The Field and the Feel of the New

When we sink our attention down into this felt vibrating ocean, we can start to discern the energy of immediacy, the energy of aliveness, the energy of nourishment. We can also start to discern when that’s lacking, when there’s a feeling of flat or dead–no juice. Every aspect of the constructed “me” is old and dead and flat—the sound of the voice from there, the feel of the energy emanating from a being who is speaking or loving from there. The “me” is a dead remnant of a moment once alive, now gone. To live embodied in God, as God, listening to God, is like feeling into what is alive–what words are alive, what action is alive, and moving as one with that. This is the new. Through manifestation, the Holy is giving birth every single second to a whole new world. A world dies and is reborn, everything, a continuous blooming and dying off. When we cling to things that are older than just here, just now, we remove ourselves from our source of joy, nourishment and aliveness and we suffer. Instead of surfing the wave of immediacy, we build a concrete bunker in the middle of the ocean and get inside it. You can feel in the space when someone shares something from the quaking naked immediacy (yum!), and when something is encumbered with past encrusted concept (ho hum). You can feel and taste the difference.

In any given moment, there is felt information coming from this field. It doesn’t come to your head. This information is about what’s real, what is, and what action, or inaction, word, deed or stillness presses your body against the body of the Beloved as one. But to hear and feel this, at first anyway, we have to slow down, because we have to be softened open, below conceptual speed reality, to the texture and movement of this now and its texture of aliveness.

It builds on itself when we’re willing. When we find ourselves softened open to the field and something real moves and we follow it, the bridge of embodiment is strengthened. Our bodies sense that to be real and here and open and willing has its own reward. The field actually feeds the body–it’s almost like little doggy treats when we risk to stay true. Everyone around us might be freaking out, our life might be falling apart, but inside, every time that we adhere to that feel of aliveness and rightness and wholeness we are basically participating in God rather than battling God. There is an ancient conditioned habit in us to be on autopilot and to let our conceptual strategies, both conscious and unconscious, run the show. Same as it ever was. The body knows that that does not bring the kind of food we’re looking for, we’re longing for, we’re starving for. We can focus on some kind of big bang awakening down the road as the grand solution to this starvation, this agony, but in every moment, the awake, vibrating, quaking invitation is right here in the felt field. Will you dance with me? Or will you ignore me, be unconscious of me, and follow your own godless way?

So much of this is unconscious, so that when we name these things, we have to constantly add a blanket of mercy on ourselves for the unfortunate fact that we are human. It’s only unfortunate until we realize how fortunate we are… just to be here. To notice that, we have to let go of all the demands we’re making about how it should be and open to the feel and miracle of how it is–the feel of the new, the feel of the birthing. You can feel in your body the feeling of the new through this softening, opening, dropping attention into the field, every cell opening like a little cup to the immediacy and vibrating of just now. Let everything else fade, all our security blankets, our teddies, our bunkers. The Holy wants us naked, unprotected, clueless, open and innocent, so we are soft enough and open enough to hear her. Every bit of suffering comes from hauling something from the past into the present and worshiping it, and turning our backs on what’s here, alive and vibrating. So welcome to the last day to which we’ll give the name 2011! Every moment there is a sunrise, there is a birthing, there is, as my friend Elle says, the rosy glow of a new day. We have to feel for it like an anteater sniffs out ants, fall in love with it, risk our lives for it. Welcome to the new!

Zero

There is something that does not move no matter what comes, no matter what will be lost.

I like to call it zero. It’s sitting in zero. It’s sitting in Being. It’s so slow that it has stopped. And it has a fierce fidelity to what is authentically unfolding in the moment out of Being. It is like a fierce mama bear protective of the little things that poke their heads out in this quiet. It stands with them. It stands like a birthing mama guarding the little head as it crowns. It celebrates the purity and the newborn-ness. It says bow here. Do not add anything. Do not take anything away. Don’t run from it. Don’t pelt fruit at it. Here we stand with what’s being born in its tiny infancy, authentic and shyly showing itself, birthed from Being. No care for what it can be used for, where it’s going, what it means about you, me or someone else. It simply stands with that crowning without a name, without a use, standing with that moment because it’s precious, because it’s the Holy unfolding itself.

We seldom have felt someone standing here, before things get named, in a total abiding with the shoots of our unfolding as Being. We have forgotten it is possible. We zoom over our beauty. We blow past the subtle petals of our unfolding, and this holy birthing that’s happening all the time through us. No matter if the newborn bits are ensuring our growth or enlightenment or our doom, proof of our goodness or sure evidence of our cursedness — before all that, this moment right here and what emerges authentically is Holy.

In Being, we’re not manipulating anything. We’re not trying to go anywhere. We’re not trying to heal anything. We follow the thread of what’s alive and we behold it in reverent silence, even if every egoic hand wants to grasp it and turn it into something. “Does this mean I’m going somewhere? Am I doing it right? Am I there yet?” The Holy is shining and peeking its head out, now, like this. Shhhhhhhh.

We are not shown how to stay with the natural expression of unfolding through us, though we were born knowing it. As we grew up, no one saw it, no one reflected it, stood with it, protected it, had faith in it, or knew it was going somewhere good simply because it was. It was slapped, shocked, harshed upon, told it wasn’t enough, sped up, and turned around. We were left in concept-land, zooming over our actual life in our fighter plane, high up and away from this right here: our own organic unfolding. Now we’re stuck up here in our everyday minds with our will trying to build something out of concept that will never be as solid as what the Holy organically reveals.

We can stand in what emerges naturally from Being. We can slow down to the speed of Being, which is zero. It has nothing to show for itself. It’s simply a miracle as it is. Everything that is zero is true. Everything that has any kind of velocity inside is false and born of fear.

True movement is pure and inside it we are zero. It is Beingness flowing into Beingness and looks like movement but it’s empty. When we say nothing ever happens, it is because when we sit in zero, there is only zero and even what moves is still. At some point when you imbibe it a bit, you start to feel it as yourself. That fidelity starts to wake in you. The refusal to dance like a trained dog for anyone is born, even if the mind says that everyone is going to leave you and that you completely suck. In refusing to preempt the unfolding present, you stay true to the speed of Being. You don’t move unless Being moves, because you cannot leave that place and offer anything real, and you’re sick to death of manipulation and skipping over what’s actually, purely and humbly here.

Nobody can make you fall in love with your Being. Sadly, we think that there’s something out there that’s more important than our slow, unfolding Being. There isn’t. Just shiny, crappy mirages. To live from Being is to die in the fidelity of going nowhere and being nobody.

As soon as we add anything to this simple Being, we’re off trying to split ourselves apart. What a glorious feeling it is to see even for a moment that we so deeply belong, that we are so deeply goodness itself. Here’s our zero. Our pool, our wellspring, like a big vacuum, a big dark hole in the center of us that we formerly thought was our problem. It’s actually a portal to the Holy. And through that empty Being the Holy paints the world. There are few of us who are in utter fidelity to the tiny sprout-like movement of that vacuum. We’re too busy trying to get big, get good, get strong, get sophisticated, get safe. We have forgotten how to rest as zero and stand in what’s simple and authentic.

I had the utter good fortune in my life to be faced with a crossroads: I could find that little bubbling wellspring of authenticity, that ground of solid immovable Being, or I could kill myself. Because somehow the volume was turned up on the suffering enough that it was either be true or die from being driven crazy by the mind’s insanity. I was so disgusted and unable to live inside my little dog dance any more. It sounds virtuous, but it was simply survival, crawling onto the shore of the empty naked moment.

You get to stand with this one. This slowest, nothing-to-show-for-yourself one, this that is authentically here, that doesn’t feel like it’s enough. At first we’re terrified of zero–we’re terrified we’ll be no one, we’ll be nowhere, no one will love us, we’ll end up in a gutter, the train will go on without us. But below, behind, throughout and beyond that, there’s just this zero. And out of the fidelity to that Being, out of this magnificent black hole that we are, an inordinate amount of glory spills, and each movement is the poetry of being in motion, utterly empty.

Your Real Mother

You wake
for a moment and
look at me as if
you do not know
me.

This sweet game we
play, where I am
the mother, and you are
the child is
only good while
we’re awake.

For as soon
As your head grows
heavy, I can hear
your real Mother
calling you
home.

—Jeannie Zandi

All

passing headlights
flash, your one eye
lit, blue, penetrating; the other
a glint
but dark.

the same, perhaps, as
the meteor that streamed
blue fire, then gone, then fire
again
then gone.

i am
the night.
you say
things to me, through
me. my cells
are listening in
the form of waving leaves,
streetlamps, a lone
limping drunk.

i want it all
you say. what
is all
i ask. good question
you say.
did you answer?

what is light
is light,
what is dark,
is light.
that is all.

All of This for Nothing

Was I always so
luscious? Did I gleam and
ripple, without adornment, like
the sparkling sea?
Every cell in my body
dancing! Shining
from the inside with
a light that comes from
nowhere.

Pinned to the moment
like a butterfly, no longer anywhere
else to go. Candle flickering inside
my heart, breath of my child
breathing me. Heart
thickly laden with invisible fruit, joy
beaming from my eyes.

Something broke inside, something laid down,
exhausted from the struggle, and
died. Whatever I gave
myself to then has flowered
inside and
taken over, turning
my home into night sky.

I cannot tell
you, where I have gone,
where I am going. As the darkness
took me, the road disappeared
behind, and ahead,
nothing.

Only walking through now and always
now. All of this
for nothing! With the entire universe
lovemaking
inside me, I have stopped
asking anyone
for anything.

—Jeannie Zandi