Image shows a paved narrow road, with trees and bushes on either side, and a bit of blue sky in the upper center.
It hasn’t escaped me these past few days.
Walking through the beautiful neighbourhoods near where I live. Old majestic homes, windy roads, and sculpted gardens.
Stopping to pet dogs. Chatting with neighbours. Sitting at my kitchen table reading and taking notes, or enjoying a meal I’ve just created. Holding a warming cup of tea or coffee in the mug the little boy across the way gave me for Christmas. ************************************************** The way a woman wearing an old coat a few sizes to big, and smelling of smoke, clutched it closer, as if it were a small comfort.
The thing that first I noticed about the couple walking through the store was that they were holding hands. You don’t see that all that often anymore, at least I haven’t noticed it. They looked to be in their late 60s/early 70s. And then I saw how grey they were. Their clothes rumpled and faded. Their shoes looked sooty. And their faces. Simultaneously blank, and yet so full. It was as thought they had suddenly materialized in the store, and weren’t sure how they got there.
I started to walk up to them, to say or offer something…. but they pulled closer together, and clasped their hands tighter.
It was then I knew. That there was nothing in the store for them in that moment. That more than anything, they wished they were just two people shopping. That they would go home, wandering through their beautiful neighbourhood, pet a familiar dog, and sit at their kitchen table to enjoy a meal they had just created.
Black and white photo on the left shows a woman wearing overalls sitting on a horse in front of a house. Sepia toned photo on the right shows a man sitting down sorting apples in baskets. This is Mrs. and Farmer Bethke- two people from my childhood. (The picture of Mrs. is long before I knew her.) Thanks to my brother, Ed, for finding these images!)
You never know when you will receive an invitation to a doorway into meditation
I don’t know if it was because I was riding a stationary bicycle, but when someone I was talking with the other day said they grew up on a farm, I was immediately transported. Perhaps because riding a bike was so integral to my growing up years.
There I was, barefoot, toes wiggling in the velvety soft dust of the lane between the corn and hayfields. The cornstalks were rustling in the lazy summer breeze- a drier, more rattling sound than when they were green in Spring. I could smell the sun-warmed hay, freshly baled from the second cutting of the season. Bees buzzing in the chamomile under the apple trees. It made the remaining minutes of my training warm up delightful.
I also thought of the Bethkes- owners of the corn and hay fields, as well as the roadside market down at the bottom of the hill where I grew up. We always called Mrs. Mrs. Bethke, and I remember calling the mister Farmer Bethke, but never Mr..
So many memories of being sent down with 50 cents clutched in my hand, tightly, so I wouldn’t drop it in the tall grass of the orchard, to buy a dozen ears of sweet corn for supper. Sitting on the back steps shucking that same corn.
Sometimes a cow or two would escape from the farm, and wander up the hill and into our yard. Memories too, of Spring smelling of apple blossoms, and the manure spread on the field. Summer sounding like the arrival of mourning doves and mosquitoes. In Autumn, raking leaves, burning them, and sometimes roasting marshmallows. Winter- skating on the pond, and sliding down the hill on an old tractor inner tube, or cardboard refrigerator boxes until the year Santa brought us all flying saucers.
Mrs. Bethkey always wore overalls and a blouse, like in the picture, with a bandana covering her hair, and when it was chilly, a blue and grey plaid shirt (it might be in the photo behind Farmer Bethke!)
I don’t remember much about Farmer Bethke, other than the time he chased and yelled at us for playing on the hay bales stacked up in the field. (They made such a good fort and castle!) Looking back as an adult, I’m sure it was a combination of safety and that playing on the bales would… erm… unbale them a bit.
Their sons were stock car drivers, and we could often hear them revving their cars before an upcoming race.
This is the beauty of Instinctive Meditation® practice. Any small noticing, any memory, can be an invitation to explore our inner world, and reset. I’m so grateful that I’ve become attuned to seeing these invitations, and adding them to my repertoire. The past several days, since this conversation, these memories have been my doorway into meditation.
The farm is long gone, although the house and a couple outbuildings remain. Part of the farm is now a small park. The dusty lane is paved, and suburban houses have taken over the fields. The pond where we skated, and the lone oak on the hill that holds so many secrets still exist, but that’s another story, for another time.
Image shows books, beaded artwork, a painting and a metal singing bowl scattered on a table.
It can sometimes be more of a challenge for me to write on an assigned or chosen topic rather than answer the call the Universe is sending. So what do I do? While getting ready to write this article, I laid in my bed, meditating. Imagining my hands on the cover of my journal. Thinking of all I’ve learned in my training: “What do I love?” “In what quality of life do I want to be immersed?”
Then the neighbour’s illegal chickens started singing their egg laying song. Some people deal with monkey mind; I’ve got chickens. So creative! And I started to laugh.
There are so many parallels between creativity and meditation. Setting up sacred time and place. Distractions. Blocks. Daydreaming. Attuning to our senses, instincts, and intuitions. Finding beauty in the mundane. Thoughts coming faster than the conscious mind can process them.
And what do I do when I feel blocked, or stuck, or having a case of the I-don’t-wannas? I simply start. Doodling in a notebook….. words or lines, it doesn’t matter. Get up and move. Go somewhere less urban and welcome the mountain vista into my heart. I feel myself drop into a meditative state, or a spark of inspiration makes itself known, and I begin to create.
Creative practice and meditation are ways of being in the world where we can gain a deeper connection to Self. Creating and meditating both ask us to be open to what is desired or needed in the moment.
Creativity is bound to our instinct to make meaning. It’s about giving your imagination permission to see, feel, and explore, without judgement or expecting an outcome. A way to express one’s inner world in the outer world. It’s putting things together (this can be objects, concepts, routes, movement and more!) in ways unique to my being. How I am in the moment will be reflected. If there are constraints or requirements, that will challenge me to be innovative in my approach.
In creating for the enjoyment of the process and discovery, something wonderful might be revealed that hadn’t thought of before. Much like Instinctive Meditation®, we welcome all our parts, everything that shows up in a creation session.
Creative practice has been shown to improve memory, expand our ways of thinking and problem solving, and encourage flexibility in our approach to life, both personally and professionally. So can meditation!
Meditating is also a creative act. We can sit and chant a few words that hold meaning for us, walk in the woods and listen to trees, watch the waves and get into the rhythm of the ocean, read a passage of a book and pause to allow the words to wash over our soul.
Meditation is an instinct that gives the brainbody an opportunity to rest, restore, repair, and rehearse in our daily life. To come to a place of relaxed awareness. To become attuned to life’s rhythms. To open our curiosity.
When we allow the meditation or creative session to flow, ideas, feelings and sensations arise that might not have if we were determined to do things in a certain way- the same way- every time.
Through Instinctive Meditation®, I’ve come to appreciate more the rhythm of creativity. It’s increased my capacity to see the world around me, and to touch the deep levels within.
We are organic beings living in a linear world many societies have created. Output, production, and tangible evidence that we’ve done something with our time has become more valued that enjoying creating for its own sake. Creativity and meditation are states of being, rather than states of doing. Let your mind show you the adventure of the moment.
I’ve been savouring this first stanza of Sutra 85, from “The Radiance Sutras” by Lorin Roche, PhD.
In trying something new, or even a fresh day, one can open one’s Self up to so much if an encounter, exploration, or a routine you’ve done a thousand time, is approached without layering expectations over the experience. I learn so much when I engage with something as if it is for the first time. Some of my best work has come when I haven’t been quite certain of what I am doing, and have the willingness to follow where events are leading me.
Here is the sutra in its entirety: Toss aside your map of the world, All your beliefs and constructs. Dare the wild unknow.
Here in this terrifying freedom, Naked before the universe, Commune with the One Who knows everything from the inside: Invisible power pervading everywhere Divine presence permeating everything.
Image shows handwritten words on lined notebook paper: Art as revelation of self. Breath as an art material, Breath cycles as life & death. Visual mantra practice.
As so often happens, I was looking for something completely different when I came across an old notebook. I think it was from an expressive arts conference I’d attended years ago.
I turned the page and this phrase was glowing off the page : Breath as an art material. Everything stopped as those words carried me away on a mind journey.
The way breath gives voice to poetry and stories. The collective inhale of a concert band before playing the first note. Blowing on a dandelion and sending off little white skirts as gifts to sky faeries. Shaping molten glass, or inflating two slabs of clay into a pillow. A deep grounding inhale and exhale before stepping onto stage and dancing. The play of rhythm between lovers.
How breath informs our senses. The sense of smell in cooking. More subtly reaching our instincts, sniffing out adventure, or danger, or a potential mate. Communicating emotions when words don’t suffice.
I began to wonder about using breath in other ways in art, such as using a straw to blow watered down paint on a surface.
What would it be like to receive a breath, and use the energy of releasing it through a paintbrush, in movement, or in whatever other way one might imagine? How does how you vary your breath affect the quality of lines, colours, textures, or gestures? What would the flow of creative practice be like while intentionally incorporating breath as one of the art materials?
I invite you to set some time for your favourite creative practice, and intentionally incorporate breath into your process. I’d love to hear what your experience is!
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