I preemptively thought that Christmas without my mom was going to be difficult, whether I was alone, in Michigan, or with Annie and her family, so I scheduled a short 3-4 day stay at Our Lady for Christmas back in August. I left early Christmas Eve morning. I wasn't in any real hurry and took my time driving through the countryside, arriving about 10am. It was cold, grey, and rainy, which mirrored how I felt inside. Still, it was good to be back in such peaceful and familiar surroundings, and I found myself reminiscing about visits past.
I arrived in time to watch the monks decorate the 15ft+ Christmas tree in the chapel, then sat in the library and started reading Bernard Bangley's modernized translation of The Cloud of Unknowing while I waited to check into my room. For a Catholic text composed in mid-14th century England, I was surprised by how similar it is to many of the Buddhist meditation manuals I've read from the Thai Forest tradition, which tend to be less theoretical and more practical, focusing on things like sense restraint, constant mindfulness, and techniques such as the use of a short meditation word to maintain one's concentration. In its simple yet profound language, it's obvious that the unnamed author was an accomplished meditator. I sat pondering what I'd read as I tried to let the peace of the monastery wash over me.
I went for a hike after settling into my room, which this time happened to be the one directly beneath the one I'd stayed in last time. The trail was wet and muddy, and the closer I got to the top, the darker and foggier it became. When I wasn't worrying about a werewolf jumping out of the shadowy fog and eating me, I was thinking about The Cloud of Unknowing and contemplation in general, how the experience of nibbana, awakening, union with God, or whatever you want to call it isn't something you can intellectually understand, nor something that you can physically see, smell, taste, or touch. It's not something that's easily put into words, either, because it's a reality that transcends our normal, everyday experience of the world and how we perceive that world to operate. It's truly a mystery.
That's why mystics tend to talk in symbolic language, language that points one towards it and how to experience it for oneself. And mystics of all traditions seem to agree that you don't cause it, all you can really do is remove the obstacles in your mind that obscure it and open yourself up to the experience, or at least the possibility of that experience. You have to learn to be silent, deeply, internally silent, and rest in that silence, forgetting the world and yourself, and continually incline your mind towards that transcendent reality. You just have to keep focusing through the darkness, that proverbial cloud of unknowing, to the light on the other side, the luminous mind that's "defiled by incoming defilements" (AN 1.49-52), the "spirit of God that dwells in you" (1 Cor 3:16). We're often frightened of the dark, of the unknown, yet the darkness is where the magic happens.
12/25
It's frustrating in many ways being Christian and contemplative, because if God exists, if God is real and present everywhere, why is it so hard to see God, to hear God, to touch God, or be aware of God? I think it kind of makes sense that you have all these stories like Adam and Eve and whatnot, because they're trying to explain what it's so difficult, why there seems to be this barrier to experiencing something that should take no effort at all. Reading the Cloud of Unknowing, the author describes it as a cloud of unknowing, this darkness that you have to love through. From our POV, our level of being, God is incomprehensible, nothing you can intellectually grasp or see, but still there to be experienced by those who long and love into that unknowing, that darkness, whether you connect to it, it connects to you, or both. It's frustrating sometimes, though, being in the world and having everything bombard your senses so that God seems so far away. I'm trying to think about God and be open and aware of existence, of beingness, and then I'm thinking about work, I'm thinking about my girlfriend, I'm thinking about a TV show that I've been watching, or a random song gets stuck in my head, and it just drowns out everything else, everything spiritual. But sometimes, when my mind is quiet enough, like when I'm on a long retreat, I think I catch a glimpse of it, I think I understand, but I'm just not sure yet.
12/26
I spent a lot of time staring at this empty page and stressing over what to write until I realized that I don't have to write anything at all. Writing shouldn't be a chore; and if I don't have anything to say, I don't have to say anything. It's a liberating thought, really. Whether in school, at work, or just hanging out with friends, it feels like we're constantly pushed to do something, say something, even when we don't want to. So much so that the pressure to do something carries over into almost every moment of our lives, compelling us to feel anxious whenever we're idle, like there isn't enough time in the day to do all the things we have to do. To make matters worse, today's culture, influenced by the popularity of social media, encourages us to always have an opinion, something to say about something just for the sake of saying it. But sometimes, I don't have anything to say. And how freeing it is to realize I can just rest in that silence. It reminds me of that passage I read at Open Sanctuary a while back from Recollections of Thomas Merton's Last Days in the West:
[B]eing attentive to the time of the day: when the birds began to sing, and the deer came out of the morning fog, and the sun came up... The reason why we don't take time is a feeling that we have to keep moving. This is a real sickness. ... We must approach the whole idea of time in a new way. We are free to love. And we must get free from all imaginary claims. We live in the fullness of time. ... The whole thing boils down to giving ourselves a chance to realize that we have what we seek. We don't have to rush after it. It was there all the time, and if we give it time, it will make itself known to us. ... There is, in all this, a sense of the unfolding mystery in time, a reverence for gradual growth.
12/26 (2)
Lying in bed, contemplating God as the nameless author in The Cloud Of Unknowing suggests, I got lost within a train of thought. While the author discourages thinking as a means of understanding God, I was having trouble keeping my thoughts, my concentration, on something I can't see, hear, smell, taste, touch, or mentally envision; but then a line from Evelyn Underhill's essay came to mind, "For he is thy being, and in him thou art what thou art, not only by cause and by being, but also he is in thee both cause and thy being" (112-13), and I began wondering how the darkness of unknowing could be a mirror reflecting such a truth. It's a difficult idea to comprehend. But the more I thought about it, the more I was reminded of the pure Mind of Zen, the monistic substance of reality, in which awakening is simply Mind recognizing itself, divine nature partaking of divine nature, creation becoming conscious of itself.
12/27/15
Three days isn't nearly a long enough stay. Just when you get into the swing of things, the silence and the schedule of the monastery, it's time to go. I left early to beat the traffic and because I wanted to attend mass at St. Philip. I missed everyone there, and I remembered that Fr. Michael said it was going to be his turn this time around, his first on the Feast of the Holy Family. Alexis wasn't there and they needed an extra hand, so they asked me to help be a server. Afterwards, I met up with my friend Chris for lunch, and on the way home it began to snow. It was a good day, and something about it made me think that I'm exactly where I need to be right now. I just need to trust in that.
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