The Fall, A Monk, and Fear

The acorns keep hitting my car as I drive, startling me or making me wince at, what sounds like, possible damage. The leaves now cover the trails I run on, making the rocks invisible to my feet finding their balance. The slightest chill in the air is already making its way right to my bones, like an e-z pass allows cars to slip right through a toll. Yet, the October sunsets have lit the skies ablaze in glorious streaks of pink and orange. Yellows, greens and reds are falling through the spaces in front and around me. As I walk the trails, the smell of crumpled leaves permeates the air, accompanied by that particular sound each footfall makes upon the fallen beauties. Migrating Starlings take over a section of the forest stopping me in my running tracks. Hundreds and hundreds of birds swooping from trees to the forest floor and back again, a tornado of wings flashing through the sky in improvised cannons. I stand in awe as other runners and bikers pass me by. This is my fall life outside the city. 

In the city, there is a brisk buzz of activity on the sidewalks, in the parks, cafes, restaurants and stores. The presence of the NYU students by my office building is thick with an energy of youthful academic and social busyness. I arrive in the city and step into pace with another world, realizing that I can apply the same walk there as I do in the woods. I look up at the architecture of the building or the shapes of the trees that have so gracefully grown, surrounded by concrete. They, too, are changing. I soak in the ivy that hugs the brownstones, happy for the vertical, green blanket for as long as it can last. As I leave my office building at night and step into the spacious street after having been in a small office for hours, I first savor the size of everything around me and the pleasant feeling of being a small part of something very big. It feels like freedom. I then look up at the building ahead of me to see the symmetry of two lamps lit in side-by-side windows in the very top floor. It must be that their order, amidst so many competing visuals, strikes a note of serenity in me. The warmth of those lamps feels like a secret. I wonder who else takes comfort in them or if the owners have any idea that the lamps are so appreciated by some stranger down below. I take in a deep breath of the now cooler air and head to the train to take me home feeling tired and full. I pull my jean jacket tighter across me, enjoying that fall feeling of a chill in the air and knowing, soon, I will look more like the Michelin Man in my coat. I walk from the subway to Penn Station and pass the homeless, who have moved and are now sitting on the grating that blows warm air. I am aware of the greater difficulty the falling temperatures will bring to them. This is my fall life in the city.

Along with these observations of the fall, a story from my past as an NYU student emerged from my bank of memories this week. It could be the way the fall brings out my dread of the cold and limited light, but whatever the reason, it arrived for me to share. It is a story that a captivating professor shared in an Eastern religious studies class I took at NYU one fall, years ago. He described a meeting he had with a monk who was visiting NYC. It was the dead of winter. The monk arrived at his office dressed only in his sleeveless robes and sandals. As the monk sat down, a drop of sweat slid down his brow. A simple story, but I never forgot it.

What if we could all discover that immense power of our minds and use it well?  Being mindful of our minds, we can change how we are physically and emotionally. To do it, though, requires an ability to stay with our experience. The more we do it, the easier it gets. This week, I was at a loss as to what I could write about next. How do you follow a blog post about mortality? I was stuck, inspiration-less. And when I asked “why,” I sensed fear. One part of my life where I was feeling anxious took over, making me contract into a small self that didn’t have permission to tap into those places of wonder and joy. So I stayed with that sense of fear and contraction, just letting it be and could then write. That is the training. I’m guessing the monk in Professor Carse’s office trained himself not only to feel when he contracts against something, but then actually opens to it.

What if I walked into the cold and opened like a Peony to sunlight or Night Blooming Jasmine to the moon? It wouldn’t make it any more cold, but it might make my experience more alive, more full, more present. And, maybe that fullness will actually produce warmth; okay not sweat exactly, but warmth. Why not? Throughout the day, we confront fear. Fear is at the bottom of everything. Rather than just experiencing what is happening and tending to that current moment experience, it is deeply and protectively rooted in us to tense up against it. Fear comes up in simple interactions or the looking away from another to avoid an interaction. It comes with any moment that produces a strong unwanted feeling of boredom, pain, anxiety, restlessness, loneliness, despair. It even comes with joy in anticipation of it ending. If we get to the bottom of each difficult experience, we can surely find our friend, fear. And, friends we should certainly be. The training begins here.

If we make fear a friend, we know how to treat her. We can listen and offer support. We can stay and be fearful, knowing it won’t kill us. We can say, “I’m fearful right now that I will be rejected. I’m fearful that I won’t know what to say. I’m fearful that I won’t be received. I’m fearful that I won’t get what I need. Or, ultimately, I am fearful that I will die.” Whatever it is, if we stay there and not add on self-judgments or blame someone or something outside ourselves, the feeling can live and change on its own time, like a wave builds and dissolves. We don’t have to push others away or defend ourselves or beat ourselves up. Our concentrated ability to be aware of what we think, feel and do and to stay with it is a gift.

Of course, it doesn’t always feel so straightforward. Last Sunday night, I was leading the weekly meditation group and realized that the fruits of my practice don’t necessarily come in the actual moment of practice. In fact, most of the time they don’t. The fruits make themselves known later, in the moments of recognizing what I am feeling and not running from what I see. Even if I do react too quickly, I am soon to realize it and take a next slower step with less self-recrimination. When I sometimes wonder why I commit myself to sitting every Sunday night or at other times during the week, I can remember the sleeveless monk walking the city streets in winter and be inspired. For others, it may be a different practice, art, work or spiritual path,  that reminds us of what we are capable of and how to stay present in this life that is always full and waiting for us to receive it. In the city or in the woods, I'll step into the fall today and invite myself to keep noticing. Maybe someday I can walk the city streets, sleeveless in winter, and still be warm.