Who's Minding the Store?

For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself. From within, I couldn't decide what to do. Unable to see, I heard my name being called. Then I walked outside. - Jalal-Ad-Din Rumi in the Zen Calendar (January 25, 2009).

Day 137. I just returned from dancing Summer Solstice with my business partners and 50 or so other dancers: Eagle, Bear, Deer and Hummingbird. We were in Newcastle, on the sacred land of a revered medicine man and his wife. I danced Eagle. So much goodness. Gassho to summer. Gassho to every dancer under the sun. Which includes us all.

Brief blog tonight; I want to savor the after dancing glow. I started the day mindfully and will end it mindfully. At 6:15 a.m. I went out to the garage to prepare for another solo ride. My brain, ego, and the Monkeys were all still asleep, which was highly conducive to mindfulness. For reasons unfathomable, I was particularly mindful of sound: the hydraulics when I opened the Xterra hatch; the almost inaudible sound of rubber touching concrete as I lovingly unloaded my bike; the whisk of velcro as I fastened my cycling shoes; the click of my helmet strap; the swishing of ice water in my Camel Back. Focusing on sound proved to be a perfect sensory channel for staying grounded in the now. God truly dwells in the details.

Something fleeting and memorable is occurring when I sit. It's happened the past couple of nights and seems to be related to something that was mentioned in the Thursday mindfulness workshop. The presenter spoke briefly about our "name" - noting that, after all, it was really an arbitrary sequence of letters bestowed upon us, usually by our parents. She talked about how attached we become to our name, and reminded us that it is separate and truly not who we ARE. I found this strangely liberating. When I sit, I have this awareness of growing distant from my name, and the realization that it is not me. I then fall out of my "self" for the briefest of moments. Last night, as I focused on my breath, a thought flickered across my consciousness saying, "Who is breathing this breath?" An answer floated in from way off in the cosmos: "We all are . . . ." and then: "Noone." Intuitively, they both seemed like fine answers.

The sensation of breath as breath, not as anything being breathed, was a new one for me. Talk about dodging the ego - for a moment there, I am certain there was nobody minding the store. And yet - my breath kept coming. Wait a second - not "my" breath -- just breath. Just breath moving in and through and out. It felt really good.

Again, I lose it when I try to talk about it. Actually, these are my favorite blogs - lousy attempts at writing about something real and experiential that utterly defies written expression. A lot like dancing Eagle.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc