Emerald Isle beach with moderate surf; some of the retreat group enjoying the waves

I’m into my 9th decade of this incarnation now. I’ve meditated for 70 of these years and for the past four decades I’ve been considered by some to be a dharma teacher. Yet the paradox of embodiment is still a puzzle at times. We are spirit in essence, and also human, with physical, mental, and emotional bodies as expressions of our spirit essence. We desire to know the sacredness of all that is, to live in connection and love, and yet we are so afraid! We are born with interconnection as our true being yet as humans we experience isolation and separation. We narrow ourselves into the small ego, much as a space explorer might do, seeing the infinity of space at their feet, yet clinging to our ship, afraid to trust their tether to the ship and jump, free flight!

As a mammal, I’m born with reflexes to fight, to freeze, or to flee when I experience a strong catalyst. I wish I could be free of such unpleasant challenges and yet I also understand these experiences of pain and separation are teachers. Relationship is a heart of human experience; relationship with seeming “others,” with the physical world, and with myself. If I am to grow as a human, I do need the opportunities to be challenged and remember my ability to respond with love.

My reactions to feeling pain, aloneness, and discomfort come from a place of fear that doesn’t remember my non-duality with the catalyst. Ultimately, there is no self or other, no duality, yet we live in a world of perceived dualities. I can learn ways to help myself release such fear, yet I must also respect that I am a sentient being in whom fear does arise. I can learn to hold myself and all beings within a compassionate heart and not to condemn myself when fear arises. Perhaps this is the highest work of the human: to be conscious of fear and pain and still hold the heart open with love.

Body and mind will present their challenges. Certainly, in these decades there have been times of rage, grief at the death of loved ones, the immense grief at Hal’s severe stroke, feelings of rejection, sadness, and fear. Yet the body remains the greatest teacher for me. There’s the horse that reared up and rolled over my body and one leg when I was 21, causing severe soft tissue and vascular damage, which remain issues for me today. Then at age 29, after the birth of my first child, I lost my hearing and all middle-ear balance. I told the story of that loss in the anthology “Being Bodies.” At 60, while leading a retreat in NC, a rogue, giant ocean wave swept me from joyful surfing on my little boogie board, downward into the bottom of the ocean, the impact breaking several ribs and other bones, damaging my spine and neck, and breaking the orbital bones under the eyes. I was left permanently blind in one eye and with very low vision in the other one; that second eye blindness fortunately tapered off after 10 months.

In that experience I lost consciousness and had a near-death experience, complete with brilliant light filling the tunnel, just as it is often told. With no breath or ability to move my limbs, I was close to drowning. Within that brilliance, and surrounded by loving energy, I was told I might stay or leave and was invited to choose. It was made clear that there was no shame in choosing to leave, and that if I stayed, it might be with a very damaged body. That near death experience reassured me that dying was ultimately safe, but I knew I was not ready. There was more work to do; more life to live for my own growth and in service to others. . I consciously chose life. In a brief moment of return of mundane consciousness, I had ability to move my limbs, a few seconds of clear choice and action, I reached the surface for just a moment, where people saw my bloody face, heard my cry, and rescued me.

But long before “the wave” I found I was sometimes caught in one extreme or the other, the fearful one who is reactive or the one resting in spaciousness, light and ease, but distanced from everyday reality. I’ve spent many years learning how to bring these two extremes into balance. They are non-dual.

I also see, after almost 40 years of sharing the Dharma, how it can go either way. The challenges can lead one to open eventually or lead to much thicker armoring and increased suffering. The choice is within me. How do I live in this body with love and an open heart despite vulnerability, fear, and loss? How do I live life with love? For me that question has been a core of my life for these over 80 years.

That horse has become a valued teacher to whom I’m finally able to offer metta instead of the anger that came in the early years. He ran off into a road where he was hit by a car, and fortunately survived with just a few stitches and bruises, also in a leg. He keeps me company in holding my heart open when my leg hurts.

I was newer to the dharma when I lost my hearing. At that time, I had a daily meditation practice but also considerable misunderstanding. My heart really closed at first. Deafness was terrifying. I was angry and afraid. “Why me?” I asked repeatedly. My misunderstanding was in feeling I should not be angry or overwhelmed. But how can the human not feel such emotions? Our learning here is of compassion, not control.

Now after 54 years of being deaf, I know how well I hear, not with my ears but with my heart, and am grateful to this very hard catalyst that pushed me to be vulnerable and open. But it took decades to open to gratitude.

After the wave experience, I was in a great pain. It was terrifying not only to be deaf but now also blind. How could I learn to live with that? I was furious. Why me? What had I done wrong? What karma was being enacted? How could I fix this?

I had very little compassion for myself but rather was driving myself to fix both the body and the emotional pain and feelings of loss. I wanted control and there was none.

It took me months to realize how deeply my heart was closed to my suffering. I went through the phrasings of metta but there was so much fear and anger that my heart was not able to receive that loving kindness. Friends, family, and students all offered praise, saying how well I was doing. I couldn’t see it that way. I had a belief that if I was truly doing well, I should be able literally to heal this blindness.

I took it personally; I wasn’t ready yet to allow myself to know pain as the outplay of conditions. Unattended fear within me still wanted to fix the outer forms and blamed myself when I could not do so. (to be continued)

Morning meditation on the beach, a quiet sea