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‘Oh, if only it were possible to find understanding,’ Joseph exclaimed. ‘If only there were a dogma to believe in. Everything is contradictory, everything tangential; there are no certainties anywhere. Everything can be interpreted in the opposite sense…. Isn’t there any truth? Is there no real and valid doctrine?’
The Master said …. ‘There is truth… But the doctrine you desire, absolute, perfect dogma that alone provides wisdom, does not exist. Nor should you long for a perfect doctrine, my friend. Rather, you should long for the perfection of yourself. The deity is within you, not in ideas and books. Truth is lived, not taught. Be prepared for conflicts…. I can see they have already begun.’
(The Glass Bead Game, Herman Hesse, translated by Richard and Clara Winston)
Sometimes the path is not what you expect; but more like an invisible thread woven into the fabric of your everyday; a close warmth arising in your breath that remembers you home. And occasionally the one you thought was your teacher is not the one sitting up the front, but a little creature outside the window.
Breakfast in the main hall. I’m sitting at the window facing east as the sun rises between the trees. There is a flat, spherical surface, a bird feeder, outside in the shrubbery. Small birds are pecking at the disk. In the dim light they appear grey. I watch the activity of the small birds while I eat cold porridge. Over several minutes, five or six little birds come and go, pecking in silent camaraderie. Inside the hall I can hear the sounds of other porridge eaters and intimations of toast buttering, the smell of coffee.
Abruptly, out of nowhere, a larger black bird lands on the bird feeder and the little grey birds scatter and disappear. The larger black bird struts across the feeder to where the small grey birds were pecking, looks about, then flies off. It’s as if whatever the tiny birds were feeding upon is of no interest to the larger black bird. The bigger bird is looking for something more substantial, something bigger, more impressive perhaps. Once the black bird has gone, the small grey birds return and resume pecking with petite, quick movements, discovering small, invisible morsels that the bigger bird couldn’t see, or didn’t care for.
This little drama repeats three times as I eat my porridge and the sun slowly rises into bright, clear day: the bigger black bird arrives and small grey birds disappear. The black bird investigates where the smaller birds have been pecking but discovers nothing significant and leaves. Only to return when the small grey birds resume their pecking.
Perhaps I should leave it there and allow you to glean-or-peck your own understanding (or not) from this simple parade around the bird feeder. But ego can’t resist telling you what I discovered, and why I decided to write about little grey birds instead of a night dreaming of driving with Thoth, in a beat-up jalopy through fog and pouring rain, laughing. Or visions of cocoon women hanging in shadowy caves, intimate encounters with that dark animal goddess and giant butterflies, or gazing into another being’s eyes, to glimpse the bare beauty of their soul – all the Wow-stuff that happened. And other unexpected discoveries on the Path.
Watching the little grey birds on that morning after a month’s retreat, I saw clearly that my path emerges out of many ordinary morsels that feed and nourish me. While at times I, like the black bird, want bigger, more exciting nuggets to feed on, often I can’t find them, or I’m so busy looking for some Wow-stuff that I overlook the tiny miracles and discoveries hidden in plain view that I stumble across every day, nestled amongst the ordinary; in the washing up; or light coming through the trees; the way the leaves make that shuddering sound that shivers the back of my neck, as if the trees are in communion with my bones. A little bit of magic amongst the mundane.
I could say more, I can feel my writing ego flaring up and wanting to pour itself onto the page. But often, in writing, as it is on the path (and maybe in life), less is more.
May you be well and happy and may you find nourishment and interest in the smallest of things each day. Thank you Wangapeka; and to my fellow pilgrims who I worked and played, laughed and sat with over the month, I bow to you in gratitude. And to Namgyal Rinpoche who is now firmly and irrevocably embedded in my heart, thank you.
And a small raw morsel of poem arising out of the solo on
Touching the Earth retreat
Rita McInnes is a writer and psychologist living and writing in Ballarat, Australia. Rita spent a month at Wangapeka over June and July, attending several retreats and engaging in Service as Path. You can find her at ritamcinnes.com