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.

You Are Bigger Than The World

You are bigger than the world...yes, you. We all have a sense of this when we come into the planet for our sojourn as such and such a personality. By the time we are in our teens, we have somehow come up with a pretty permanent character to play. And yet, for all the protection it seems to offer, we are constantly in conflict with ourselves.

The spiritual path opens up before us when we come to understand that this conflict can never be resolved by thinking about it. On the contrary, the more we think, the more we sink down into the morass of our egos.

When I began studying with Vernon Howard, he was living in Boulder City, Nevada. He chose it, I think, because it was isolated and in the desert. You really had to make an effort to arrive in his presence. I went for the first time, guided by a dream. I had been listening to one of his audio tapes and knew I needed to see him in person.

He was, in a word, formidable. He allowed no room for anyone to argue with him intellectually. His job was to back our personas into a corner and he did an excellent job. By the same token, his job was also to confirm what our intuition was saying about him. With me, this happened in dreams, in things that students would say to me, and by synchronicity.

He never lied. And it is worth all the effort a student makes to be in the presence of someone without guile. Someone who knows the ego is rotten to the core and bent on keeping its so-called owner in hell. 

I am a lifelong student of truth and luckily for me, I always carry that with me, regardless of any ego shenanigans I might be up to. My husband was a student of truth as well. As some of you know, I have written many essays about our experiences as he bravely faced his death from multiple myeloma. Recently he came to me in a dream. It was wonderful and sad at the same time. That is how the path goes. It’s not about roses, roses, but about roses and thorns. Our egos are thorns that we must reckon with. Our true nature shines on.

There is a new MP3 on Audio 2010. Something about The Bars of Thought...

Just uploaded When The Mind Falls Away on Audio 2010 . Give it a listen. I like it. 

Dear Bob,

Everything is coming together at last. The book is finished. Within the last two weeks, both Rob and I had someone run into our cars and they are both in the body shop. He is walking there right now to pick mine up until I can find a new one. Mine is totalled, but they are going to straighten it out just enough so that I can drive it until I get a new one.

I feel this is a purging of sorts. I cannot feel one negative thing about it. I have learned the lesson well. That no matter what happens, choosing to go through it consciously is the only way out. And when we don’t do that, we are still forgiven.

Our love is fixed in the firmaments. You know that. Just as you know that I am doing fine. Better than fine. Although there are days when I may get discouraged, most of the time I feel my purpose in life is being fulfilled. My writing benefits me first and foremost; and hopefully, a few others.

So it’s on with the book, my love. A new chapter in my life is about to begin and I look forward to it. Of course, time is a illusion, but so are we, so is two-ness. There is only the One.

Love,

Vicki

For the great mystery is contained within us. It is flowing like wine and congealing like aspic. It is breaking our self-concepts into smithereens and dashing us into the pilings of the cosmic pier. The tsunami of the Self is bearing down on us and we are rushing for cover. No more time for tweeting and blogging and texting while we drive. Too late. It’s always too late.

How ironic. After posting the essay yesterday, a lady ran into the left rear side of my car in the grocery parking lot today. Crrrunch. Bang. Reread the paragraph above and make your own conclusions.

I have been so caught up in working on my book that I have not taken the time to enter the flow of intuitive writing, which I love to do. So I am going to clear my head and do that before something else snags my feeble little mind.

I have this to say. In spite of loss and sorrow and not wanting to go on alone, I have, I have. I have conquered innumerable fears for no other reason than it was time. The flow carries us even against our wills. What a mystery we are enacting while we brush our teeth and then eat chocolates before bed. When we strain at gnats and swallow camels. And truffles. And that is who we are.

And who we are not.

For the great mystery is contained within us. It is flowing like wine and congealing like aspic. It is breaking our self-concepts into smithereens and dashing us into the pilings of the cosmic pier. The tsunami of the Self is bearing down on us and we are rushing for cover. No more time for tweeting and blogging and texting while we drive. Too late. It’s always too late.

And there is never enough time to turn our lives around by taking thought. That bus pulled out of the station long ago.

And so we fritter our lives away while cancer or AIDS or whatever is taking someone’s life tonight. And somewhere hearts are breaking and stomachs are tight with dread and nurses bring pills and patients go suddenly quiet and leave on a mystery train.

And who we are suddenly kicks in.  And we do something great. Or not. And maybe a crack opens up in our psyche and an angel wings past it and we feel a chill.  And then we know that we are not alone.

And that we are standing on holy ground and wearing mismatched socks and it’s okay.

And so it goes.

Yesterday my son took some pictures of me. Thought I'd post one.
I knew he'd have to be patient with me since it was Mother's Day. Been feeling good about the book I'm trying to finish. Hopefully it will open a new chapter in my life. I was told I would do this, and it's taken a while for me to realize the dream.

I'm getting excited about the publication of my first book. I'll let you know when the title is locked in. The manuscript is all but finished. In any enterprise, tying up loose ends is the hardest thing because you save the thorniest problems for last. They are not always the biggest, either.


It is, essentially, the story of the five years that as a spiritual student, I struggled with my husband's impending death. Perhaps I feel better because I know how proud he would be that I actually finished it. He was my biggest champion, of course.


There are many things that I couldn't include. Between the lines of the essays lies the heart of the story. Bigger issues than life and death, even. Issues about the soul's purpose in taking a human birth.


I hope to write a follow-up to it in which I write more about how I live my life these days. The essays are already written, for the most part. It is the stringing them together that's the challenge.


Love, Vicki

Went to a Dreams and Mindfulness Session today at Cancer Wellness. Half a dozen of us sat around the table with two facilitators and went into a centered space and shared dreams. This is the most wonderful place. It's my experience that these wellness centers offer more than satsang. They offer a place of continued connection with who you really are. And they are free to cancer patients and family members.


At some point my spiritual path converged with wellness and those two things are working as one.


If the light of the body is the eye, the light of the spirit is "I."


Sometimes disease humbles us like nothing else will. Ironically, the cancer patients that I know are taking care of their spiritual lives better than many so-called spiritual students. The lines blur as the eyes fill with tears.

The Mental Pause

I am going through the Mental Pause. Not the menopause. This comes about the same time, though. Some advaitists teach this as an actual principle, can you imagine? They would have us do this on purpose! They advocate being in a room and staying with the emptiness. Not wondering why you came into the room in the first place. Was it to get some peanut butter or to defrost the refrigerator. Do Zen masters have this problem. Do they just sit and forget stuff, like milk and bread on the way home from the zendo. Are there patriarchs of peanut butter?

The old master sat with

his tongue stuck to the roof

of his mind.

Yum.

I am an advocate of all things tasty, fresh and good for you. I just can’t always remember it. So I end up eating Fritos and Cheetos and Cheeze Whiz and Cocoa Puffs with whole milk instead of soy or almond milk. I am like that in my impermanency. My thoughts are definitely impermanent. That is perhaps why I cannot finish what I start. War and Peace, to me, might include installments of Tvgasm.com and Facebook pages of my nearest and dearest jillion friends. I don’t Twitter because I don’t have time for the inanity. Stop the inanity. Now there’s a good Tweet.

The new master sat

with his iPad

watching the old frog

plop into the virtual pond.

Blog. Tweet.

As I travel through the badlands of this essay on the old gray mare of my mind, I suddenly decide to alight and encamp among the blog rushes growing wild around the virtual pond. Soon I am lost in thoughts of assorted and sundry enlightened ones blogging about their spiritual virtuosity. The reeds and clarinets of awakened egos are suddenly giving me a headache of monstrous proportions. Before I know it, I will be just another nondual celeb faking it until I am making it.  So onto the final haiku:

I dismantled my walking stick today

and sat down on the ground of my being.

Ouch.

Vicki Woodyard

http://www.bobwoodyard.com

Dear Readers, I have been in the throes of putting a manuscript together. I couldn’t come up with the right title and that was driving me crazy. I knew I hadn’t found the exact one. But last night it came to me. I won’t say what it is quite yet, but it is exactly right. I asked Swami Z what to call it. As some of you know, he is a fictional character that gives me full access to my heart. You may wonder how a piece of fiction can help me. Well, we are all fictional characters playing our roles on the stage of life.

I haven’t been posting many updates lately and probably no one cares. For those of you who do, I am still here...just working behind the scenes.

I write an essay from time to time or upload an MP3 I have recorded. Here is a brand-spanking new one called The Noisy Mind on Audio 2010 . If you can donate, please do so. Thank you for your presence in my life.

Love, Vicki

Just uploaded Inside Outside on Audio 2010 . I thought I better get a new MP3 up before I forgot how to make them. I hope you will give it a listen. It’s brief, as always. But brief doesn’t mean it’s without depth.

I may have to scrap the blog....most people are visiting my website instead.

It's address is Nurturing the Now .

Blogging is a funny thing. Some like it and some don't. Since my homepage has been up and running for so long, I thought a blog might be an interesting addition, but.....we shall see.

I was waiting to go to the dentist and just idling around the house. I went over to the bookcase and pulled out a book at random, which was Jonathan Livingston Seagull. An index card fell out of the book. In Bob’s shaky writing was printed these words: "By His stripes we are healed."

Another sign that he is with me as I try and polish my manuscript about our journey together. I am not sure how to interpret that Bible passage. To me, it is saying that by my husband’s sufferings, I am healed. For he surely went through devastation after devastation and bore them all with great dignity. All of his ribs broken from the cancer, all of his bone marrow infiltrated by it, he finally bled to death one drop at a time. In hospice, his nose bled for days until finally his heart stopped. There had been months of transfusions of blood and packed platelets to keep him alive, but finally the doctor said it was time to quit. He didn’t want to go; he wanted to stay as my protector. He asked me if I would ask the doctor to sign him out of hospice and put him back into the hospital.

“Yes, I can do that, if that is what Bob wants,” he said. But Bob died before that happened.

Five years later, an old index card falls out of an inspirational book. I sit and hold it in my hand. I read a bit from the book. “The only true law is that which leads to freedom,” Jonathan said. “There is no other.”

A friend had recommended that I get the book and read it to Bob as he was making his transition. He was never that interested; I suppose he was too weak to pay much attention. So it has been in the bookcase all these years. I have gotten rid of hundreds of spiritual books, but that is one that has remained. And I am so glad.