Hour of My Secrets
Inner Bomb Squad
Inner gaze. A friend asked what it was like, during the time of my surgeries, to close my eyes and look inside. I replied that a bomb had gone off in the house. I looked in and saw destruction and chaos. I saw my inner bomb squad. They told me to get out, they had a lot of work to do. So I withdrew. For two years. Now, I have been allowed to go back in.
During practice yesterday, I ‘saw’ my hips for the first time. My being/body sufficiently mended, I could trust my willful mind to not push or interfere or critique. The inner door opened. I knew a connection. It was not really ‘seeing’ them, not visualizing. Nor was it sensory as I didn’t feel where they were or how they felt…But I connected. So different from the previous months which reminded me of taking my father to the hospital geriatric psychiatric unit after his stroke. For both our sakes, the staff did not want family to see him for week while they changed his medications and tried to manage his chaotic condition. They wanted to spare us the wrenching pain of our helplessness. For him, he would be confused and gripped by a terrible need to escape the loss of his mind, his autonomy, his methodical, understood world. That has been my body’s opinion of my mind’s role for the past two years. My mind would have looked in, day after day, month after month, seen the mess, suffered it, fussed and tried to fix it all up with potions and therapeutic techniques and mantras. My body told my mind, “Let us be. Go away and do other things.”
Yesterday, as I lay with my knees bent, lower legs on the couch, the door opened. I gazed in. I went in. All was quiet. Orderly. The construction crew had finished, cleaned up, and left. I wandered down dim corridors in shadows and faint lights. Flashes of automatic movement impulse, so rare in my hips, nudged. I couldn’t perceive the implants. The hips were unequal. The left hip—the first to be replaced—loomed large while the right was small and slender, its healing still by lagging two months. The left hip has its scar tissue, the remnants of surgical maneuvers that can never be deft and subtle enough to leave a body as fluid and smooth as her native construction. The right hip is close behind, yet its presence is more delicate. It is simply newer and younger—a sapling. A steel sapling. This entire perception spanned a short minute at the end of my practice, however I woke today after an intervening evening of eating, talking, Netflix, and sleep with the memory from practice intact.
The Hour of My Secrets
Again and again and again, the profundity and substantiality of practice stuns me, even more so in the widening embrace of many years. I’m not sure about the word ‘practice’—a word too dry and doltish and plodding to be entrusted with such an experience unless, possibly, one is trying to hide something valuable. Then it is good word. Well, for the moment ‘practice’ it is. Practice contains the most extraordinary relationship in my life. Subtle communion. The truest, most humbling intimacy. Whisperings from me to me that are inaudible until I step into my moving, breathing sanctuary. Whisperings from behind my back, beneath my radar, and beyond my ken. Inside of me, energies weave through continual openings and closings of submicroscopic, infinitesimally sheer valves that are barely differentiated in construction and density from the energies they direct. Ice and water, water and mist, dissolving and coalescing.
How does the inner landscape open? I move, reach in…and somehow arrive at a junction where my incessance suspends. I am a duck asleep, one eye open, one closed, one brain stopped, while the other other brain awakens and watches. Ordinary mind, ordinary world is gone. The skirt of Infinity brushes a swirling hem through me. What do I see? Oh, infinite things and nothing. An inner firmament which is both inner and outer sky and everything in-between. Yesterday I saw… something like bioluminescent creatures rolling into glowing globules as dark waves curled again and again on a night beach. This is the place I visit during the time on my mat in the temple of music and motion. Practice–the hour of secrets. The hour of my secrets.
My work and writing are sponsored by Dervish Society of America (DSA), a nonprofit 501-C3 organization dedicated to the Path of embodied mysticism. DSA provides opportunities for personal development, exploratory inquiry into embodied spirituality, and community connection through practice, service, and performance. DONATIONS are tax-deductible.