by Lucille Clifton
(at St. Mary’s)
may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that
I love this interview of Sherry Turkel by Bill Moyers. I read her book, Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other
Robert Duncan, “Childhood’s Retreat” from Ground Work: Before the War. Copyright © 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1974, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1982, 1984 by Robert Duncan. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
From a friend’s post on Facebook, I learned about animal communicator Anna Breytenbach and a black leopard named Spirit who lives at a sanctuary named Jukani in South Africa. I watched this amazing film about Anna’s work, which ends with the story of her work with Spirit. (Don’t skip to the end, watch the whole thing – it is life-changing.) That film included her mentor, Jon Young, an American tracker and naturalist.
During the film, Young spoke about the intuitive way that he tracks animals, and how at some point, he no longer uses his eyes to look at tracks, but instead begins to see something called “silver lines.” Later, an African tracker spoke of the same silver lines, and described feeling very distinct guiding sensations in his body that told him which direction to move. As Young and Breytenbach moved though the landscape, you could see both of them feeling into and opening to the energetic essence of the animal they were tracking. It seemed that they were harmonizing, letting their bodies, the landscape and the animal come into a single, aligned vibration.
Watching, I yearned to be able to intuit in that way, to feel that sense of connection with the animal that exists at the level of quanta, where we are all just vibration. Then I realized that they were describing the way that I make dances. I feel into the vibrational heart of the character or movement. I let myself be moved. I am listening for a resonance and attunement that tells me when I am “on.” Those are my silver lines.
With the horses, doing can get in the way. That is why I spend more and more time in being, even in the saddle. I love to ride, and I ride every day. I find that more and more my riding goal is about relationship, focusing on balance, awareness and tracking. Tracking is being aware of my breathing, the horse’s breathing, our moving connection and our emotional alignment. Tracking means looking for the silver lines that tell me when we are in sync, where the communication has opened out into pure vibration, below the level of thought and efforting. When that happens, I feel myself vibrating into joy, here now, feeling it all.
Seth Godin asks this question:
When no one is looking and you’re not trying, what shows on your face?
We have a default setting, an arrangement of muscles that gives our mouth and eyes a look. Some have, as a friend of mine says, “resting bitchy face.” People rely so much on reading faces that even though you might not intend it, people are making an assumption about your mood and your approachability.
I can remember my mother saying to me when I was being particularly scowly and dour, “Just smile a little bit.” I never thought of my mother as particularly wise, but she was right. My resting face needs some work. Well, maybe less work and more reflection of a life well lived, of pleasures deeply savored, of a receptivity to what is here now and what is coming.
I am currently studying Somatic Experiencing, a profoundly beautiful method for treating trauma. In SE, there is a concept called pendulation, which means a subtle and gradual oscillation between the activated trauma and its counter – say a feeling of calm, or relative safety.
When I think of this in relationship to what Seth is talking about and the feeling in my face, I wonder about letting that feeling of calm or pleasure or enjoyment flood my face. Try it. To me, it feels almost like melting the mask, like letting the bones soften. I like it. Then “pendulating” between the old mask, and the new softer feeling. Taking little sips of that new feeling lets me move gently toward it.
I think that since my daughter ran away, my face has felt like a frozen mask of hurt and sorrow. I have wanted some help with that from my trusty dermatologist. But I think that the real help can come from within, from letting the pendulum of my awareness swing toward love, toward the way I feel when I stroke my cat Ivy’s belly, toward the deep, deliciousness of feeling my horse Sanne’s nose on my lips. Beautiful. Orienting toward the horizon of softness and delight, so that when the big waves come I know where up is.