Standing Stark: The Willingness to Engage
Chapter Six
What Matters
When I was seven years old, my parents and I lived in condemned military housing across the river from Washington D.C. for a short year. The place where we lived later turned into one of the Arlington Cemetery parking lots. My father was attending French language school before we were sent to Paris for nearly five years.
On either side of the boulevard leading to the cemetery were wide strips of green, sparsely furnished with trees. My mother and I used to take walks through this area on our way to the Potomac, Georgetown or any number of places. The squirrels playing in what trees there were fascinated me.
Those bands of land and its inhabitants garnered my attention to such a degree that when given the assignment that year to pen a short story for school, I wrote about it. The Empty Treed Forest formed itself out of the idealism of my very young mind and told the plight of the animals whose homes had been stripped from them. This tale was in the far recesses of my mind until the past year when an event brought it back with an even fuller personal and global meaning.
I was bathing in the rosy afterglow from a retreat completed the day before, puttering around my downtown office, when I was slammed into re-entering everyday reality. I received an excited phone call from a longtime participant of my workshops. She alerted me to the wildly spreading fire barely outside town, one of several that was to hit the Southwest that year with heartbreaking damage.
At the time, I was living in a small cottage awaiting the building of my home. That little abode was located in the mountainous, forested community where the fire started just outside a campground, but about a mile away at the opposite end of the same road. Not quite believing such a thing could be happening, I dashed to my car. I sped the short distance out of town on the highway toward my temporary home, only to be stopped by a roadblock. No one was being let into the area.
That’s when the realization that the event was real kicked in, and I flew back to my office in a panic to call my close friend Marilyn to help me find a way to get to the cottage. We thought we could get through from the other side of the wilderness area on old Forest Service roads. Thankfully, she agreed to drive since I was fast losing what composure I had maintained.
Apparently others had the same idea. We followed several cars, all bumping along as quickly as possible on winding, washboard and potholed roads. We were sheltered from the view of mushrooming smoke filling the sky by the tall pines, but we could certainly smell the destruction. A steady stream of vehicles stuffed with residents, their animal companions and belongings leaving the area in the opposite direction did nothing to steady me.
I had felt very fortunate when a friend let me move into his guesthouse at my decision to build. I’d decided that it was the perfect time to simplify my life. In my mind, I was looking forward to a Thoreau-esque existence for a number of months. The cottage may not have been on Walden Pond, but it was footsteps away from miles upon miles of ponderosa pines, alligator junipers and plentiful rock formations. I delighted in putting most everything I owned in storage to see just how sparsely I could live. It was a trial to see what I really needed. So those minimal aspects of my life that I had already deemed most important were contained in the place where I stayed and awaiting a fate unknown to me.
Uppermost and almost solely in my mind were the three cats who had deigned to live with me for many years. They had come to be so much a part of me and seen me through such a great deal that I didn’t know how I would stand it to lose all three at once. As we raced through the forest, I was already steeling myself against a tragic outcome. But as we got closer, we got the sense that perhaps the fire hadn’t yet advanced into the area we were going. Maybe there was a chance after all.
And, indeed, there was. When we rolled into the driveway and jumped out, we couldn’t see any flames from where we were. We went straight to the task of corralling the cats and getting them into the car. This wasn’t necessarily an easy feat, especially since Mr. Ambrose was still intensely skittish even after thirteen years. While Marilyn went to help my landlord contain a neighbor’s dog for evacuation, I attempted to decide what else was important. I found that not much else was, except my writing notes, photography and altarpieces. But I started throwing clothing into sacks as well.
Returning along the same road, we came to a high point. I turned and looked back to see a ridge of flames leaping into the air and billowing smoke filling the sky. Watching the news after getting to her house, we saw that, blessedly for the residents of the little area where I stayed, the strong winds had chanced to shift in the opposite direction. Those homes were saved, but the forest and another housing area closer to town were not so fortunate. The fire had jumped the highway and quickly ignited all in its path. But we didn’t need to watch the television to see what was happening. We could just stand in the backyard and view much of it, the slurry planes droning back and forth overhead and the flames getting closer. Then a miracle happened. The winds that had been wildly spreading the fire died down. In the next days we had some rain. Not a lot, but enough to slow things down. Within a few days the fire was contained, just blocks from the downtown area.
It was still to be several days before residents were allowed to return to the evacuated areas. That first night as I was settling down to sleep in my new temporary quarters at Marilyn’s home, with the cats plastered to my side, I was extraordinarily grateful that I was not one of those who suffered a personal loss. I also felt soundly blessed that I had such a friend who was willing to rush madly with me into a potentially dangerous situation without any reservations. Everyone should be so fortunate.
But I was also aware that the entire town had shared in a deep soul-searching as to what really matters. Indeed, stories filled the newspaper and conversations for weeks. Handmade signs in shop fronts and driveways were evident proclaiming gratitude to the “Hot Shots” who had risked their lives to help us. That was before people seemed to forget the tragedy and returned to their normal lives.
However, I was left again with a real understanding of how transient everything is, how what we think permanent isn’t, and the ways we attempt to avoid that knowledge. I reflected on the methods we use to try to cover up that truth by patching over it with layers of material goods, supposed entitlements and masked sentiments. This does nothing really other than enliven an underlying angst that we try to control by thrusting away the thoughts that continue to creep up on us. The threat of this real knowledge forces us into a denial that allows a shallow life and continued decimation of our natural resources as well.
The question that my dear friend and co-facilitator Daniel introduced during our recent retreat kept playing in my mind with added meaning. Why do we wait? Why do we wait to be who we really are? Why do we wait to express ourselves nakedly to those for whom we care? Why do we wait to act in a way that says plainly, “I only have this present moment?”
When I first returned to the cottage, the surrounding air contained a shocked silence. There were no human voices, birdsongs or coyote calls. But strangely, there was something pristine in the burnt scent that hung in the atmosphere. In some ways it smelt of renewal to me. If renewal would gain a foothold, then I could somehow forgive the camper whose carelessness turned the wilderness into a moonscape and killed the forest dwellers or turned them out of their homes.
Several months later, when I held my monthly discussion forum, I focused on the subject of intent. I used Emma Cucchi’s story as an example and also included a brief overview of the part that the coca leaf played in the Andes. After the rest of the circle shared some thoughts, we ended with a meditation. A few days later, I received a message from a newcomer to the sessions telling me how she appreciated the experience except for one thing. She said that I had essentially diverged from the subject matter into political grandstanding when I related the current threat to the coca leaf and what may be involved. I was astounded at her reaction and saddened as well.
It’s not enough to say that we’re not actively involved in perpetuating ruin. If we stick our heads in the sand, if we turn away because it’s not “nice” to see, then we are just as guilty as those committing the crime. It’s the cowardice of intentional naiveté and noninvolvement that continues to breed mindless havoc in our global and personal lives, all being essentially one anyway. Part of intent is being aware of what acts against it. It takes an impeccable courage to look everything head-on and see what is. Traveling starkly on the path will allow nothing else. It’s about the activation and preservation of what is truly sacred.
The Essentials
There is something about death that brings things down to the essentials. The time that we thought was forever — isn’t. We get down to the fact that we can’t fool ourselves any longer. Because death had not yet touched me closely in my own life, I sought it out. I wanted to learn from it and, at the same time, be of what service I could with my limited understanding. I volunteered to be with those who were actively making the transition.
My first experience was one I will never forget and has colored the framework I’ve lived within ever since. I have much appreciation for the gift that a person I’ll call Leslie gave me in allowing me to engage with her in the way she did, even though it was all too brief.
I was struck by the animation of her presence and delighted in the brogue in her speech, even through the resignation and tiredness that also surrounded her. She would regale me with stories of her days on the European stage many years prior. Unexpectedly, she would break into song. One time as our visit was ending, she struck a pose and said seductively, “A toute á l’heure!” Then, almost pirouetted her small frame and waved goodbye. Leslie spent much time with me going through photographs of friends where she used to live. It seemed very important to her that I know exactly who she was. She used the photographs to do so.
Then the truth of her condition began to sink into her mind and I saw the animation vacate. What came in its place was deep regret. She shared with me her anguish for a life not openly lived, and claimed she had never truly loved or been loved. One of the most difficult and yet one of the most meaningful things I have ever done was to merely sit and act as a presence — a witness — during the time she came to a kind of acceptance of her unfulfilled needs and unsung dreams. While I felt absolutely helpless at her grieving, there was something that knew more than I did advising me that trying to “make everything nice” and denying her this process would have been a grave error on my part. So, I set aside my own discomfort.
In an amazingly short time, there was a serene humility present more than anything else in her. One visit, I had the strange, overwhelming urge to kneel on the floor in front of her and wash her feet. I followed that internal prompting and asked if she would allow me not to wash them, but to massage them with cream. After some initial embarrassment and protestations on her part, she agreed. As she surrendered to the process, I bowed over her feet and allowed the incredible awe and deep emotion I was undergoing to guide my hands — because in that fragile, humbled personage I experienced the divine presence of Jesus.
Leslie passed within a few days. I’d had to travel out of town just prior and was walking alone under the night sky when I had a sense she’d released her body. I looked up into the mass of stars overhead and saw one that seemed to be twinkling brightly at me. I acknowledged her and then bade her peaceful travels.
It was very early in the morning. I was waiting sleepily in the agreed-upon parking lot for Daniel to pick me up. We were traveling together to attend a seminar, nearly a two-hour drive away. As he arrived and I slid into the seat, I greeted him and asked how he was.
“Not very well. I learned last night that Tim probably only has a short time now,” he said softly.
I saw the grief in his eyes. Tim had been his closest friend for many years, the connection growing since they had met in graduate school. Even though families came along and work often intervened, they still maintained the bond that true friendship holds. A number of years ago, Tim learned he had brain cancer and had endured a number of treatments, remissions and recurrences.
After I determined with Daniel that it was really okay to continue on our way, he began driving southward. We were barely out of town when his breath expelled a barely contained sob, “I just regret that I never told him I love him!”
His despair wrenched at my heart, but I was certain of something that he wasn’t acknowledging. Tim knew. It was not possible to be in Daniel’s presence and not realize that he came from an inner place of lovingkindness. When I first encountered Daniel at a Zikr, a Sufi chanting circle for connecting with the Divine, I noted the energy preceding him into the room that spoke of his essence before I ever noted the person. That’s when I determined I wanted to know him.
“Tim recognizes that you love him. How could he not? Maybe the outward expression of it is for you,” I said.
He looked relieved. For the next couple of hours he told me about his feelings for Tim and his wife Cindy, and stories about all the synchronous ways their lives continued to come together over the years. He finished just about the time we pulled into the place where we would attend the workshop. The seminar turned out to be mediocre at best. My intuition was that the real reason for us to make the trip together had been finished just as we arrived at our planned destination.
A few days later, Daniel telephoned me. He said that Tim was gone and said how much gratitude he had to Cindy that she had willingly shared Tim’s last hours with those who cared for him. She had called Daniel and told him that it was time.
As he recounted his experience in a joyous voice, on the other end of the phone line, tears streamed down my face. I could somehow see the light in his eyes.
“I was able to spend a good time alone with him. I sat with him and told him how I love him. I held his hand. I kissed his head. I sang to him.” I made a picture in my mind of the two of them, one bending over the other, and heard Daniel’s beautiful voice uplifted in a song of devotion, easing the transition for his friend.
“ I don’t know if he heard me or knew I was there.”
Daniel, Tim knew.
Asceticism
It’s the nature of movement toward the innermost Dwelling Places beyond Teresa’s castle walls, or in upholding the Re-membering Process, to increasingly recognize and shed what is false. It’s not only about what we deem untrue, but also what we determine has no relevance to the journey. It’s not that there’s anything particularly wrong with the irrelevant aspects themselves, it’s that they no longer draw our attention or distract us from our chosen path. Mostly, those things belong outside the castle walls, or at least not much beyond the first couple of Dwelling Places.
We need to be alert to the fact that when we’re no longer interested in buying the latest gewgaw or watching the next travesty on television, that it may get a negative response from others whom we have known who may be on a different wavelength than we are now. It’s useful to recognize that when we may receive messages that we’re about as fun as hardened mud, or we’re denying ourselves the important things, that it’s not asceticism in which we’re engaging. It’s a richer, deeper life.
In fact, the more such a person rants, the more we can understand that they wish to be inside the castle walls themselves, because asceticism is actually the denial of the divine inner life. At a certain level, the ranter recognizes that living a materialistic, shallow existence is actually inhabiting the parched desert of contained fear, but doesn’t yet know how to move through the doorway toward something else.
As a way of beginning my work with people, I sometimes ask them to imagine that they have a short time to live and to decide what, if anything, they would do differently. It’s not unusual for them to be fearful of engaging with my question. Are they afraid to look back on a life not fully lived? Leslie taught me the lessons related to that. Are they apprehensive about really expressing themselves? Daniel showed me the richness gained in being open. Are they torn about leaving others behind? We can uncover wider possibilities in service to them through our own discoveries. Maybe it’s about the fear of the unknown beyond this material world. We have all been birthed from a former reality most of which we have forgotten. We will find the birthing canal on the far end as well. If we have lived intentfully, there will be no needed resolutions. We will have a good death from which to move easily on the next turn in the path.
Sometimes the “fires” in our lives allow the background — and what supports and nurtures us — to pop into the foreground. At the same time, it pushes the foreground — the noise with which we get distracted — into the background where it belongs. Mostly, we don’t get the message any other way than through the tragedies that happen in our own lives and the surrounding world. As mindless devastations continue to gain momentum around the globe and we admit to what is indeed transient, we must choose to hold the question: what matters? Then we must resolve to act on our answers.
All events described in this book are true. Some of the names have been changed to protect the privacy of the people involved.
I will publish chapters every few days until complete. Find links in the Table of Contents below.
Table of Contents
Chapter Three: The Inner Point
Chapter Four: Intentful Existence
Chapter Five: Connecting With the Cosmos
Chapter Seven: The Space of No Need
Chapter Eight: Conflicts on the Path
Chapter Nine: The Edge of Limitation
Chapter Ten: Asking the Answer
Chapter Eleven: Living With Contrast
Chapter Thirteen: Unconditional Being
Standing Stark: The Willingness to Engage
Copyright 2004 by Carla Woody. All rights reserved. No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the publisher. Inquiries may be directed to: Kenosis Press, P.O. Box 10441, Prescott, AZ 86304, info@kenosis.net.
