Walking the Peaceful Path

Dear Friends and Family  - 

I finished writing this the day before the horrific manifestation of insanity that ripped the nation from Las Vegas during the first days of October.  My initial inclination was to hold off sharing it with you as a sign of respect for those whose lives were torn apart in that eruption of violence. On further reflection it occurs to me that this might be exactly the right time to send it. We are living in a time when our culture, our politicians, even our entertainment seems to glory in violent divisiveness. Perhaps if there were more expressions of serenity to surround us, little bits of sanity, our world might slowly reconfigure itself as a more gentle and compassionate place. It is in that hope that I offer the following post. 

- Peace, 

RLS

Walking the Peaceful Path

A new “imagining” has presented itself to me over the last few weeks. Actually it isn’t completely new, it is rather sort of an extension of a previous mental construction. I have written before about using the image of the front porch of the house in which I was raised as a meditation device to get rid of the clutter of the day, easing me out of the waking world into sleep for a nap or through the night. 

For the “porch sessions" I employ either classical music or my favorite tracks from Naturespace along with noise canceling headphones to block the external world. Next, I imagine the porch with a host of tennis balls scattered about. The tennis balls are, of course, the phone calls, meetings, obligations, and irritating individuals that I have encountered during the course of the day. I take the conveniently available broom and chase the tennis balls off the porch chanting, “Get off my porch! Get off my porch!” Sometimes a ball or two prove unusually resistant. In those instances, I simply grab a new broom, which .  .  . well, you know, sweeps clean. 

One night, I had finished sweeping the porch while listening to the Naturespace track Stream of Consciousness. No big surprise there, it is a recording of a rushing but still sonorous stream. Anyhow, I had cleaned the porch and found myself at the front door of the house. I usually never go inside - not really sure why.  I’ll have to think about that. But this time I did.  Nothing terribly surprising inside. The familiar upright piano rested against the wall immediately to my left. The sofa claimed its spot between twin windows that faced the street to my right. The large oval braided rug where we would race marbles around the ridges covered the center of the floor. The cobblers bench with the drawer where playing cards, jacks, little rubber balls and other small games were stored, anchored the center of the rug.  Dad’s collection of pipes hung above the bookcase that sat next to the easy chair by the vintage gas fireplace along the far left-hand wall. Beyond the fireplace a stretch of waist-high built-in bookcases completed the wall. They held my parent's books. Weighty tomes with dark spines, titles writ in small letters. I remember none of them.  

But the wall opposite me - that should have looked out across the driveway to the neighbor's house next door - was wrong. There was a large door in the right-hand corner of the room, where no door should be. Even now I’m not exactly sure what should have been along that wall. TV set in the corner I think? Record player? Bookcase? Maybe all of those. But now there was just this door. Naturally, I opened it and stepped through.  

I’m not really sure what to call the space into which I stepped. Technically it was a loggia, which Wikipedia tells us is "an architectural feature which is a covered exterior gallery or corridor usually on an upper level, or sometimes ground level. The outer wall is open to the elements, usually supported by a series of columns or arches.” That pretty well defines it. It was a long white corridor, but quite dim since it was night. The stream ran along the open right-hand side, clearly audible, but out of sight and seemingly below the floor level. The open wall was supported by simple white pillars, every eight feet or so. Several paces down the corridor a table lamp cast a warm glow over two easy chairs gathered around a small white wicker table identical to the one behind me on the porch.  I could see that the pattern of "dark path leading to illuminated resting space” was repeated as far as I could see. "Very cool,” I thought as I wandered down the corridor listening to the stream. I would occasionally stop and sit down.  There must be some couches along the way, because sometimes I would lie down and doze off.

This mental construction is, as I said, an extension of the front porch meditation. But the effect is almost the opposite. The porch is an exercise in mindfulness.  The loggia is an exercise in mindlessness.  Let me explain.

The porch allows me to call to mind the irritants of the day, identify them with their unique tennis ball, and smack them off the porch, maybe not resolved, but hopefully out of sight and out of mind.

The loggia is simply a peaceful path. There are no books or magazines on the tables. The chairs and sofas are without resistant surfaces.  I float on them. The only sound is the stream. Beyond the loggia there is an occasional hint of light off water. There is the slight taste of cool air wafting in from the calm space beyond. The mind drifts untethered. Occasionally, a series of connected thoughts intrudes. Remnants, perhaps from the battle on the porch. Like unruly children, they seem oblivious to the rules of behavior that govern this space.  I arise and meander on down the loggia until I leave their quarrelsome yapping behind. The stream again asserts itself. The easy chairs beckon. I sit. It reclines. Calm rules. Thoughts drift off down the path. I am at peace.

Naturespace URL: [http://www.naturespace.org/]