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Of Nostalgia(top)
August Turak
A few years ago, I organized an on-campus reunion for my prep school graduating
class. The final event of the weekend was a party at the boathouse that
borders the school's huge fresh water lake. The reunion was a success,
the feelings at the boathouse ran high and were warm and genuine, but
as most of us were leaving early the next morning, we also knew we wouldn't
be seeing each other again. Sensing this, and basking in the glow of fond
memories, we lingered into the wee hours. But eventually people started
to leave.
As my old classmates left in twos or threes I followed, playing host and
trying to prolong the moment. Upon parting I would stand and watch until
the thick fog the lake had produced finally engulfed them 100 yards or
so away. As I watched them gradually fade away they invariably turned
once or twice and waved another goodbye.
And even when they had finally disappeared more than one shouted yet again
from the fog. At such a late hour and from such a distance and far above,
these final disembodied and unintelligible shouts and laughter from the
heart of a cloud echoed, re-echoed and reverberated until they seemed
to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The effect was magical,
beautiful, haunting--even eerie--and the slight chill I felt couldn't
completely be discounted by simply calling to mind that even in July a
foggy night in Connecticut could still be considered cold by southern
standards.
After the third or fourth such episode I didn't rejoin the revelry among
our rapidly thinning ranks but went off by myself to take stock. For one
instant time had stood still and past and present coming together had
been infused with perfection. But the clock had struck twelve, and answering
the call as they must, each spirit had been permitted one last cloud-shrouded
farewell before they melted into the mists from whence they had come.
It was so beautiful. So perfect. And so inexpressibly sad. It was nostalgia.
All of philosophy originates in the three great questions. Who am I? Where
did I come from? Where am I going? In spiritual literature "who am I?"
and "where are we going?" get a lot of press. But where as individuals
we come from is not as well treated. Nostalgia may provide a hint.
My Zen teacher, Richard Rose, called nostalgia "the window to the soul."
Nostalgia is the longing we feel for permanence and perfection in an imperfect
and impermanent world. Like my friends, nostalgia seems to call to us
from a mist, and we usually attribute it to memorable circumstances that
seem to embody those very feelings of timeless perfection. Yet, inevitably
our nostalgic reveries are full of sadness--even mourning. Sadness both
because the events our memories recall so tenderly are gone forever, but
also because we know they weren't at all perfect in the first place.
But while we know full well that these past moments were never as pure
as we remember them, we still can't resist the spell of nostalgia. We
objectify a special Christmas or birthday, and we long with all our hearts
to be in that moment forever. And the very futility of it all envelops
us with a sense of loss and mourning that seems to engulf our very being.
Yet we linger in the sweet sadness. We even conjure nostalgia again and
again for its unusual mixture of timelessness, beauty, longing, mourning
and loss. So what is nostalgia trying to convey?
I don't think nostalgia is related to our personal past here on earth.
Nostalgia, at root, is the long repressed and forgotten knowledge of who
and what we were before we came into this world and plunged into the frantic
activity involved in what we call individuality. As the nursery rhyme
puts it:
"Where did you come from baby dear?"
"Out of everywhere into here."
In our need to become a unique "somebody" we had to leave the everywhere
and enter into the here. Our nostalgic longings are the closest approximations
we have to express that essence of what we were before we landed here.
We clothe our nostalgia with things we can think about--regardless of
how pale a reflection they truly are.
Recently I was talking to a psychologist who gave me a glimpse of the
ephemeral "before." A couple he was counseling was disturbed by their
four year old daughter's insistent desire to be left alone in the nursery
with their infant son. "Why not let her do it?" the psychologist suggested.
"You can listen in from the next room and if anything seems suspicious
you can quickly intervene."
The first thing they heard was a rattling sound and it was obvious that
their little girl was climbing into the crib with the baby. After a few
seconds they heard her clearly say: "Tell me about God, I'm starting to
forget."
Nostalgia is not really about any actual moment in our lives. Instead
it is the intuitions from deeply buried memories each of us has for the
perfection we all enjoyed before "Adam's Fall"; before our banishment
from Paradise; before, like the Prodigal Son, we left our Home without
a thought for what we were leaving behind. One of the monks at Mepkin
Abbey, Father Christian, said recently in a sermon: "Call it what you
will. And it doesn't matter whether you believe in original sin or not.
But what is certain is that all of us know that deep down inside somehow
something got twisted." Our collective religions and mythologies are full
of stories pointing out this simple fact. And nostalgia suggests to each
of us that our real home is waiting for us just as we left it, if we could
just remember who we really are and how to go back
Nostalgia tells us that it was not always this way, that there is a way
back; this is one of the pillars upon which spiritual seeking is built.
It is a faith in possibility. A faith that, as spiritual amnesiacs, we
can have our memories restored and that in so doing we can reclaim our
birthright. There is an old Zen saying that religions are but fingers
pointing at the moon, and that the seeker must be careful not to mistake
the finger for the moon. Nostalgia is like that. It is a finger pointing
to the moon of who we really are.
Rising Rivers(top)
Molly Hemstreet
One of my favorite days of the month is when the new National Geographic
comes in the mail. It is not so much the articles that spur my interest,
but the pictures that I pour over again and gain. I am captivated by their
colors and angles that feature the creatures and plants of the world,
and fascinated by the etched faces of the people that populate this incredible
place we call home.
I picked up the September 1997 issue with a feature piece on the Yangtze
River and the current Chinese venture to dam the upper portion. This is
no easy task. Besides building the massive structure, there is also the
problem of relocating the hundreds of thousands of people who call the
upper banks of the river their home. One telling picture is of a young
man, clad in a threadbare gray suit, shouldering the burden of a large
piece of wooden furniture on his back. He must move, for the waters will
soon begin to rise and take with them his land and home.
I found myself projecting to the time when the dam is complete, the people
have moved, and left is only the strong sound of silence. Then my mind
wandered to the fact that not all of the people will leave; inevitably,
some will stay. They will either too old, too sick, or too wise.
A vision of a small, bearded, rather jolly old man came to mind. His body
would be old, wrinkled, and bent, yet his eyes and spirit would cry of
an unquenchable fire. He would watch the people of his town carry their
burdens, give them a wink, and send them on their way. They would go and
he would stay--stay for the day when the silence would come, and the waters
would start to rise.
It would probably be rather slow at first. He would begin to notice the
etchings of the deep canyons losing their sharp lines. Then the animals,
the subject of his poems and paintings, would creep nervously up the mountainside
towards his home. Moonlit nights would glint more and more off the increasing
water, and mountain tops he had walked in his youth would slowly become
islands. And the water would rise.
Yet he would not flee. He would relish the days. His old cracked feet
would savor even more the cool mud of the footpaths, he would listen even
more intently to the crickets' song, and he would spend more time with
the clouds and less time with his worry.
And the waters would rise and cover him, not in agony, or fear, but in
joy and peace. "Hmmm," I thought. It is not so different with me. With
each passing day the waters rise. Some days it seems that I am hurrying
with my load of worries down the footpath before me to escape the rise
of the river; at other times, it seems that I am looking back at the old
man with the fiery eyes and asking him to help me unharness my load.
And then my thoughts and visions shifted to the monastery that I visited
this summer. A cool August morning, early vigils, 4 am. A dimly lit chapel.
The Sisters sit in silent contemplation against the wall in front of me.
I concentrate on an icon of the Madonna and Child. And then I look at
Sister Claire, who sits quietly with her head against the wall, a faint
yet distinctive smile on her face.
And the waters will rise and cover her, not in agony, or fear, but in
joy and peace. May it be with us all.
Understanding Dreams(top)
Robert Weathers
Meditation is one of the first ideas I ran into when I started digging
around and reading books in an attempt to find some deeper meaning in
life. There is a lot of literature about going into that "inner silence.''
We are advised to be "Still". And there is plenty about inward "observation''
and "watching'' being the keys to understanding ourselves.
If you are like me, you tried these meditations, but couldn't stand it
for long. If there is such a thing a mental fidgeting, I experienced it.
Usually I'd sit down to meditate and experience a general unrest in both
body and mind. Parts of me seemed to oppose the "quieting" down, the "observation,"
and the "silence" that I'd read about in spiritual books.
This summer I gave up on the mediation for a while. I started reading
some Carl Jung and began recording my dreams to see if I could experience
what Jung was talking about. I remember getting to work a half-hour late
one morning after filling up three pages of dreams. I realized that my
understanding of dreams had completely changed. They used to be silly
minuets, incidental to my "real'' life.
But the night before, I’d had a dream about an alien invasion of Earth
(they looked like the guys in Mars Attacks). I couldn't find my brother
and thought he was dead. I also had realized I would be next and began
to bawl uncontrollably because of my inevitable death. My reaction in
the dream was a total surprise. The fact that I seemed more in touch with
something so emotionally powerful while asleep than awake was shocking.
I had a new view on my dreams: there was a wealth of life in these things.
What I'd always assumed was just crap about the unconscious being the
ocean and the conscious mind being an iceberg--maybe there was something
to it. After all, do we really know what moves us?
As the summer progressed, my friends and I dug through our dreams, and
I read some more Jung. For weeks, if I sat meditatively, it was only to
quietly mull over my dreams and their imagery. I went back over childhood
and things my parents and friends had said to me. How had I been affected?
More importantly, I began to notice the forces that appeared in my dreams
were also there in waking life. I got into the habit of disappearing for
hours at a time to go "sit." My friends thought this was pretty funny.
"Rob's gone to the Unconscious again," they would say.
One day I found a quiet spot in Perkins Library and just sat there. I
felt bugged. I was trying to concentrate on something, but there was this
feeling that I should be looking somewhere else. It was almost a visceral
agitation. I tried to ignore it like I always do, but I couldn't. I gave
up and asked, "What?" Then it hit me. I never ask "What?" That's why we
all have weird dreams; something in us is churning and screaming to be
heard and we never ask "What?'' Even if we do, we expect an answer in
a millisecond. That's why I could never meditate. I had repeatedly read
how important it was to be still and observe, but I had my own idea of
what being "still" was, and what "observing" was. Like everyone, my preconceptions
are massive. If I sat down to meditate and something "else" popped into
my head, I censored it the way any good conscious mind would. But I was
never truly observing. And I was never really still. I finally understood
the value of writing down my dreams as a method of making the unconscious
conscious. It's not to add yet another dimension to this endless phantasmagoric
picture-show we call life. Rather, paying attention to our dreams is paying
attention to parts of ourselves we have neglected. Normally, when we're
bugged, we turn on the TV. Or the radio. Or we stuff potato chips in our
mouth. We stimulate ourselves. But we need to stop and ask "What?" And
listen. Then real answers will begin to form and we start to see things
more clearly. And with this patience we can find the root of what's bugging
us--and find that resolution preferable to 50 bags of potato chips. Turn
your attention inward and see what's there. And if you can't do that,
ask "why can't I turn inward?" and listen.
Sometime in July, I tried one of those old, "be still and observe" meditations,
and was surprised to have one of the best meditations of my life. Thought
dribbled to almost a standstill; I felt free and alive, but also on the
verge of something else--some great mystery that would blow me away. Once
I felt so happy I laughed out loud like a madman, at the absurdity of
life.
Next time you're "bugged," don't turn on the radio and drone yourself
out. Instead, tune into what's bugging you. Listen.
Here are few pointers to get you started:
1. Start writing down your dreams, now. Don't wait for a "good one" or
something "significant" before you bother to write them down. Write down
something each morning, even if you write only a sentence or two.
2. Don't use those books that tell you what the "dream symbols" mean,
as if they mean the same thing for everyone. Part of understanding your
dreams is discovering what you associate with the images in your dreams.
3. Watch for the ways in which the forces you see in your dream life influence
your waking life.
4. Take some time each day to get away from all the noise; turn your attention
inward, and just listen
Recommended reading on dreams:
Inner Work. Robert Johnson. Harper, 1986
Jung on Active Imagination. ed. Joan Chodorow. Princeton Press, 1997
Meditation. Richard Rose. Pyramid Press, 1981
A Spider for Basho(top)
Rachel Medlock
On a random Tuesday morning last spring, I bought a book of Basho's haikus
for $1.00. It was one of those little palm-sized paperbacks that fits
perfectly in the back pocket of old jeans. By the time I had walked from
the bookstore to my class, I had read all sixty of the haikus. My personal
favorite:
How I long to see
among dawn flowers
the face of God.
My film teacher, visiting professor Mani Kaul, adores Basho. He's always
telling us that our films should be like Basho's haikus: compact, quick,
and concrete. But of course, this is easier said than done.
Mani told us the story of one of Basho's apprentices, whom Basho constantly
criticized because all of his poems were "too abstract." "One thought,
one idea!" Basho chastised. Several days later, the apprentice returned
and eagerly handed the master the following haiku:
I am from Kyoto
I want to return--
My stomach hurts.
Basho read it and laughed. "That's the worst poem I've ever read!" he
exclaimed. "It's much too simple, and not nearly abstract enough." I can
almost hear the apprentice stammering, "But...but, you said...but I thought
it was supposed to be concrete!" And Basho would say, "Yes, but not that
concrete."
I can empathize with the apprentice. In Mani's class, my performance has
been much the same. Like Basho's student, I attempt to use my master's
tools to capture an emotion emanating from the pit of my stomach, but
the expression is always hopelessly inadequate. "What is the point in
showing everything?" Mani asks us again and again. "Suppress what you
want to say, so that what you want to say is actually said."
Increasingly, I see that total expression can only be achieved in utter
silence. Picture this: you stand with your closest friend--the person
who knows your thoughts before you do--under a huge orange harvest moon
in early autumn. The sky is perfectly clear, the air is balmy without
being muggy, the crickets are chirping one last night before winter drives
them off. You make eye-contact with your friend. Do you say anything?
Of course not. You both already understand everything, and there is no
need for words. But not every moment is this flawless. Occasionally the
need to speak does indeed arise. Language, however, is a dangerous enigma.
It is simultaneously too large and too constrained to use with efficiency.
Basho understood this. He realized that, barring silence, the best way
to communicate an idea to another mind is to express it as precisely as
possible. Thus he mastered the haiku.
I saw the most amazing thing a few weeks ago as I drove to Chapel Hill.
A spider, the size of the pad of my thumb, was clinging to my side-view
mirror as I rode down the freeway at seventy miles per hour. I was sure
it would fly off at any moment to die a nasty highway death, but somehow
it hung on, wedged in the mirror's crevice. It shook violently in the
wind, anchored, literally, by only a thread. I tried to imagine myself
that size, stuck to a side-view mirror, holding on for dear life. How
horrifying--and how much respect I suddenly had for that little spider.
I can't really explain myself, other than this:
Silence in the car
outside, spider clings to air--
this, too, is my life.
Avila
Retreat 1999(top)
Avila
Retreat '00
Date: March 3-5, 2000
Place: Avila Retreat Center (20 miles north of Durham, NC)
Click here
for more Avila Retreat Information.
Other Upcoming SKS Avila Dates
July 14,15,16 for 2000 (small group meditation weekend)
October 13,14,15 2000
November 2,3,4 2001
"At the Avila retreat I found myself profoundly moved by the depth of
respect manifested by the leaders and the members of the group for diverse
paths of spiritual seeking in a context of genuine caring and support
for each person. I left with a renewed sense of hope that the emerging
world of the future may be directed by leaders who not only are highly
qualified in terms of technical knowledge, but also are compassionate
and wise." --Dr. William Richards, Psychotherapist
"I have never experienced a vacation or any other retreat where I have
left and felt so completely relaxed and yet also energized. It is a wonderful
group of individuals. I am honored to be a member of your advisory board."
--Steve Grubbs, Executive Vice-President, BBD&O New York
"I don't have to explain everything that happened this weekend to all
of you who were there. I think that we all now know, and this definitely
rings true of myself, exactly the kind of power that this community holds.
You should all have not doubt that this is very much a community and how
vital that is to your spiritual growth." --Jim Ray, UNC '01
"He who learns, and makes no use of his learning, is a beast of burden
with a load of books. Does the ass comprehend whether he carries on his
back a library or a bundle of sticks?" --Saadi
"I entered
the weekend feeling a little uneasy. I kept thinking 'man Andy, what are
you doing here?' But, I decided to give it everything I had, 110 percent,
and not worry about what I was doing there. It was wonderful. I got a lot
off of my chest. My emotions, previously bottled up inside me, poured out
in my writing and talking with others. I met a lot of really interesting
people with incredible values...I think what was the best about Avila was
getting to know myself better...I came away smiling about my writing ability
which I thought I never had. It's wonderful not to have constraints, and
to just be able to write. Another important thing I realized while at Avila
was that one does not have to take a negative approach to spiritual learning.
It can be positive and mesh with my "other" lifestyle. That was an important
thing I realized. The realization came when I was running on the second
day and was admiring the beauty of nature. You can't seize it forever, so
don't worry about it, just learn to admire it. I was floating when I came
back to real life. It was really weird. I was filled with joy, and everything
looked different to me. I've gradually lost that feeling over the past two
weeks. Need to get it back. Finally, would like to thank Bart Marshall,
for everything. He is truly my inspiration." --Andy Baldwin, Duke '99, Navy
ROTC
"The SKS is not merely a selfish endeavor for introspection; it is a means
by which to build character so that you will be strong enough to be weak
enough to open your heart to what you really are and to what other people
really are." --Sarah Barden, Duke '02
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