Mornings Like This

I feel soft from the inside out. My bones are settled just where they want to be. The weight of my body is floating. There is an unfamiliar sensation in my jaw that I think they call “unclenched.” I can feel the fat of my eyebrows, the smoothness of my face, the backs of my hands. My interior volume is full, anchored, gently curving as I breathe. I sense the space beyond my skin, my boundaries insubstantial, the pulse of aliveness humming.

It’s been one of those mornings when my meditation drops me into an open field where my physical body meets the shape of my soul. Rigidity recedes, and what remains is fluid space that contains its own solidity. My perception alters, and I glimpse what the sages have been pointing to:  I sense my connection with the earth, with all beings, with Source; I feel my true nature as kindness and mercy; I realize I am loved (flawed as I am), complete, and whole.

I like this experience, and I admit, I want to hold on to it. I love the personal benefits of a spiritual practice:  the glowing feelings of contentment and serenity, and the intuition that, despite all the turmoil in the world, things will come around right in the end. I also love the dimension beyond the personal, the cord that runs through time and ties me to All-That-Is.  

I know that this altered sense will fade in a short while. I will become impatient with traffic or petty about an argument. The warmth and connection that feel so vivid now will evaporate, the window will constrict. Small forgotten muscles will knot themselves back together, and I will assume that tension and brittleness are normal.

It may seem sad to acknowledge, but I have experienced this tennis match between higher self and ego self so many times I have learned to recognize its pattern. But I also notice that each time I touch the divine, I add another layer of stability. Over time, the net of the tennis match moves forward, and the level of play advances. This is because the open field is my true nature, my original being, and the impatience and pettiness are my forgetting.

The ground of the field is porous. Each time I land here, a little more of the truth percolates down, and the forgetting sticks a little less. This gives me hope and motivates me to continue my spiritual practice.

I practice for mornings like this when things click, and a small slice of me starts to awaken. And, more importantly, I practice for all the mornings when my psyche tumbles about like broken bottles in a burlap bag, and advancing seems impossible.

The key is to keep practicing, keep showing up, keep faith that I am tuning a spiritual muscle that can carry me home. By committing to my practice, I am playing the long game, building toward a time when my glimpse may lengthen to a gaze, and only stability remains.

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash