I took a ferry from New Harbor, Maine, to Manhegan, Maine, an island about six miles off the coast. When we got to the island, after an hour, I had no idea what was there to see.
I began walking and came to an intersection in the narrow dirt road. I went right. No one else of my fellow travelers had chosen this way. Still, I kept walking. After a few minutes, I arrived at a dead end. To the side was a small path through tall grass; it looked like it had not been walked in a long time. I followed it to the rocks along the coastline. I could barely see the outline of a high aperture on the other side of the waters, the fog was so thick. Sitting on a rock, I began reading a book I had brought of Rumi's poems. I read about ten poems audibly, also enjoying the waves crashing against the rocks and birds flying and gathering farther on the rocky shoreline before me.
After leaving back toward where I had entered the dead-end road, I observed a steeple in the distance. I thought it might be a church building. Upon arrival at the old, white-frame structure, I saw a sign stating it was an interdenominational church. I thought it would likely not be open as most church buildings now are closed on off-hours. But I decided to check.
The sanctuary door opened. No one was there. The sanctuary was rustic, with wooden seats. I could not spot any cushions for my back or to sit on. I felt comforted by the quiet and solitude. The morning had been a long one, having gotten up early before daylight, driven to the ferry, walked to the ferry, waited an hour before we left, ridden the hour-long trip, and walked uphill to get to this part of the island.
Sitting, I set a meditation alarm on a phone app for forty minutes. I rested in silence, eyes closed, until it rang to signal the forty minutes were over. I remained silent briefly, got up, and bowed toward the altar. I walked out, and the world looked differently, more transparent. I felt lighter. I began walking up another road, enlivened, refreshed in body and spirit. A window had been opened to Spirit.
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In my mind, when I look at these fields, I say to her, "See? ... See?" and I think she does. I hope later she will see and feel a thing about these prairies I have given up talking to others about; a thing that exists here because everything else does not and can be noticed because other things are absent. She seems so depressed sometimes by the monotony and boredom of her city life, I thought that maybe in this endless grass and wind she would see a thing that sometimes comes when monotony and boredom are accepted. It's here, but I have no names for it.
*Robert M. Persig. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
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Twenty years ago, I wrote the following in response to Persig's words -
There is something amazing that lives in the absences, in the silences. This is subtle and quiet, and seen and felt and loved by few. I, too, have no names for it. No one ever has had. I, too, have ceased the futile effort of naming it and sharing it. No one ever has. In some sense, unknown and unknowable to me, this shares itself, even with those not ready to see, not ready to love in return. I love this silently. I am amazed at what I see when there is nothing to be seen, what I know when there is nothing to be known. I have given myself to this. I am thankful, may I ever be to this elusive but intimate something.
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When we fall in love with the Love, this something, we want to spend time with it. We prioritize it. Though it is with us everywhere, we choose places to close the curtains on our usual world of words, activities, things, and people. We open to more deeply know another, subtler atmosphere.
I agree Presence is with us wherever we are. We cannot leave it. It cannot leave us. With all things, it and we are entwined. Still, like any close relationship, we choose apart times and apart actions, including words and gestures, whatever we choose, to nurture the relationship, to honor the relationship. To remain awake to and enlivened by this Love, we spend time with it. These set-apart times, we prime the pump, so to speak.
We worship and receive inspiration through reverential solitude. Having been alone, submerged in quiet and reverence, we leave reoriented to the Sacred and sense an enlivening of the body has taken place. We leave feeling a different atmosphere from before - lighter, more transparent. We, too, feel lighter, more transparent. It is as though we have been given new eyes - we have.
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We need unwavering dedication to live opening the window. We need to open the window often. When I was a United Methodist pastor in Gainesville, Florida, my area superintendent met me a couple of times, learning of my devotion to the path of spiritual contemplation. My practice inspired her, and she took on a new practice. She traveled extensively in her work with churches and clergy. So, she began a sacred habit of frequently stopping along the road, getting out of her vehicle, and standing, enjoying quiet and contemplating. She was practicing opening the window.
Stop, open yourself, and you open the window. You and God share the same window. You are the window.
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*Rumi verse from Kabir Helminski. The Mysterion: Rumi and the Secret of Becoming Fully Human. Translations of Rumi in Mysterion by Kabir and Camille Helminski.
*Brian K. Wilcox, An Ache for Union: Poems on Oneness with God through Love, can be ordered through major online booksellers or the publisher AuthorHouse.
