I had this great idea for how I would survive my first January back in the States (after seven luscious green-infused-with-red-flowers Januarys in East Africa): that I would defy reality and experience instead A Month of Light. It happened like this. At the end of December I realized I had 20 yoga classes remaining to complete by the February 1st expiration date. I had done ten classes in two months; now I would have to do 20 in one month. Interesting how that happens. Meanwhile, the church I recently started to attend, St. James, offers a seven-week series---a group that meets to explore and experience the way of Christian faith as we understand it and live it at St. James’ today. The meetings started the first weekend of January, I had signed up a while back.
I admit that I was intimidated by the idea of 20 yoga classes in 30 days; and no one would argue that it might be hard to give up lazy Sunday mornings for eight weeks. But I turned my fear into power: this situation, I thought, would be a Great Opportunity. I would immerse myself in faith, variations on prayer and peace and light and contemplation and beauty and wonder. I would capture it, shape it, paragraph it up to you, Dear Reader, and we could all bask in the anecdotes and insights----the shards---cast from this great light together. I would change my life.
Well the Month of Light has not been a total failure, but was thwarted, as I mark the second week of family illness----here in bed, surrounded by mountains of tissue and glasses of orange juice and bottles of Advil and pools of resentment. Yoga is a distant dream. My faith---any sort of faith---is lame and weak. I am not feeling the Light, or the inspiration---or the anything good.
I'm irritated and totally annoyed, snappy and regretful: I am indeed the opposite of how I set out to be.
Someone more entrenched in the subject of faith---a monk or a yoga teacher, among many others---would naturally interpret this experience more intuitively and wisely than I. But as I begin to emerge from this irritation of illness, I am going to accept this month as a lesson. And the lesson is: I can not (the world is telling me) simply clear my calender and postpone all commitments and obligations to begin a Life of Faith. I can't just schedule in a Month of Light at my convenience (especially during this most dark of months, and one particularly plagued with GERM-Y germs). Life, in other words, gets in the way of ... Life.
Maybe that's why---for me---faith (in what? In God. And what is God? The beauty of the world.
But what of suffering, does God just ignore those pockets? ... ) begins with seeing God and beauty in the minutiae of our daily errands and pursuits. Like a how a poet lives, unveiling tiny moments of peace. Like how this little cup of tea with its spoon next to my bed last night had such a simple, glorious way about it.
Well, it's not a Month of Light, but it's a start.
the month of light and everything else is certainly in that beautiful moment of the teacup. i brought on '09 with similar ambitions - to wake at 6 and meditate every morning - to sit and connect with the light in the darkness, and try to clear my mind, to be.here.now in these tumultuous times. with only a happy-to-sleep-in dog for dependents, i likely had an easier time of sticking to the routine at least, but alas a month of meditation does not bring enlightenment either... a start.
Posted by: GD | 30 January 2009 at 06:33 PM