There is a big idea is Sufism known as Nafs. Resistance to practice is entwined there. Nafs, in brief, are self-destruction. More gently put, they are the aspects of self that undermine core soul hungers of Self. They can show up as fear, doubt, or lack of self respect. Read more
Posts tagged ‘Skin of Glass’
Shadows on a slab of wood. Shine on metal. There is a dream within those details. I sit still, look at the space, at the walls, the coats on the door, the vases on a high shelf, the row of blue-and-white dish towels hanging by the sink, the glasses case on the sage green sofa, the aluminum-colored computer, the lacy Victorian tea cup, books tucked in a row with their slender stripes of colors and letters promising a world. Read more
“There is a sickness worse than the risk of death and that’s forgetting what should never be forgotten…” –Mary Oliver
I am working with a new chanting. New to me. Otherwise, old as time. Its not important that anyone know what the word is. It’s a Sufi chant. Sufi chanting is called zhikr — remembrance.
My new chant surprises me because the part that is meaning — its literal translation — doesn’t touch the fullness of the experience. This chant must be right for me since, as I do it, I cross a threshold into the place I never want to forget, a place where I feel completely human yet safe and real. Most ordinary days, human-ness is a long string of vigilance and fear. I’m familiar with all that, inured to it. I seek the place where, like my time as an infant, I was held by my mother or father and they were vigilant for me. I was safe in their arms. They watched out for the wolf and bear, the snake and illness. Those killers. ‘Being held’ is a sweet flavor of giving up into the Moment. Yet the Moment requires surrender, letting yourself be held.
On the surface, the Moment could be any sort of temperature or condition; it could be painful, or it could be luscious. That, however, is just its surface. There is the inside of the Moment. The inside of the Moment is far more than being held and carried. It has a secret wisdom. (Not so secret if you get there but untouchable to most who stand on the outside of the glass window in life.) The importance of spiritual seeking is to find and touch, every day and in as many moments as possible, the inside of the Moment — not forgetting what should never be forgotten.
The inside of the Moment is a lamp in the dark, a vista that is boundless, is newness, is inspired existence, is non-separateness, is freedom, is spaciousness. It is soft like rabbit fur, and a perfect embrace. It is communion, knowing, contentment, and the end of bottomless want. It is the end of fear.
In an earlier post I wrote about coming home from retreat and, with all that new juice, getting involved in lots of projects and using the energy lavishly though often unwisely. I remember those words as I return to NYC with recharged batteries, as if the New Mexico sun had charged my soul. I am aware that all the cleansing breaths I’ve taken on the mesa have been healing. The light has been healing. And my cells feel wonderful. Alive!
Back in NYC I focus on business. I sit in front of my computer and type away. I’m on the phone. I email. I organize Dancemeditation sessions and ‘run the store’. But as I do, I feel what I am doing. Inside my apartment, I inhale EMFs. As I walk along the street, I inhale heavy metals. With every breath comes poison.
NYC is a stimulant — caffeine or speed. It’s a great jolt, useful in creative tasks and for un-spooling complex ideas. The mesa is nourishment. Direct inspiration. I make the two sound very black and white. Who wouldn’t prefer the mesa? But the mesa has its rigors. Its austerity is a large part of its ability to heal, and that must be gotten used to. New York is materially cushy. Lots of water. Lots of electricity. Anything you could possibly want — for a price.
The power of NYC for me has always been its raw energy. If I can transform it with my practice I have a dynamic resource, but I have to transform it, not get lost in it, or follow its whims and tides which easily chew up a soul.
I feel almost as if I need to get all my business work done quickly before I lose my juice. But then I realize that the healing that took place on the mesa is changing how I am working. I breathe as I type. I tend toward balance. I don’t teeter on an edge. I am all here, and being all here is far less crazy, less volatile, less self- destructive than past ways I’ve lived in NYC.
I stopped in at Grace Church on 10th and Broadway to listen to the noon organ concert. That was a nice break. The cool colored light. The smell of wooden pews and leather prayer books. Timelessness, to breathe and be bathed in music.
Ric and I drove around to the Bill Pyles’–Volunteer Fire Chief– house in tiny Romeroville to purchase a second 1600 gallon cistern. (We already had one lurking near the barn.) It was too big too strap to our truck so Jamie hauled it the following evening once again through mud. He is good at mud driving.
According to Bill, who knows the formula, our capacious roof should be able to collect 800 gallons of water from one inch of rain or ten inches of snow melt. Terrific! My goal has been to get the catchment in place before the winter snow in the hope of harvesting enough snow melt and rain to provide for the coming needs of earth floor construction and possibly a portion of summer retreat next year.
Ric and Jamie had two hours to get a large PVC pipe, mounted below the gutter for the gutter to drain into, as well as the fittings onto the cistern before the sun set. They worked steadily as the light dropped lower and lower.
The final day on the barn is a day of finishing—edges & trims. All the doors and windows have been framed and installed except the slide doors, which lie in position on the ground at the south end, ready to be hung.
I walk around, inspecting, asking final questions about the bottom edge of the west wall which doesn’t touch the ground. Steve nods. “See it touches on the east side. The ground slopes ever-so-slightly which is why that side has a gap,” he explains. The barn is level and squared. I’ll have to seal around those edges before winter. I continue to inspect and see nothing to complain about. The barn is clean and sharp and wonderful.
They grind out their cigarette butts, heave up the first slide door, working it onto its track. Then the second. Jauny shoves them together. Thunk! He gestures to the door, like the circus lion tamer, “Fits snug as a glove!” And it does. The barn is done.
They will go now and I feel both sad and relieved. It’s been a consuming five days; I can use a digestion period. We shake hands. I give them the second half of the payment, a small tip each, a box of Chocolate Chip Oatmeal cookies for the ride home, and to Junay for his birthday, a set of antelope antlers I found on a hike. I wave them off and stand in stunned silence. Has this really happened, this thing that six weeks ago was phone calls and internet digging? Did I really find Wilson Pole Barn Company, research them, vet them, put in an order, transfer money from one account to another, send in the first half payment, fly out to the mesa and find the site, locate a jackhammer and a hauling tractor? Me, a dancer, who knows nothing of all this? Yes. I did. I cry as I imagine myself managing to do this, choosing it, learning it, and moving forward instead of thinking I can’t, or getting stuck, or saying that I’ll do it later.
It is a beautiful barn. A perfect barn. I feel such affection for the wonderful crew (Wilson Pole Barn specialists out of Wagoner, OK) who hammered in every nail by hand.
The barn looks like a barn. Tim makes the frames for doors and windows. All the wood is there. I love how you can’t see the barn until you are almost upon it, yet it has that lovely and inspiring view of Hermit’s Peak. Yay ravens!
This is for me the first major endeavor where the ideas and actions remain. As a dancer, all my work disappears—a performance that I prepare three months for is over in twenty minutes. The same with dances that I choreograph on others. My memoir was better. It lingers as do videos, but both of these are projects that are consumed rather quickly by others and which once I’ve completed them, I rarely look into afterward. The barn however is there. I will be going in and out. I see it again and again as I walk the winding dusty track between the pinions. I think back to the moment when the ravens revealed that spot and think how in just a few days, the Wilson crew is evolving the insubstantial into substantial. Not six months, or a year or two years. No. It is happening before my eyes. Like a pre-digital photographs in a dark room. The edges sharpening, the form filling, timbers, metal sheets coalescing into a barn!
A seed that has found ground and does not blow away…
I watch them continue steadily on. Very zen-like without any zen to their self-concept. Tim leans intently over the saw horses to trim a piece of 2X4 for a window frame. Every frame he has made fits perfectly. He didn’t finish high school. Never saw the need. None of the three have much use for college—didn’t go themselves and can’t see how it would have made much difference to their lives. If their kids want to go, they shrug, its up to them. On day #4, I hear more detail about their lives and opinions as they chug down orange soda (Tim), 7-Up (Juany), and Coke (Steve).
Steve has been married twice. He is wise. He has gentle sotto voce advice for impetuous young Juany, who, at 29 , knows it all: is so decisive, his wife spends all his money!, she wants him to make more money but she wants him home. Juany wants to get home soon cause he loves his little girl who misses him, she wants her daddy. Yes, he loves his wife BUT… And there is always the “I love my wife, but,” in every break-time effusion. Steve listens, off-hand, dropping a bit of succinct, calm advice here and there which is mostly ignored.
A dramatic day. I watched in awe for an hour as the guys erected the rafters. First, the pre-fabbed trusses were laid on the ground inside the barn parameters below where each would be hoisted aloft. Tim climbed up to one south-most corner, and Steve to the other corner. They perched 12 feet up, like gargoyles, chatting while Juany tromped below getting things ready. He threw one end of a rope up to Steve and attached the other end to the first truss lying on the ground. Steve hauled the truss as far up as he could, then Juany lifted as Steve continued to pull until his end was up and leaning on a top brace. Then Juany to the other side where Tim hauled up. Now the truss hung upside down, its ‘v’ pointing to the ground with its wide edges at the top corner of each wall. Juany then nailed a 2×4 to the tip of the truss pitch and, on a teamwork “Go”, swung the point upward to vertical, bracing it from the ground while Steve and Tim nailed their sides in. There was a bit of nailing to do along the face of this truss and some pitch boards to secure it. Steve and Tim, relaxed, poised acrobats, danced and balanced beautifully on those top beams. Juany had the grunt work below as they continued in sequence down the line until they had all ten trusses up.
I was totally enthralled. Smooth, experienced, elegant. they worked quietly, just the sound of hammers striking the wood. No nailguns, no power drills. I felt their energy going into the nails, into the boards, into the large, sturdy poles. This is a human barn made by men who are seasoned artists. Now I understand Steve’s impeccable posture. In perfect balance, he trots around on the roof beams, sure-footed as a high rope walker.
By the end of the afternoon, the barn’s bones were there. I can now see the entire skeleton and have only to fuss in my dreams over where the doors and windows should be placed.
I couldn’t focus on anything else much today. Excited, I ran back and forth from cabin to barn site, called or emailed a bit here and there. A dream is coming true.
I drive into Las Vegas to get their payment sorted, ready for when the barn is done in case it is done by Sunday when my bank isn’t open. I hate to go in. The sun is out but I know the road is not yet dry. And sure enough it is still horrible. I have to go off-road in a couple of spots, nearly getting lost on Trigg land and leave telltale tracks in the grass. But I finally get off the mesa, dash into town, to the bank and post office, and back up the mesa, fearful of the clouds blowing up fast over the land. I make it back. The crew has finished digging the holes and now set the poles, standing them upright, filling around the base of each. They are deep in the ground.
I brought them some Trader Joe oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. Juany returned my container later. “We et ‘em all up!”
At sunset I stand on the road and look into the site. All the poles are set, standing vertically now, every ten feet. They ring the full footprint, like Stonehenge. Like a temple. I feel a surge of joy. I walk into the site. The 2X6 lumber that will form the wall supports lie along the ground delineating where the walls will be. Jackhammer, sawhorses, shovels, hammers, saws litter the enclosed space. Despite this, I see the dance space; it is a beautiful dimension. I can see that the shed will be perfect for a sleeping room on the SW corner and a summer kitchen with a long wooden table toward the NW for people to eat and prepare meals, or just sit and talk. I see where the slide doors will open in the back, and which tree I will prune a bit so it grows into a shade tree like the one on Rocky’s land beside what used to be the stone schoolhouse form the Depression era. I turn and look and pace around in the golden late afternoon light. A home for my work.
Heavy fog. I can’t see anything outside my ring of trees. Dripping wet. Quiet. The clock ticks. The wood stove ticks as it cools after I burn the paper trash. Outside is the piquant scent of juniper and pinion. I curl up in my pink chair and sip my tea, getting ready to watch the crew, though I wonder if they will make it up the wretchedly muddy road. I decide I’ll finally set up the 60 gallon blue rain barrel under the downspout from my top cabin roof. Can’t let the rain escape.
The guys made it up thew mucky road in their 2-wheel drive truck! I’m impressed. They are digging with the auger then jackhammering the limestone in the fog. Inspired by their labor I feel industrious. I make a platform for the blue barrel, get it positioned and, right on cue, the heavens open up with a gushing downpour. Such an orchestra of sounds—thunder booming down the canyon, and once the storm leaves me, the rain pummeling the land fifty miles away. At the end, that barrel is full—60 gallons in a half hour.
Then I slog up, my boots twice their size with heavy clay mud, to see how the crew is doing. They took shelter during the rain but are out again, digging, jackhammering. By the end of the day they have half the poles in.
Late night. So still. The canyon has captured the fog in its stony arms. I remember chatting with Steve, the foreman. He’s my height, lithe, with beautiful posture, terrible teeth, and a twinkle in his eye. He is soft-spoken. He emanates kindness. I like standing beside him, saying little, gazing at the barn site, happy with it, happy with the fog, the day, the men, the project, with my life. I tell Steve about the ravens choosing the site. He nods, but who knows what he thinks.