I live in a small community, a little town in the mountains of British Columbia. In this place we cannot take refuge in the anonymity of the city, although sometimes we long for that. I see our community as a mandala, a living web, in which something that one person experiences ripples through the whole mandala, because of the interconnection. Over the past 10 days, I have witnessed so many different aspects of life moving through us all: wives weeping for their husbands, mothers terrified for their children, friends celebrating new beginnings, clients who want to end their lives. The intensity of what has been displayed before me can sometimes feel like it’s too much. And if I begin to believe that, then it really feels true, that it is too much. But there are other ways to experience this, much wider views. One of them comes from the indigenous teachings of the medicine wheel, which are not really any different than the nondual work that I engage in.
In the west of the medicine wheel, it is said, “Each situation shows me who I am, and each being is an aspect of myself.” To take this in, to really receive it, is to allow it to penetrate deep into my being, into the body, into the cells. Then I find I can sit in the middle of all this suffering, and all this joy, without being able to separate myself from any of it. Someone who feels a killing rage is showing me an aspect of myself. Someone deep in grief, someone who feels grateful for simply being alive, someone who longs to offer their gifts to the world—I can’t stand apart from anyone anymore. Then how do I know how to act, how to help, how to contribute to the situation?
I don’t. That’s the truth of it. In this moment, I don’t know. I can’t go back and pick up what worked so well yesterday, because this is a brand new moment. It never happened before. All I can do it sit and open to the unknown. And then listen. Just listen. Not with my mind, not with my ears, but with all of me. And see what comes—trust this place of not knowing, even though I want to know, I want to have solutions, answers, expertise.
But I don’t. I stand trembling, in this moment, feeling into a willingness to let go of all my conditioned ways of being. Because my old familiar ways are not what is called for here and now. This is clear. Something else is called for, and I don’t know what it is. If I can bear the anxiety of really not knowing, then something starts to emerge. It can feel like a reaching out that comes from the heart, a reaching out that has no expectations, no ideas of what should be happening. How can I know what should be happening in any situation? I remember in the playground, when we used to tease each other as children, we would ask, “Who died and made you God?” I make myself God every time I say, “This is how it should be.”
How is it when I realize that I am not runnning this whole show? That I never was? That all my ideas of success and failure, of right and wrong are simply irrelevant to what is here right now, to the love that lives as this moment, if I can only hear it?
Now I can feel more than my anxiety. In the openness of this moment, there is awe, there is wonder, in the face of this mystery we are living in. I don’t know what is going to happen next, neither do you. We live in the midst of this stream, this ongoing, relentless impermanence. This is the nature of our life, this life that has been given to all of us. The past seems to loom so heavily over us sometimes. I hear my students say to me, “This is how it is, and it will never change,” or “I know I can never let go of what has happened.” This is really how it seems, but something else is knocking on our door – the truth of how life is. In the next moment, there could be a small droplet of forgiveness that emerges. Who is to say that this is not enough?
When we sit in small groups, or in large ones, and allow ourselves to rest in this not knowing, we feel a kind of intelligence emerging, and a compassion, that the mind is not familiar with. Suddenly, it is clear what the next step is, without knowing how this clarity emerged. Suddenly, there is deep love in the room, without knowing where it came from. What a gift it is to recognize this precious resource, to begin to trust that we can sit here together, and open to the unknown. Over and over again, I have taken refuge in this, in the midst of broken heartedness and despair. And I have seen that we can support each other here, in very difficult places, trusting that we can call forth wisdom, love, courage, and clarity, even when everything seems hopeless.
A friend and client of mine works in this way with organizations all over the world. She calls it ‘open source’ work, because it allows everyone who is part of a situation to participate, to speak, to have a voice, without relying on the knowledge of the so-called experts.
Open source is a beautiful way of describing the nature of our being, which does not close anything off, which listens to everything as its own voice. If I can really hear you as myself, if I am willing to hear you this way, no matter how difficult it is for me, then very different ways of being with each other can arise. This is not a practice we do once in a while. It’s unending. I get stuck in what I think I know, what I think is right, who I think I am, who I think you are, again and again. And then it’s time to let go again. Sometimes I am able to do this– to let what is familiar to me, what is safe, what is comfortable, fall away. Sometimes it’s not possible, and I cling for dear life to the thoughts I have heard so many times before. Whenever I can let go, and hear you as myself, your voice calls me back to the wholeness of life, a wholeness that can never really be broken.
If you received something from reading this lifeletter, I am glad. If you would like to go deeper into this work, to experience directly what you are reading about, there are opportunities to do this with me, in the form of coaching, workshops, courses and retreats, listed and described throughout this website.
with love
Shayla
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