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A Sabbath Life:
One Woman's Search for Wholeness
by
Kathleen Hirsch |
It is still dark above the trees when I
rise and light a candle and try and settle myself in the
same undivided calm as the flame while I wait for
morning's first bird song. Life pulls with its many
demands, but for the moment nothing compels me. I am
filled with peace; receptive, rather than driven. If
today were to be the last one of my life, I would be
doing exactly what I am doing now, beginning the day in
quiet awareness. Sometimes I read a poem or a bit of
scripture. Sometimes I write in my journal. But before
this, and mostly, I sit. I try to listen for a
consciousness that is deeper and wiser than the rattle
and clatter of my surface life. It is precisely for the
gift of this consciousness, this centering, that morning
after morning I faithfully observe this routine, which I
call my "practice."
Every spiritual tradition in the world
stresses the importance of a regular practice. Some call
it prayer, others spiritual exercises. It can take the
form of daily meditation, or a walk on a beach; an entry
into a journal, a schedule of chanting. I know a woman
who spends every Monday at the beach with her dog and
her journal, balancing rocks that are later washed off
in the tide. I know a man who spends an hour every night
playing his flute. All of these practices and more have
the same purpose: they remove our minds from the
distractions that so often blind us to our higher
purposes. They create a "soul" space, a sense
of inner amplitude, in which we are able to let go our
grip on self-consciousness, and enter the deep place of
meaning within.
Choosing a practice is relatively
easy. There are a bounty to choose from, whether we pick
from the religions of our forebears, our childhoods, or
part company with these and strike out in any one of
many alternative traditions. The challenge is to
maintain a practice consistently. Often some life event
propels us to commence a practice of reflection and
mindfulness. Eager novices, we plunge in, full of good
feelings and the sheer relief of having some quiet time
in our days; or perhaps fueled by a workshop, a
conversion experience. But before long, we find
ourselves mired in vague boredom, discontent,
disillusionment. The spiritual fireworks we expect to
come simply don't. We find our questions; what is
important to me? What do I need to do? What do I need to
give up? go unanswered. Meanwhile, life continues to
press in, demanding even the little corner of our day
devoted to ourselves for some allegedly superior,
active, purpose.
A practice means what it says. It
isn't a performance, a production. It is about
"showing up," making the commitment to be
present to ourselves (in many traditions is also known
as "being present to the spirit" -- that is,
whatever wants to come to life in us.) We need to
understand that we are not in control of the timing of
mystery, or its revelations of truth in our own lives.
We also need to understand that unless we train
ourselves to be awake to its ways and promptings, to be
in a state of receptivity and mindfulness, we will miss
its visitations entirely. And so we practice, each
morning getting up and lighting our candles, or doing
our breathing exercises. And each day our practice
becomes more indispensable; it changes us as we submit
to its discipline and its centering. In time, the
marvelous occurs; it no longer matters whether or not we
are struck by illumination. Our practice is our
illumination, our path, the daily station on our
journey.
Copyright © 2001 Kathleen
Hirsch. All Rights Reserved.
Kathleen Hirsch,
author of "A Sabbath Life: One Woman's Search for
Wholeness," " Songs from the Alley," and
" A Home in the Heart of the City." She is co-editor of Mothers. She lives with her family in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts.
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