Groundlessness, and the Art of Being Okay.

A note about this essay: I first published it to my personal blog in July of 2020. I was thinking I’d republish it here on March 13th to mark the second anniversary of the official beginning of the pandemic in the U.S., when President Trump declared it a national emergency. Now, with the sudden peril looming of a wide scale war in Eastern Europe and growing fears of China imminently moving on Taiwan, I’ve decided to re-post a couple weeks early. In ways I didn’t imagine when writing it, the reality of groundlessness and the challenge it presents is an ever more relevant topic for us all to ponder. I hope you find it useful.
L~

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On a walk with one of my sons last February we were discussing how it feels to lose our inner balance—the frustration of going from feeling steady and disposed to peace, able to think without becoming caught up or wound up—to feeling like it's all slipped away. We've lost our footing and now our peaceful days are over. All we have left is the disquiet of our loss and the longing to return to that comfortable place.  

The key, I told him, is knowing that feeling out of balance now does not mean your days of peace are behind you. Losing your balance is not a path away from peace, and returning to peace doesn't mean going back to being that person you were when you had it. 

The art of being okay, I said, is accepting the very moment you are in, knowing that you are not going back but you are still moving, circling around towards a different peace that will be deeper because it holds more knowledge and experience. It's a journey through states of growing and resting, and growing again. The art of being okay, I said, is trusting in that process. 

Thinking about the myriad ways this pandemic has turned lives upside down, creating fear and breaking hearts, I've been contemplating anew the loss of peace. 

It feels like the world has entered a collective moment of groundlessness where normal life has fallen away and we've all been left dangling, our legs flailing, feet seeking for a solid toehold and its promise of stability, the return of normality. People around the world are asking the same anxious question: What's next?

I've been asking myself a related question that feels to me even more crucial: Can I be more curious than afraid? 

I did start out this whole pandemic thing feeling up for that challenge. Certainly I understood that life was about to change dramatically—how could it not with all but "essential workers" being issued stay-at-home orders around the nation and much of the world? Yet our leaders were calling it "a pause" and indeed it felt temporary, like an unexpected, irritating detour down an unknown side street to avoid a giant crater in the road. We'd be back on track shortly, so it felt bearable, even framable as an adventure—a change of pace and scenery that might shake us up helpfully with its sense of uncertainty. 

And now it doesn't. 

Now it feels like we've gotten lost in the detour with cratered roads in every direction and the horizon growing dark and turbulent. The future is rolling towards us like an inescapable storm of epic proportions that will alter our landscape unavoidably; the wind and rain have already begun. For some people, the lightening has already struck. It doesn’t feel like an adventure anymore. And my aversion to the scenery is becoming unbearable. 

Which makes it the perfect ground for spiritual practice. 

I've noticed when I am meditating that pain draws me out of the moment. A stiff neck or an aching back sends my attention into the distracting stream of thoughts arising in my head rather than remaining centered on my breath. And if, in brief moments, I suddenly become aware that I've been distracted, the first thing I notice is the pain in my body and then, immediately, my resistance to remaining there with it. My mind tries to pull me right back out of the moment, out of Awareness, right back into Thinking.

We know that aversion to pain is a survival instinct shared by all sentient creatures. Yet the willingness to use pain—to regard it as an opportunity and suffer it as a means to grow—is distinctly human. It can be chosen. It can be cultivated. 

The effort to stay present despite the aches and pains of my body has shown me that resisting the impulse to escape my discomfort has the conditioning effect of deepening my patience. It expands my capacity for equanimity. It strengthens my ability simply to be. Which is not to say it has diminished my instinct to escape. But holding myself present has awakened me into crucial awareness of that impulse, which allows me to work with it, to choose to not be driven by it. And it has allowed me to take my seat in this charnel ground moment. 

A few years ago I learned about charnel ground as a transformative path. An actual charnel ground is a graveyard where corpses are left unburied to decompose, sometimes in pieces, scavenged by birds of prey and wild animals. It takes little imagination to know that such a place is filled with harrowing sights, sounds, and smells that could shake us to our core. 

And therein lies its power as a concept.

In Buddhist teaching, the charnel ground is a place of chaos in our lives. It's where we cannot hide from the turmoil inside or around us. It is a reality of inescapable adversity where we feel powerless. Trapped. Where peace feels beyond our reach. It is a place where fear might consume and drive us. 

For practitioners of Buddhism, charnel ground is the state of spiritual quandary where we are called to meet our fear with meditation, to take our seat right there in the center of it and breathe. Simply Be. It is the practice of staying mindfully present with soul-shaking turmoil in order to nurture our equanimity; it is the practice of discovering quiet refuge in the midst of unmanageable strife. 

This pandemic is spreading more than a virus around the world, it is spreading the tumult of uncertainty and the pain of loss. We have collectively stumbled into a kind of global charnel ground moment that is naturally triggering our deepest survival reflex: fight or flight. 

So I've been asking myself: How do I use this churning reality as an opportunity to grow towards peace? 

A raw truth—a recognizable truth—has surfaced out of this turbulence, shimmering with potential for anyone to grasp. The moment we are in—this actual second—is where reality exists. The past and future are always beyond our reach, but the present moment never is. It is always the single certainty of this material world that cannot be taken from us as long as we are conscious. We can use it, or squander it, but it is ours without asking. And what we do with it is our choice alone. 

So I've been trying to awaken into the moment and notice when I am caught-up spinning inner diatribes about My Fears For the Future, or Who Is To Blame For This Mess, or Why People Should See Things My Way. I am trying to observe when I am in thrall to anxiety or resentment, to recognize the tension of uncertainty or anger in my body and then to breathe consciously with it...into it...to experience it mindfully and with no inner commentary about it at all—no justifications, no self-recriminations. To just sit quietly with What Is.  

And I've been opening myself to the question: I wonder what's going to happen next?

Tone matters. We all know that. The quality of energy that manifests in our speech impacts the way others hear us. And it's true in self-talk as well. The tone of our inner voice impacts how we experience the moment. So rather than asking fretfully"What's next?!" I am consciously wondering to myself, purposely opening to possibilities with a sense of inquiry, of curiosity. And faith.

Ultimately, I find refuge in my understanding of Providence. Knowing that it operates in every single moment of every single moment, that it is preserving our spiritual freedom ever to choose love, holding open our path to goodness and joy, tethers me to hope. Knowing that however black the clouds, however hard the rain pours or the winds tear through my life, the Sun exists. Its rays of light and warmth are still shining beyond my awareness, anchoring me in confidence that regardless of the appearance of the moment, the blessings of life are not behind me. They are not even out of reach. 

And so it is when I notice myself flailing in the groundlessness of this heightened era of uncertainty, when I perceive myself resisting my life's new terrain and its formidable unknowns, I am pausing to breathe into the moment, recalling the actual power I do hold: my willingness to stay present and cultivate the quiet of my mind, the restful experience of Being. And the remembrance that life is truly a process, peace is always a practice, and I will be okay. 

We all will be okay.