Spiritual Lessons from Nature Part XIV: Who am I?

So, it turns out, I am not a hawk after all.

Let me explain.

Like many in New England and around the world, I have long admired that majestic winged predator called the hawk.  And short of new-agey beliefs around spirit animals that have never been my thing, for many years, decades really, I have felt a strong affinity, and even connection with, this animal that to me symbolized strength as beauty, independence as self-reliance, and no-nonsense as wisdom.

However, about a month ago, this all changed.

It happened when I was walking across a large campus-like lawn, and 3 hawks took a dive to within about 5-10 feet of me.

After my initial awe at having such a close encounter with not one, but three of my favorite bird, I realized they were all charging for the same exact squirrel that I can only presume was on each of their breakfast menus.

After some flapping of wings,squeals out of their pointed beaks, and a few attempts at a steal, only one of the hawks finally won out.

But what got me most, was the fact this fight between these three hawks for this one squirrel was happening on an extremely large green space that was jam packed with literally hundreds of chunky grey squirrels.

After this National Geographic-esque experience, I continued to walk across the campus toward my own destination and reflected on what I had seen, at which point it dawned upon me: I am not a hawk.  

Which is to say, I am not competitive. I am not a predator. And, I am not an “each man for himself” kind of person- or animal as the case may be.

Of course I already knew this at a cognitive level, but I don't know that I had ever really radically accepted it.

This realization about myself reminded me of a scene from a 2014 animated Disney movie that I like to watch with my son called Big Hero 6, in which the character of Baymax, a robot designed to provide healthcare, tries to explain to the main character Hiro that he cannot be aggressive or violent toward others by saying:

My programming prevents me from injuring a human being.

Similarly, to Baymax, I don't think I'm programmed or wired to be a hawk.

So a couple weeks after that day on campus lawn, I made a tough decision to leave a group that had a mission and purpose that I cared very deeply about, but happened to be a group comprised of several hawks who were more than okay with ripping metaphorical squirrels out of each other's mouths.

And even knowing the culture of the group is not who I am, it  was still very difficult to walk away.

They say some monastics and committed yogis practice meditation for years or even decades with one single spiritual question or mantra: “Who Am I?"

I for one have never used this question as part of my meditation practice yet, but particularly now, I understand how it could be quite revealing to pull away the layers of "I," and ego, and the self (small "s") by repeating this question over and over.

Until then, I may not know who I am, but I have grown in awareness of who I am not.

And to me, that is something.

Poetry 144: Ordinary

Ordinary

I always thought

I was supposed to

be more than

ordinary.

Because somewhere

along the way,

ordinary became

equated with

not enough.

But when my

daughter crawls

into my bed, 

and nestles

her little body

as close as

she possibly can

into that

nook along

the curve of

my own,

I have to wonder,

maybe this is

ordinary.

And maybe this

is enough.

-Me

Dedicated to American Poet Mary Oliver 1935-2019. Rest in peace.

Poetry 143: Use of Self

Use of Self

I want this pain

to soften me.

I need to know

it served
a purpose
beyond the
suffering that
is always here.

 

Like a potter

kneading out
the week-old
clay, I must be
be reused. 

The bruise on

my left hipbone.
The scar underneath
my right knee.

 

The night terrors

that wake me up
screaming.
The inability
to pass
a mother’s day
without a
renewed heartache.

 

Pain wears

us down-

if we are lucky.

It takes us

down to zero
where the one
and only response
can be
kindness.

 

I grow softer

by the minute,
and I’m only
at the half-way
mark.

 

But what happens

if this use of
self becomes
a transfiguration
of Self? 

Would "I" evaporate

into thin
air?
Would the line
between you
and me finally
blur beyond
recognition?

 

In the matrix
of divine reason,
in which we
are continuously
born into this life,
can pain actually
remove those
inner caverns
of hardened wounds
and frozen undercurrents
so that a soft underbelly
of that which
is really real 
might be
revealed?

 

Perhaps, she says.

God willing,

let me

find out.

-Me

Poetry 142: The Calling

The Calling

 

What is it you want
from me?

I quite honestly

don’t know.

 

For every left I take,
it turns out it should
have been
a right.

 

I feel like I waste

my time
pursuing the
unpursuable;
yet somehow not
realizing it until
I’m knee deep
in shit.

 

The shit of regret.
The shit of resentment,
Disappointment.
Confusion.

 

I don’t know
what I’ve been
called here to do...
I don’t know
how to proceed...

 

I long for your
guidance.
Your consult.
And most especially,
your reassurance.

 

I do try to hear
your voice-
amidst the cacophony
and misfirings
of my own unbalanced
neurotransmitters.
 

Things are as

they should be.

All is well.

 

Do not be afraid.

 

And yet,
I still don’t trust
your will.
I still can’t trust
your will.

 

It’s not that
I live in the dark.

 

(I wish...)

No, I’m profoundly

aware that my way
is not working;
that my way is
the driving force of
my own suffering
and that of others
too.

 

But what on this

green earth,

in this one precious life,
will it take
for me to
surrender to your
loving presence?

 

To dwell in your
house and let you
dwell in mine?

 

If only I knew...

 

Perhaps it can

only be grace.

Again.

 

-Me