The Divinity of What Just Is

Among my favorite books on spiritual practice, James Finley's The Contemplative Heart is one I return to again and again.  As solitary as meditation seems, I rely so much on the wisdom of practitioners and the kind encouragement of friends.  In their company, I hunger and thirst for inspiration, collaboration and (even, sometimes) provocation.  It's so easy to displace meditation and mindfulness during a busy week of meetings, carpools, initiatives and mission.  I look to fellow practitioners for motivation; they're like signposts, living signposts, directing my steps along this strange trail.  Keeping me from going too far afield.

Here's a favorite passage from Finley's marvelous 2002 book:

"As we sit in meditation, we can see how each thought, if simply observed, without being clung to or rejected, endures, and passes away.  Just like the day or night in which you are meditating is arising, enduring, and passing away; just like your whole life is arising, enduring, and passing away; just like the whole universe is arising, enduring, and passing away.  The flow of thoughts that we experience in meditation is then not an adversary to be conquered, but rather the direct revelation of the eternal mystery of God, manifested in and as the eternal impermanence of all manifested reality.  We are sitting in meditation not to abolish thought, but rather to gaze deeply into the eternal mystery the impermanence of thought manifests.

"Just as we are not to cling to consolations, spiritual gifts, and all forms of experiencing God's presence, so, too, we are not to become disheartened by our experiences of spiritual aridity.  We are not to reject those times when meditation seems arduous and voice of any spiritual value or meaning.  Rather, we are to be present, open and awake to spiritual aridity, allowing it to arise, endure, and pass away, as it plays out its own part in the flux and flow of the divinity of what just is.  At the level of ego we, of course, understandably prefer consolation over aridity.  As our practice matures, however, we begin to appreciate times of God's apparent absence as times of growing stronger in the awareness that God's apparent absence is itself a modality of God's presence.  In a stance of accepting our times of spiritual aridity, we learn what only poverty and helplessness can teach concerning the always surprising and mysterious ways of our ongoing, contemplative self-transformation into God."

"To be present, open and awake to spiritual aridity..."  I'm struck across the forehead by these words--and Finley's reminding me that meditation doesn't dictate or direct happiness or joyfulness or even self-satisfaction.  "Spiritual aridity" (even burnout) arises, endures for a piece, and passes away like all else.  It plays out, says Finley, its own part in the flux and flow of the divinity "of what just is."  And, stunningly, "we learn what only poverty and helplessness can teach concerning our ongoing, contemplative self-transformation into God."  

My youthful idea of prayer as a tool for fulfillment, sweet satisfaction and wisdom is flipped on its ear.  Instead, prayer is mystical, even direct experience of the mystery of God--"manifested in and as the eternal impermanence of all manifested reality."  Wow.  The eternal impermanence of all manifested reality.  So I sit with my spiritual aridity.  And I sit with my grief.  And I sit with my restlessness.  And I sit with the sweet fragrance of blossoms on January trees.  And I sit with worry for the drought in its third year.  And I sit with Jesus in the garden.  And I sit when Jesus is nowhere to be found.  Gazing deeply.  Repeating a word, a phrase, a mantra.  And it is, in its eternal impermanence, good.  Very, very good.