translator, Rilke explained his purpose in his master work, the Duino Elegies. He considered these meditations as responses to the transience of all earthly things. In the face of transience, the poet must undertake the work of transformation. . . The language of unification and transformation, the yoking of earth and consciousness, the divinisation of the immanent world as against a withdrawal to a transcendent realm: these are all the moves which Wordsworth made in ‘Tintern Abbey’.

The phrase ‘as against a withdrawal to a transcendent realm’ struck a warning bell to which I will return later in this sequence – shades of reductionism again perhaps?

For now the key point is the haunting truth that (page 281):

The poetic articulates both presence and absence, it is both the imaginary recreation and the trace on the sand which is all that remains of the wind itself. The poetic is ontologically double because it may be thought of as ecological in two senses: it is either (both?) a language (logos) that restores us to our home (oikos) or (and?) a melancholy recognising that our only (oikos) home is language (logos).

It relates to something I was already aware of: transience. A haunting example cut literally across my path in China when I saw a man writing in water on the path of a Shanghai park. I learnt that this was a symbol of transience, of how all things fade eventually as time goes by.

When we got back to our cabin we watched Sky news, our default channel and not my preferred fare, which on this occasion was focused partly on the earthquakes in Indonesia. There had been a second one, slightly weaker than the first but still causing damage and possible loss of life. We promised ourselves we’d check with our steward the following day to make sure his family were all OK. 

Writing with Water in a Shanghai Park – a Buddhist symbol of Evanescence

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[Y]e walk on My earth complacent and self-satisfied, heedless that My earth is weary of you and everything within it shunneth you.

(Bahá’u’lláh Persian Hidden Words No. 20)

There are four main things I have learnt from mindfulness of the natural world: acceptance, patience, impermanence and interconnectedness.

(Mindfulness and the Natural World by Claire Thompson – page 109)

An Overview

When I was floating on the Mediterranean Sea recently, I read Richard Fortey’s words in his ‘intimate history’ of the earth (page 33): ‘ The floor of the Mediterranean Sea is a collage of tectonic plates. Ultimately, that sea is doomed to obliteration when the main body of Africa ploughs into the European mainland in thirty million years or so.’

My peaceful experience of floating on the barely rippling surface of this ultimately doomed stretch of water served to reinforce, by its gigantic contrast, his later observation about humanity’s predicament as a whole (page 192): ‘Mankind is no more than a parasitic tick gorging himself on temporary plenty while the seas are low and the climate comparatively clement. The present arrangement of land and sea will change, and with it our brief supremacy.’

In a way this captures the whole ambivalent nature of my cruise experience.

I was travelling in a microcosm of our larger world, a mobile self-contained community culture in itself – a massive technological marvel, more like a floating city centre than a boat. As the more than three thousand of us moved across the planet fed, entertained and watered in our apparently innocent pleasures by a crew of more than one thousand, floods killed in Kerala and earthquakes in Indonesia, hurricanes threatened Hawaii and there was talk of impeachment in America. We were not quite emperors fiddling while Rome burned, but certainly we could not unfairly be described as the privileged many indulging ourselves while the Arctic icepack melted in unexpected places.

In a very real sense this was a mind-broadening journey on many levels and across many different kinds of territory. There was the literal journey, which had its peak experience moments, such as the one in the Amphitheatre in Cartegana.

There was the arc of travel via the visual arts, of which our encounter with Goya via Dali in the ship’s Gallery was the best example. These images from the tensions and tragedies of the Spanish past brought us face to face with the ongoing trauma of the Rohingya and the refugees from Syria, forcing us to see that we are still replaying the same heart-rending situations as were enacted in Europe in the 19thand 20thcenturies.

There was my journey to somewhere closer to the centre of the earth via my reading, something already hinted at in my references to Fortey’s book, but which was deeply enriched by my exploration of the poet John Clare’s life, courtesy of Jonathan Bate’s biography, which I read as a kind of sequel to his equally enthralling Song of the Earth.

The ship too had something to offer in that respect with a talk about and a brief glimpse of dolphins, along with, of course, some spectacular sunsets. Watching the wake of the ship one day I also came to realize with what stunning accuracy Hokusai had captured the behavior of deeply disturbed foam. Art and nature are often not very far apart.

I’ll come back to all these later.

Getting used to it

Adapting to the cruise experience was initially quite demanding for this fussy septuagenarian. The cabin was tiny, and the hall of mirrors effect did little to compensate. I never felt like a king of the ‘infinite space’ Hamlet refers to, though the mirrors facing each other created an illusion of infinite regress. I remained very much ‘bounded in a nutshell’ throughout the journey, but that bothered me less as days passed by. In a way it was more like Macbeth than Hamlet, even though I had not ordered anyone to be killed. I was ‘cabined, cribbed, confined’ rather by the doubts that come from possibly contributing to the deaths of others by my life style.

Just as the idea of the ship as a microcosm of our society stuck with me, so was the prison cell aspect of the cabin something I could never quite shake off, partly I think also because the freedom afforded by the decks outside was still constricted, except when we had docked. I was, and am still, very aware that a luxury cruise is about as far from a real prison experience as it’s possible to get, but I am also very aware that if I chafed to this degree over these minor constraints how painful must a real prison be.

This was another way in which the cruise experience deepened my understanding of apparently unrelated things.

Sleep was another unexpected addition to the price tag. I lost quite a lot of sleep as a result of the grumbling engine and other noises at night. As a result I’m now not quite as rested on my return as I had hoped to be, another trigger to deeper insight into how it must feel to be even more sleep deprived in far more testing circumstances, such as the involuntary travel demanded to escape death or persecution.

You may be wondering by now why I ever booked onto a cruise in the first place. I’m shaping up to be the archetypal killjoy and spoilsport. Partly it was in memory of my Aunt Anne, who went on a cruise to ease her grief two years after the relatively early death of her husband. It certainly helped her.

She was someone I felt close to, admired and respected. Somewhere deep down I’ve always had the feeling I should try out the same experience, in spite of my reservations about its being an unnecessary indulgence. So, eventually I bit the bullet with mixed results.

To be completely honest, there was also the need I felt to step off my treadmill of tasks for a short time, and the cruise seemed to offer a good way of doing that.

On the whole though, in spite of these whinges and of the poor quality of the vegetarian food options, I can’t really complain.

We were well looked after, and the ship provided all the customary escapes and distractions we need to keep our trance of materialism deep enough to persuade us we are happy. My disappointment is my fault. How would I realistically expect a holiday cruise to bring me closer to nature in a rapid well-encapsulated sea journey and enrich my understanding of other cultures in a series of one-day exposures on land to basically shiny tourist resorts?

The Upside

I am grateful to the cruise company that we were assisted to arrive where we could enjoy at least two enlightening self-conducted explorations, one in Pisa, where I found treasures I’d missed in a 1978 visit, long before the more recent spate of suicides from the Torre Pendente, and one in Cartagena, which I would never have dreamed of visiting had it not been for this cruise.

I now need to spell out in more detail some of the ways that the literal voyage intertwined with other kinds of journey to expand my understanding and awareness.

I can begin to look at the first kind of voyage straightaway.

Cartagena took us completely by surprise. We never expected to find something as breathtaking as these remnants of the Roman amphitheatre that had been so recently uncovered. Built originally in the last decade BC, it had been lost completely to sight after the 13thcentury cathedral was built over the seating area. In 1988 the first remains of the theatre were discovered during the construction of the Centro regional de artesanía. The archaeological excavations and the restorations were completed in 2003. In 2008 a museum, designed by Rafael Moneo, was opened.

My response was complex.

The size of the intact span of the seating area was stunning. We stepped from the relative darkness of the museum, rich in background tamed by display cabinets, into the full glare of the Amphitheatre’s arc at the level of the very top of the seating.

I gasped.

As we explored the magnificent ruin, in all its damaged glory and pride, my admiration and pleasure began to mingle with a sense of sic transit gloria mundi. As this leached more deeply into my experience of the sunlit stonework, I couldn’t help but apply the same warning to the cruiseship I was travelling on, especially as many places in this part of Spain, not just Cartagena, have a complex history involving fallen civilisations still detectable not just in Roman, but also in Byzantine and Moorish traces. The ship was tempting us all to remain trapped in a glittering simulation of reality, in the same way as the Roman people were placated by that Empire’s bread and circuses. In terms of its purpose, and setting aside gladiators and the perhaps exaggerated connection between Christians and lions, the Amphitheatre was just the Roman equivalent of the Cruise and of all the other trance-inducing trappings of our materialistic civilisation. Its ruins, a symbol of the typical fate of all civilisations no matter how apparently invulnerable, were making it impossible for me to evade the real nature of the journey I had embarked on. 

Why should our cruise and all it stood for be an exception? Why should I not be at risk of the shock of similar losses? After all, the kind and helpful steward who took care of our cabin would soon be distressed about the disappearance of his cousin in the wake of the second earthquake in Indonesia. That was a reminder quite close to home.

Other insights triggered by the cruise will have to wait until next time.

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Rossiter Books (for source of image see link)

Rossiter Books (for source of image see link)

When I had almost finished drafting the sequence of posts I planned to start publishing today, I realised that it was missing the true significance of what I was writing about. I thought I could finish re-writing it in time, but it needs far more thought so I’m having to delay it by weeks rather than days. In order to focus on the re-write, I’m having to re-publish posts that relate to it either directly or indirectly. This first sequence is about my struggles with practising mindfulness: this is the seventh and final post.

The post on interconnectedness included a declaration of intent – I was going to seek a deeper understanding of the concept both by reading and by the practice of mindfulness, amongst other things. I began my first practice some months ago and have posted the occasional progress update on this blog.

Given my recent ruminations on the power of tears, a watery subject if ever there was one, it seems timely to bring everyone up-to-date with my most recent insight into the meditative process. It is not one that will light up your sky but I think it is intriguinig.

One night recently I had a dream which could move my understanding forwards significantly. This was how I noted it in my Dream Diary – and yes, I really am keeping a dream diary again. It started after I began my mindfulness meditation but I’m not as systematic as I was in the old days. Any dreams – and I have loads of them still – about losing my bag on the way to a meeting, spilling luggage from my suitcase all over the pavement as I head for the airport or walking to the podium and suddenly realising I’ve lost my notes, don’t get recorded.

Dream.

I am discussing my mindfulness practice with a group of people. I am trying to describe my problem with simply being aware of being aware. The image leaps to mind. It’s like I’m on a deck chair with the sea behind me. As a wave sweeps past me I am already carried away by it before I know it’s coming and that’s how my thoughts affect me too.

Day Residue

Been searching for a way to capture my experience. This is almost perfect. I need to learn how to let the waves of thought and feeling wash over me. The image is stunningly close to my experience. As I think about this issue I feel moved almost to tears. I’d probably say it’s more like sitting up to my chest in the sea facing land. When a tall wave of thought washes over me I am immersed until it passes and I have not yet learnt how to remain conscious in the mindful sense when the water of thought is above my ears. Now at least I know exactly what the challenge is experientially: maybe I can meditate more effectively as a result.

A few days later, I was in Ross-on-Wye. We’d just been for a walk by the river and had climbed the steps up to the high street. My wife popped into a shop at the top and I said I’d be in the book shop further down, so no hurry. I walked the few extra yards to Rossiters.

Mindfulness Nature

I browsed for a while until I discovered a whole series of books on mindfulness from the Leaping Hare Press. They covered all sorts of topics: Einstein & the Art of Mindful Cycling, Mindfulness at Work, Happiness and How it Happens, Mindfulness for Black Dogs and Blue Days , Mindfulness and the Natural World, and Seeking Silence in a Noisy World. What an excruciatingly delicious dilemma! They were all beautifully designed and printed. With the exception of cycling and work I could’ve bought the lot. Eventually, after much dithering I settled on Mindfulness & the Natural World, a very good choice as it turned out.

Every book on meditation and mindfulness I have bought so far talks about some variation of the mind as sky or a train line and thoughts as clouds or trains. These metaphors have been worse than useless for me as my earlier descriptions testify (see link above). This book is the very first which holds a description I can really relate to. Claire Thompson writes (page 40-41):

An image I find helpful to illustrate the practice of mindfulness of our thoughts and feelings is to imagine swimming in an ocean. The waves are your thoughts and emotions and they will take you where they please. Now imagine you are on a surfboard, riding the waves and enjoying the ride as waves come and go. You can even watch the waves go by.

Mindfulness is your surfboard. Your thoughts and emotions are all transitory. If we notice this, they no longer need to dictate our behaviour. . . . . Of course, riding a surfboard takes a lot of practice, and so does mindfulness. We all fall off the surfboard occasionally. But that’s fine. We can just hop right back on.

This was quite an uncanny correspondence, given how closely in time I found the book after I had had the dream.

Whether all this recent watery imagery of tears and waves is anything to do with my being a Pisces, I doubt. I think, if anything, it relates to my highly kinaesthetic take on the world of imagination and memory. Why there are so few books on meditation with so little awarenesss of this dimension of processing when it comes to thoughts, I’m not sure.

There is, of course, the endemic emphasis on following the breath and body scanning, which is fine, but these are seen as ways of anchoring the mind so it does not get carried away by currents of thought. When it comes to descriptions of disengaging from our thoughts and feelings, they’re stuck on how you simply ‘watch’ your thoughts as, like ‘clouds,’ they float across the ‘sky’ of your mind.

‘Get real!’ I’ve growled to myself a thousand times.

Well, at last I’ve found a description that works for me.

‘Really!’ I hear you mutter. ‘That is weird.’

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Rossiter Books (for source of image see link)

Rossiter Books (for source of image see link)

The post on interconnectedness included a declaration of intent – I was going to seek a deeper understanding of the concept both by reading and by the practice of mindfulness, amongst other things. I began my first practice some months ago and have posted the occasional progress update on this blog.

Given my recent ruminations on the power of tears, a watery subject if ever there was one, it seems timely to bring everyone up-to-date with my most recent insight into the meditative process. It is not one that will light up your sky but I think it is intriguinig.

One night recently I had a dream which could move my understanding forwards significantly. This was how I noted it in my Dream Diary – and yes, I really am keeping a dream diary again. It started after I began my mindfulness meditation but I’m not as systematic as I was in the old days. Any dreams – and I have loads of them still – about losing my bag on the way to a meeting, spilling luggage from my suitcase all over the pavement as I head for the airport or walking to the podium and suddenly realising I’ve lost my notes, don’t get recorded.

Dream.

I am discussing my mindfulness practice with a group of people. I am trying to describe my problem with simply being aware of being aware. The image leaps to mind. It’s like I’m on a deck chair with the sea behind me. As a wave sweeps past me I am already carried away by it before I know it’s coming and that’s how my thoughts affect me too.

Day Residue

Been searching for a way to capture my experience. This is almost perfect. I need to learn how to let the waves of thought and feeling wash over me. The image is stunningly close to my experience. As I think about this issue I feel moved almost to tears. I’d probably say it’s more like sitting up to my chest in the sea facing land. When a tall wave of thought washes over me I am immersed until it passes and I have not yet learnt how to remain conscious in the mindful sense when the water of thought is above my ears. Now at least I know exactly what the challenge is experientially: maybe I can meditate more effectively as a result.

A few days later, I was in Ross-on-Wye. We’d just been for a walk by the river and had climbed the steps up to the high street. My wife popped into a shop at the top and I said I’d be in the book shop further down, so no hurry. I walked the few extra yards to Rossiters.

Mindfulness Nature

I browsed for a while until I discovered a whole series of books on mindfulness from the Leaping Hare Press. They covered all sorts of topics: Einstein & the Art of Mindful Cycling, Mindfulness at Work, Happiness and How it Happens, Mindfulness for Black Dogs and Blue Days , Mindfulness and the Natural World, and Seeking Silence in a Noisy World. What an excruciatingly delicious dilemma! They were all beautifully designed and printed. With the exception of cycling and work I could’ve bought the lot. Eventually, after much dithering I settled on Mindfulness & the Natural World, a very good choice as it turned out.

Every book on meditation and mindfulness I have bought so far talks about some variation of the mind as sky or a train line and thoughts as clouds or trains. These metaphors have been worse than useless for me as my earlier descriptions testify (see link above). This book is the very first which holds a description I can really relate to. Claire Thompson writes (page 40-41):

An image I find helpful to illustrate the practice of mindfulness of our thoughts and feelings is to imagine swimming in an ocean. The waves are your thoughts and emotions and they will take you where they please. Now imagine you are on a surfboard, riding the waves and enjoying the ride as waves come and go. You can even watch the waves go by.

Mindfulness is your surfboard. Your thoughts and emotions are all transitory. If we notice this, they no longer need to dictate our behaviour. . . . . Of course, riding a surfboard takes a lot of practice, and so does mindfulness. We all fall off the surfboard occasionally. But that’s fine. We can just hop right back on.

This was quite an uncanny correspondence, given how closely in time I found the book after I had had the dream.

Whether all this recent watery imagery of tears and waves is anything to do with my being a Pisces, I doubt. I think, if anything, it relates to my highly kinaesthetic take on the world of imagination and memory. Why there are so few books on meditation with so little awarenesss of this dimension of processing when it comes to thoughts, I’m not sure.

There is, of course, the endemic emphasis on following the breath and body scanning, which is fine, but these are seen as ways of anchoring the mind so it does not get carried away by currents of thought. When it comes to descriptions of disengaging from our thoughts and feelings, they’re stuck on how you simply ‘watch’ your thoughts as, like ‘clouds,’ they float across the ‘sky’ of your mind.

‘Get real!’ I’ve growled to myself a thousand times.

Well, at last I’ve found a description that works for me.

‘Really!’ I hear you mutter. ‘That is weird.’

Read Full Post »