Tag Archives: Meditation

The Pull Toward our Soul

boatA lodestone is a naturally magnetic mineral. When combined with metal, these two objects are drawn to the magnetic pull of the North Pole. No matter where you are on earth, the needle of a compass will point north, directing you towards your intended destination. To this day, despite our amazing scientific abilities, geologist can’t explain exactly why this connection works. It’s still very much a mystery – an accepted mystery, but a mystery nonetheless.

The same mystery lies deep within us all as we make the journey back to our Soul. Just like the lodestone and metal are attracted to the pull of the North Pole, our spirits have a natural pull to a higher frequency – some deep essence of truth that leads us when we listen to it. Every time we feel there must be something “more” out there for us, when we feel off course, or when something inside just doesn’t feel right, our inner compass is telling us we’ve lost our way.

The draw toward our guiding principles is already in there. Yet, when we continue to repeat old, destructive behaviors, deny our pain or when we don’t take the time to identify what our needs are, we’ve muddled the needle’s direction. When fear overrides any other vision, we can’t see where we should be headed. Our simple, natural compass starts feeling like a complicated GPS system with directions written in another language.

Yet, if we would only step back and let the simplicity of the needle correct itself, we could find the way back home. By purposefully doing less, reclamation can be accomplished. Thomas Moore in his classic, CARE OF THE SOUL,  refers to this paradox of Soul work;

It’s not easy to observe closely, to take the time and to make the subtle moves that allow the soul to reveal itself further. You have to rely on every bit of learning, every scrap of sense, and all kinds of reading, in order to bring the intelligence and imagination to the work. Yet at the same time, this action-through nonaction has to be simple, flexible, and receptive. Intelligence and education bring you to the edge, where your mind and its purposes are empty. 

No matter how each of us defines what and where that spiritual place of origin is – what their truth is – the fact remains, we’re drawn to seek it. We crave the connection to ourselves so deeply that we’ll go to great extents to find it, even outside of ourselves. This leaves us with addictions or giving our power to others whom we feel have the answers. Humans are full of dichotomies. We have everything we need to understand the right path for ourselves and yet we don’t listen. We bend our compass to point away from our magnetic pull because our ego decides we want to go in another direction.

This knowing is not a community knowing, though there’s a component of the collective in it. The knowing of our Soul speaking to us and guiding us toward the things we need to do in order to grow, utilizes what Jung calls the collective unconscious. Symbols, energy, archetypes all connect us to an ethereal family. Like a lost first language, if we listen, it will come back to us. Moore says;

Observance of the soul can be deceptively simple. You take back what has been disowned.

Another way to look at this is, our knowing is our soul. If we turn away from what we know to be true, we’re turning away from the deepest essence of our being; the God-given light in all of us. That is the compass which will guide us in all things and get us through our storms.

The Miracle of the Inexplicable

005I’ve owned a lot of plants in my life. They come and they go. Some bi-annuals fade away. Some house plants have been inadvertently killed due to my busy schedule. The one plant that’s been a constant in my life for the past fifteen years is my night-blooming cirrus.

This is a Gift Plant. It’s cuttings were given to me by a neighbor. I’m on my second large container that holds its colossal greenery. This plant is hardy. Indigenously, it grows on the ground in the tropics. It’s singular flowers bloom once – at night between dusk and dawn – then they’re gone. Forever. Never again will I see the same blossom. There will be more to come. I never know when or on which side of the plant another will grow. If I’m blessed, and I have been, there will be more than one at a time lurking beneath the heavy foliage. So, I have to pay attention.

When the stems of the bloom slope down from a leaf, letting me know the phenomenon is about to happen, I’ll stay up late that night. Like a mid-wife excited about assisting in the birth of the next miracle coming into the world, I watch in wonder at a process I’ve seen over and over. I shoot a million pictures and text anyone who wants to see. The scent of the flower is concentrated. If the plant were in the house, every room would be filled with this ineffably orangey-musky smell. The bloom is white. It’s larger than the size of a man’s fist. Inside is another, tiny bloom. Like something otherworldly, this miniature star extends outward into the moonlight, heralding the nocturnal insect that’s supposed to come and steal its nectar.

The soul of this plant seems deep and meaning-seeking to me. This is the Gandhi, Jesus, Buddha or Mandela of all plants. It’s exotic, yet hardy. It’s majestic, yet not particularly pretty. It stands above all other flora and stays consistent with its purpose. It spreads its large leaves in an outward reach. I handed out some cuttings at work and they’ve remained happy by themselves in an empty glass or rooted in water. If a leaf cutting is slipped into mud, its tendrils spread and grow another plant with very little help. If I were to give the cirrus a personality trait, I’d say it’s indifferent in that pleasant way where it enjoys company but doesn’t need it to thrive. To me, it’s also the greatest metaphor I know that reflects the inexpressible spiritual moments in our lives.

You know those moments. Like the time a passed loved-one manifested at the foot of your bed to say hello (or good-bye), or the time you felt yourself in your sleep talking to your ancestors, or the time you know you saw little people sitting in the trees smiling down at you, or the time you felt the presence of God so strongly in your body you couldn’t speak, or the time you astral-travelled to another planet and woke up terrified yet wishing that could happen again, or the time you heard a loving voice behind you, yet no one was there. Those moments. Those singular moments we’re both terrified of, yet exhilarated by. Those are the moments that remind us we’re just one tiny carbon-being among a larger, unfathomable universe that’s beyond our comprehension yet, we feel so knowingly tied to. Those moments.

Sometimes we sleep through those moments, figuring there’ll be another bloom later on. Sometimes we stay up all night fascinated by the miracle of the inexplicable. Sometimes we explain them away because our mind can’t understand what happened. Sometimes we fear telling anyone because the community we’re tied to may expunge us, yet when we do share, we realize they too have had those moments. Some of us spend every waking hour attempting to get those moments back. Yet, like those elusive and hardy blooms, they come when they come. We just have to open to them when they happen.

We can look for them. We can ask for them to happen again. We can cultivate our lives to increase the probability of them. They will come again. Painfully, they will also go. Though in their coming and going, they leave something behind. They leave us with a reminder that we’re connected to something bigger and that something bigger is here for us. They leave us exhilarated by the miracle that is our life. They also leave us humble, because we can’t really explain how or why. If we want to stay open to them, we’re forced to just accept them. This is the hardest part – accepting something we really can’t understand. Yet, it’s in the acceptance of these mysterious experiences that we feel our Soul. Those moments leave us open to probabilities. They free us, for just a while, from the mundane routines in our lives that can keep us numb and forgetting the bigger picture.

Perhaps if we become like the cirrus, open to engagement, yet comfortable with just being, we can feel the inexplicable rhythm of those moments more regularly. Perhaps we can allow them to run their course, accepting the gift of their presence and their loss. 012