Rock Bottom, Veined with Gold
Sometimes a feeling comes over me: a weight presses into either side of my head - in my forehead, and at the point where my skull meets my neck - accompanied by a tremendous tiredness, as though all the energy of my body has been compressed into these two points. It is an unpleasant feeling, but only if I try to avoid it. If I seek to distract myself and abstract myself away, the feeling remains at the surface of my awareness, grinding into me in moments when I let my guard down, weakening me, causing me pain.
But if I stop, and acknowledge the feeling, then it unfolds. If I sit in the garden, or play with the cat, or go for a very slow walk, or meditate in the most lazy way, or drink a cup of cacao, or just lie and nap in bed, then I free up space in myself for the feeling to blossom. Petal by petal, it unfolds. As it opens, it releases pent-up energy. The silence is reinforced with vigour. At first I am sad, then I am peaceful. I sink through still waters; I rest. My face softens, my heart grows sweet. My inner faculties open, and are washed. Eventually I hit rock bottom, and settle. But rock bottom is not a bad place to be - we are only afraid of our depths because we forget we can breathe underwater. All of us are naturally at ease in ourselves. This forced rest is often just a compensation imposed by a deeper wisdom for our enduring too much stress. At heart, it is gentle. We are compelled to retreat into ourselves; we are cleansed, and refreshed. Rock bottom is streaked with gold. Energy rises to fill our peace. Where energy and peace meet, that is happiness again. Pure, humble, unagitated happiness. We begin afresh.
Always, for me, there is a resolution. Unfortunately for my bank account, my creative streak flies to the literary. I want to express something beautiful. But I know others who have found God on their darkest days, or changed their lives, or invented something new, or started a business. We have very little power if we remain on the surface of things; but if we sink to the depths, then our every movement alters the stream of life. We all brush against the font of creativity in a thousand ways. It is both above us as well as below, outside as well as in. There is no geometry that can describe an ever-present Source. Every creative person finds their own path there. But one path that I believe is common to all of us is simply to sink.
Some things are imbued with a certain spiritual gravity. Some people and places are like vortices that pull us into ourselves. My parents are currently walking the Chemin du Puy (Via Podiensis) in the South of France. Last year they walked around the Kyushu Island of Japan, and everything went swimmingly. The weather was perfect, the logistics seamless. This year, however, they chose to set out on a pilgrimage. Even before their pilgrimage started, Air France lost their luggage, containing all their cold weather gear, and a cold front simultaneously swept through France. For the last four days they have trudged through sleet and snow in sweater vests. Excuse me for wearing my spirituality on my sleeve, but I suggest that God leans more on pilgrims than He does on hikers. No doubt my parents will hit some sort of bottom in the frozen sludge - God will hold them down like a child holding a rubber duck underwater in the bath - there will come a little moment of surrender, followed by a little glimpse of Grace. Some inner light will spark. The sky will stay grey but other clouds will part, and Something will wink. Judging by past form, my parents’ bag will show up the next day. Judging by past form, that day the weather will clear. And if they listen close enough, they will hear little chuckles in the grass. And if they listen close enough, they will hear some new song in their own hearts. All through life we circle ourselves. The path is paved with tiny miracles.
On a less spiritual note: It’s probably wisest to avoid Air France.
I am reminded of two Christian stories. The first comes from the life of St Teresa of Avila, who journeyed one winter day through a driving rain. She was wearing only her habit, she was bitterly cold, then the horse bucked, and she fell in the mud. “Oh, God!” she said, standing again. “Why must You do this to me now?” A voice came to her in prayer: “This is how I treat all My friends.” Teresa replied with clenched teeth, clambering again onto her horse, saying, “I see now why You have so few friends.”
The second story is not a story, but a prayer. It is from Thomas Merton. It often comforts me at moments when I find myself sinking into the depths, and want to find peace with the dark:
“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust You always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone.”
Sun Breaks the Clouds
Mountain Dreams
Mountain Dreams - Fine Art America