Spirituality and Loss

In our culture, grief and loss are often ignored, particularly in online nonduality. I became a writer while in the process of losing my husband to a fatal cancer. I, apparently, was the only one going through such an ordeal that was willing to write about it. It was considered poor form by many whose main goal was to rise above all personal identification.

But these days I notice that more and more nonduality proponents are undergoing necessary losses and being more open about it. That is a good thing, for awareness of grief is the same as awareness of not-grief. The witness does its job and the personal self, although essentially unreal, is in the dark night of the soul. Someone needs to notice because the veil has temporarily dropped.

We are all the characters in the greatest story ever told. When we have someone beloved in the valley of the shadow, we are personifying grief and loss. When Jesus goes into the tomb, we are Him as a person. When Mary cries for the loss of her Friend, we are her. And when she sees Him in his new body, we are both Mary and the Christ. It is all a teaching vehicle. But let us never forget that we are learning conscious compassion. It is poor form to say that Mary should have known better.

When I write about my inner life of moving through grief and beyond, sometimes I am amazed that I am still here and in a new place. It no longer feels raw and unbearable. I move through my life in an emptier way, but empty is my new fullness. Every evening as I do my stretching exercises at the foot of my bed, I gesture to the place where my husband used to sleep. I speak a word to him and a word to me, as if both of us were together in that place. I am comforted to know that we actually are. I am not sure what place we left behind, but where we are now is good enough.

I know you are already wondering what place I mean. It is hard to articulate but I will try. It is that place that has lived through the crucifixion and the resurrection of the personal. It is bittersweet and hard-won. It has gone through the valley of the shadow and become the shadow and the light. What it is now is whole and unreachable. Pure and stained with all that has touched the glory. Willing to give up dreams of perfection. Going on because every step was necessary. Every step was leading back home.

Not much goin' on here down south. I made some lemon blueberry scones that are to die for. Yesterday it was Chai cookies. Too hot to be out stirring around. So the stirring is in the mixing bowl.

Here's a homemade essay from scratch: Enjoy with a scone and cup of tea.

Resting In the Real

Resting in the real underlies everything we do, so why do we resist letting go of what is unreal? It is the unreal that clings to the unreal. The aphorism “Cling nowhere” is something that sounds downright wise, but we are too busy clinging to investigate it. Our monkey minds have very long tails and busy little paws.

There is a What If factory in my mind that is never short of workers. Thousands of thoughts hire thousands of other thoughts to manufacture What Ifs all day long. The irregulars are given away. What are some of the irregulars? What Ofs, What Fors, What Nows. You can drop by the factory and take home an armload for nothing. 

In my particular What If factory, awakening is a primary product. What if I was awake and what if I was enlightened are popular products. What if I stay asleep and what if I die before I wake sell well to the  advaita market.

The What If factory never suffers a downturn in sales unless an enlightenment seminar comes to town. And then, look out. For about a week, the factory has to let some thoughts go. That is because enlightenment is not about thought and What If is only a thought. I don’t like to admit it, but What If is a fearmonger disguised as a useful business. And I am running it in my head!

Down below the head is the heart, the original mattress factory. Here I rest in the real.

Vicki Woodyard

What I Know (Written around the table at Cancer Wellness)

I know how to cut to the chase–

To lay my heart bare to the bone.

To stand my ground as it slips away

Knowing I will fly at just the right time.

I know my pain and so I know yours

and I know how to lift the load.

I know how to settle into peace and

how to sleep at night.

I know nothing about anything that

isn’t true to my little, beating fleeting heart.

It’s all written there scratched out by a dime

I found in my pocket.

Vicki Woodyard

A Ballet Of The  Soul 

I see life as a ballet of the soul. In spite of crisis, boredom, ennui, tragedy, grace of the soul is being danced across the ages. It is an eternal rhythm that is subtly experienced. Believe it or not, this dance is not done by anyone that we know ourselves to be. It is the part of us that is immanent and transcendent. It knows nothing of sweat or toil. It’s only job is to express what IT is. And what it is is grace beyond measure.

We sit at the table drinking coffee and ruing what we did or didn’t do. We go to sleep and wake with aching heads and remember bad dreams. We don’t know how we got here or when we will leave. And the dance is happening. We work and rest and act the part we have been given to play. And the dance changes step and rhythm and lifts us up over the fog and lets us see the stars.

And when the dance needs a partner it finds one. And then it may leave that partner at the altar or by some violent act. And we denounce the dance. Indeed the mystery of the dance is that it is anonymous. No one there can claim to be anything but a dancer of what is the dance of life. And all too soon a silence falls upon the floor. And then it is that the dance begins on another stage in another universe. We sigh and go on. And then once again we find ourselves taken up by a new rhythm. And the dance finds us a new partner. And so it goes.


I found this astonishingly beautiful clip...please watch it.

June 16, 2010--Well, folks, everyone is out in the sun doing summery things. And it isn’t even summer yet. Here in Atlanta everyone is baking. Swami Z is too hot to bake. I haven’t seen him lately. As far as my book, I am going to take a deep breath and have it edited. I didn’t plan on having anyone edit it but myself, but it has been suggested...so I am looking for an editor now.

I have made some new MP3’s but the last one I posted, The Crate, got so few listeners that I might as well save them for another time. If anyone is itching to hear a new one, hit the Donate button and I will upload them :) Editors aren’t free and I am scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point. But one day I will have that book available for you, hopefully in a couple of months.

In the meantime, go to the stillpoint and listen to some symphonic silence. I do.

Love, Vicki

The Fall

I fell into the darkness seeking light. Oh, it was a terrible, bone crushing landing. The pieces of black sky and the dark waters of midnight swept over me and I was gone, lost in the land of mechanical introspection. The professor who tutored me in this place was called Nameless.

Soundless was Professor Nameless and my inner screams were magnified a thousand fold. I was searching my mind for a route of escape and the harder I searched, the darker it got. Where was the fair land of enchantment called enlightenment? Had the professor hidden it under a diabolical rock?

And then the winds of despair began to whip over me. My lips were parched and my throat closed around the words, God, help me. Nothing was heard now and the professor had disappeared into the midnight.

Suddenly something occurred to me. I turned around and began to walk away from myself. I had no other direction in which to go, you understand. From that point on I was enveloped in grace. It didn’t matter if I made my escape from darkness or not. The “I” seeking escape was left behind. I walked out a free spirit. I turned one last time to scan the darkness and all I saw was light.

Today my daughter would have been 39. Coincidentally (?) I sent my manuscript in to be formatted for publication. I have gone over it a jillion times and had to make a firm decision to STOP and be good enough.

No one is reading this here blog. Is it that dull? Is everyone going to my website instead. Does it really matter?

What really matters is that we are all living our passion. And I am doing that. Mine burns with a low, steady flame. I love being with the silence and writing as I am moved to do so.

I cherish an ordinary day filled with nothing but the day itself.

At night I love to settle in and watch TV. Right now I am watching So You Think You Can Dance....I love dance.

So that's it from the bottom line of everything's fine.

Love,
Vicki

I Am Not My Thoughts; I Just Think I Am

Beyond the mind, there is a place of deep silence. Cross the borders of the mechanical crankings of thought and enter there. See if you can stay longer than a few seconds. The monkeys guarding the gate know that you are apt to leave silence and become them. They know the score.

Once you are a monkey, you go ape. You swing through the jungle of your wild emotions and scattershot thoughts  like it would do you any good. And your eye is on the silence, you will return there any moment now. There is a nice ripe banana that is distracting you. But you will return to silence after that.

Comes the day when the pain of thought is cracking your heart wide open. It may be a disgrace, a shame or a loss. Never mind what it is; it is the event that causes you to make a vow to cross the border once again.

The silence says nothing about your return. It offers itself to you with generosity and you say a silent prayer. This is your home, your essence, your grace. Perhaps it knows how you meant to return, how you suffered when you thought you were your thoughts. But it says nothing. What happens in silence stays in silence.