Shantigar: An Exercise in Poetic Living
I first arrived at Shantigar in a blizzard; I last departed in a thunderstorm. There is poetry in precipitation, especially when it punctuates such profound exercises in poetic living.
I was invited to Shantigar for the first time for Thanksgiving in 2014. After preparing and devouring a feast garnished with gratitude, we retired to the rustic womb of Jean-Claude’s living room, a tasteful collage of colored rugs and throw blankets framed by dark wooden beams and large glass windows draped in snow. We were an ecstatic entourage of artists, filmmakers, musicians, and poets, and Shantigar was our winter wonderland. Behemoth crystals by the hearth provided energetic balance and reflected light around the room; a seductive grand piano and a basket of sheet music revealing our host’s predilection for show tunes roused our voices into reverberation; a wall of cassette tapes featuring lectures by Terrence McKenna, among other legendary visionaries, transported our minds to new frontiers. We played music and recited poetry around the fire late into the night, went on early morning snow runs, and spent the following days trading books, recipes, songs, insights, and inspiration over leftovers. Shantigar was blanketed in several feet of snow, and I spent hours in the glass greenhouse watching the delicate flakes fall. I felt like I was immersed in a cubist snowglobe populated with sunlamps, Buddha statues, and red geraniums. Josh swore there was a lush landscape hibernating beneath the snow, but it wasn’t until this summer, when I returned as an artist-in-residence for three weeks, that I saw it come alive.
I drove up with Jean-Claude from Greenwich Village. We got stuck on the West-Side Highway for hours in his ancient Mercedes, which overheated in the sun, its broken air condition teasing us with occasional bursts of hot air. When we finally arrived in Rowe, Massachusetts, the cool mountain air spun me in its arms, turning beads of perspiration into goosebumps. I inhaled deeply and felt that I had never properly breathed before.
The woods at Shantigar are the stuff of fairytales. Small stone statues of smiling buddhas and guardian lions populate the forest, suggesting the presence of spirits. Tall thin tree trunks emerge from a silky moss covered path that is so soft you can walk barefoot on it. The ground springs beneath your feet — nature’s trampoline reminding us to play. The path is especially friendly to bare feat (and bear feet, as we later discovered!) thanks to Jean-Claude’s decades-long practice of clearing away dead branches, a ritual that has resulted in a plethora of oversized nests throughout the woods. I’ve picked up this habit since being here and can attest to its meditative qualities.
Being at Shantigar and spending time with Jean-Claude is teaching me what it means to live deliberately. Jean-Claude, an alleged octogenarian masquerading in the body of a fit 45 year old, is the exemplar of deliberate living. He is uninhibited by — though not uninspired by — convention. Wielding knowledge in his favor, he has woven threads from the greatest wisdom traditions into a tapestry of optimal health and performance. His meticulousness in architecting his reality and cultivating a space like Shantigar is fueled, I believe, by a desire to engage more deeply and intentionally with every moment and artifact in life.
Shantigar reflects Jean-Claude’s heightened attention to detail. Despite the plethora of statues, stones, crystals, vases, pictures, flowers, and miscellaneous objects lining the walls and surfaces of Jean-Claude’s home, one’s immediate impression upon entering the farmhouse is of a remarkable sense of order. Everything has a place, and when something is removed from its place, the home is thrown off balance.
Integrating principles of Feng-shui and Tibetan architecture, Shantigar was designed to meet the needs and contribute to the flourishing of the human spirit. There is a space for learning, a space for music, a space for creating, a space for reading, a space for movement, a space for socializing, a space for solitude, a space for nourishment, a space for meditation, a space for gardening, and many spaces for laughter. Each space was designed with great intention and attention. The library is stocked with books on theater, art, nutrition, mysticism, Eastern philosophy, sacred geometry, science, and mythology, along with two exceptionally ergonomic leather chairs engineered to facilitate hours of uninterrupted reading. A peaceful army of terra-cotta buddhist statues line the perimeter of the art studio, which is equipped for both finger-painting and Chinese calligraphy. The movement room, where one can listen to the Great Courses on surround-sound while exercising, is painted the Tibetan colors of the four directions. Stone floors and wooden staircases coalesce in dignified grace.
The meditation room is a wonder in itself. Upon entering, one is greeted by soft rays of light dancing on the lingering smoke swirls of recently burned incense. The far wall is entirely made of glass and overlooks the herb garden, giving the natural world a felt presence in the room. On the back wall, gongs of various sizes dangle over a small table sporting an array of tuning forks. A magnificent altar decorated with statues from Tibet and Nepal anchors the space, and a scroll of Tibetan philosophy offers gentle guidance to novice meditators.
The kitchen gets the most traffic. A panel of mirrors behind the stove reflects the warmth of the hearth into the room, in accordance with Feng Shui law. Copper pans hang above the stove, jars of all sizes line the shelves, and fresh tomatoes from the garden ripen on the windowsill. The inventory of tinctures, herbs, and spices overflowing from the cabinets rival that of the local apothecary. Every inch of the fridge is covered in art magnets from around the world. One can easily get lost in this miniature gallery in the midst of retrieving a glass of milk from the fridge. The main gathering space in the kitchen is a large oval wooden table laden with an ever-evolving centerpiece of tiny statues, found relics from the day’s nature walk, and freshly picked wildflowers, which Jean-Claude makes a ritual of regularly replacing.
In order to be a good guest here, one must learn the rules of the house, which are many. Attempting to be as meticulous as Jean-Claude is ultimately an exercise in deliberate living. It is also a lesson in presence, for one cannot meet Jean-Claude’s exacting standards if one is absentminded while moving through the house. I have great appreciation for this lesson, as I have come to glean the existential and spiritual implications of handling everything in one’s space with care. As Jean-Claude writes in his inspiring book Tea With Demons: Games for Transformation, “How you treat your environment, no matter how humble or temporary, is how you treat yourself.” Josh reinforces this notion when he says, “Space reflects mind.” There is indeed a resonance — and a reverberation — between space and mind. A favorite book of mine about sacred spaces describes resonance as something that “enriches the significance of things and evokes spontaneous deep, emotional, experiences.” Placing beauty in our homes, treating them with sacred intent, awakens the sacred in us. The Forum on Architecture, Culture, and Spirituality considers sacred spaces to be thresholds into elevated states of consciousness. Thus, by cultivating our sacred space, we also elevate our consciousness.
Shantigar is proof of that. I’ve only been here for a week, and the internal shifts I’ve already experienced are striking. I came here in pursuit of focus and nature, not realizing how interrelated these two pursuits would prove to be. I am experiencing an unprecedented clarity of mind, which I attribute to being immersed in nature. Staring at screens and allowing my attention to be manipulated by technology has dulled my animal senses and exacerbated my distractibility. In Spell of the Sensuous, David Abrams reasons that when we are more connected to and immersed in nature, our senses are significantly heightened because we are watching — and participating in — a dynamic natural landscape instead of a static manmade one. Being at Shantigar has made me more attuned both to the natural world around me and to my own internal landscape. This may also be due to exercising daily, meditating consistently, and abstaining from caffeine, alcohol, gluten, dairy, and sugar. But the combination of factors has given me the discipline and energy to develop healthy new habits, which in turn enables me to engage more deeply in my work. This is a compelling argument for deliberate living — cultivating the circumstances that allow us to do our best work in the world. Jean-Claude has cultivated these circumstances at Shantigar so that both he and the artists-in-residence here can thrive.
I am learning for the first time to hack my mind, probing not only the depths of my consciousness through meditation but also observing (and dare I say altering?) how my brain functions so that I might put it to better use. I am discovering the power of intention, although Jean-Claude says thoughts don’t change people; practice changes people. Thoughts are merely the catalysts that inspire people to develop new practices. His Games for Transformation are techniques for developing new practices that can lead to personal change. I am playing many games. My pursuits here are are guided by pleasure and fascination instead of obligation. It’s a more feminine, watery, and intuitive approach to learning and productivity than the self-policing, dictatorial, masculine approach I used to think was necessary to get anything done. I’m discovering that discipline comes naturally to me when there is genuine interest and when I am able to monitor the caprices of my mind. Circumstance is not inconsequential. The spaciousness and serenity at Shantigar makes accessible the otherwise elusive flow state that we artists crave.
The result is unparalleled intellectual and creative exhilaration. I wake up composing sentences and rush out of bed early in the morning, my eyes stinging for more sleep but the rest of me eagerly jumping to attention. I stomach a few sips of a homemade concoction of raw garlic, ginger, olive oil, orange and lemon juice — a citrusy witch’s brew purported to detoxify the liver (it burns on the way down so you know it’s working) and reward myself with a teaspoon of raw honey. I steep looseleaf tea from a local herbalist — dandelion, burdock, slippery elm, marshmallow root, with gingko and gotu kola for focus — in a thermos and bring it with me to what I’ve affectionately named “the writer’s cabin”. Jean-Claude mentioned that writers seemed to like this cabin, and I instantly discovered why. It is across the field from Jean-Claude’s house, nestled at the base of a trail and hidden by trees from the main road. Inside, it is bare: a mattress stripped of sheets, a wooden chair, a lamp, and a large wooden table protruding from the wall — the kind of behemoth slab both butchers and writers dream of, a blank slate perfect for the slaughtering of meat and ideas. There is a wooden stove and an ancient copper kettle large enough to heat a bathtub. I sit and write for hours, delighting in the whimsy of my mind, until I can’t ignore the hunger in my stomach any longer. Chipmunks frolic on the roof. Rain falls in the forest. When I journey back to the house to quell my belly’s growling, people are gathered in the kitchen — Jean-Claude and his guests, Josh and Jeri, my extended family. I make buckwheat porridge with bananas, blueberries, flax, cinnamon, chia, bee pollen, and a splash of fresh raw milk from a local farm. I spend the afternoon reading and doing yoga. At sunset I join Josh and Jeri in the garden to harvest fresh vegetables for dinner. Before we dine together, we give thanks for dear friends, fresh food, and riveting conversation (an inevitability at Jean-Claude’s table).
I’ve always suspected that life can be this rich. Shantigar has given me a taste of profound fulfillment and a blueprint of how to attain it.
