I do not celebrate Christmas, and have not for most of my adult life. The spirit of joy is in the giving all year ‘round; it is in the generosity of heart and soul that emerges in spontaneous acts of giving, love and kindness despite the date on the calendar. For me, Christmas is not a day more special or sacred than any other. Honestly, I rather hunker in close to home, quiet and reflective as one year is closing and a new one opens. What I most appreciate about this time of year is the abundance of rituals, deep and sacred practices, that occur in churches, labyrinths, people’s homes, ferry terminals, on beaches, in quiet conversations, and in forests. I will share here a few that are giving shape this week.
On the night of the 21st, about forty of us convened in an island home. I went alone, but knew that I would recognize some of the people there. Laid in spirals on the floor of the large and high-ceilinged room were tree boughs, creating a pathway to a small altar with a single lit candle. As drumming, chanting and meditation began, those who so chose took a turn walking with an unlit votive candle to the center of the spiral. My personal meditation focused on walking toward my own darkness, lighting my small candle with the larger one on the altar, and emerging from the spiral with my light brightly shining, in offering to the world. (It was perfect because I had some unexpected events occur earlier that day that took me right to the core of my pain, my dark place. The ritual helped me remember to count my blessings, to extend myself in gratitude for my very life breath.) We each placed our lit candle on a gold star lining the edges of the spiral path. The oldest person in the room was my partner’s ninety one year old mother. The youngest was a child who looked scarcely more than six. It was a short ceremony, less than two hours, and I was able to forge deeper connections with people I did not know well. It was a simple and inspiring ritual.
Last evening I participated in the island’s first “flash mob meditation.” (You can put those words into your search engine and see what this is, and how it is manifesting around the globe.) The idea was to sit in meditation in order that others might be exposed to other walks of life and spiritual traditions. For many of us it was also a meditation for world peace. This event was coordinated with more than two hundred and fifty other cities around the globe. After an hour-long meditation on the cement floor of our island’s ferry terminal, we were led by flute music into fifteen minutes of songlike chanting; our voices were accompanied throughout the “sound bath” by a drum and harmonium. What most surprised me about my practice of sitting in meditation in this busy public place was the vulnerability I felt as the air around me swirled and shifted with the close proximity of commuters passing through the terminal on their way home. I was seated on a small yoga block on the floor, with my back against a cement pillar. The voices - sometimes angry words, other times laughing, quiet conversations, even the word ‘meditator’ - grew louder and then ebbed as the city-goers returned to their lives on this side of the water. I heard the many different sounds that shoes can make, as well as the loud rumbling of wheels on the janitor’s cart. I breathed and sat, eyes closed in meditation, practicing just allowing the sensory input to pass through me. I did not open my eyes, my primary “vehicle” for taking in information around me; I felt exposed and yet without my sight, I was unable to respond to what transpired around me. So, for me, it was a practice of being vulnerable to the presence of strangers, sound, and activity without my reliable sense of vision. It was most definitely a challenge to watch my discursive mind making stories about each sound and returning again and again and again to the breath, to awareness. This, too, was a simple yet profound practice.
Tonight, a “retired” environmental educator friend is leading a low tide beach walk for those interested in checking out the marine life below the midwinter tide line. I am excited to see what we find! I do know that part of this experience will be the ritual of donning muck boots and layers of warm clothing, no doubt topped with raingear…
It is the simplicity of being outside, in a group of commuters, with acquaintances in a candlelit room – without a lot of decoration, pomp, or props but with items from outside (that can be offered back to the natural world once their designated role is complete) – that fills me during this wintertime.
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
