…the practical man is here invited: to a training of his latent faculties, a bracing and brightening of his languid consciousness, an emancipation from the fetters of appearance, a turning of his attention to new levels of the world.
Underhill
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The writing was taking such great effort, and the pages of words I sent on to my spiritual teacher said nothing.
Wait,” she said, “Stop writing and wait.”
I did not want to wait, but I couldn’t see another way to be while the writing went into hibernation. Reluctantly, I turned toward waiting even though it seemed less glamorous than writing; a pale and uninspiring alternative.
Days became weeks. Still I waited. But I yearned to write. I began to hunt for topics to write about, something from which to build a narrative, some idea with life in it. But nothing took hold.
Waiting was what showed up, every day.
Then, I remembered a poem about waiting, and turned to it for guidance. It is by T.S. Eliot, from The Four Quartets:
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
This became my mantra: “Wait without hope, wait without love, wait without thought.” The mantra helped me. I felt the wisdom in hope, love and thought being hope, love and thought for the wrong thing. I could see how my pushing and yearning were bound to lead to writing that was nothing more than useless words on a page.
Still I could not let go of the hope for a speedy return to writing. The mantra could not hold back my desire. It gnawed at me, this hope that my wait could end. It sent me into more rounds of thinking: “Maybe this idea? Or this one?” My inner world became a battlefield where hoping and thinking and wanting joined forces to vanquish waiting. But waiting kept quietly showing up each morning, while I sat, pen in hand. The tension was painful and confusing.
One cold morning, huddled around the wood stove, I felt the deep depletion of the inner battle. I craved rest, an end to the pressure, an end to the obligation to write. I could not see that I alone was causing this pressure. I believed the pressure was coming from the outside.
I composed a letter to my spiritual teacher in my mind. “I am so tired. I need a break from writing. I will not be working on writing projects until further notice.” But then suddenly I remembered that I had already been instructed to WAIT. I could just WAIT. It was perfectly OK to wait.
The tension released, the battle was over. In the relief I felt as a small piece of suffering let go, I saw that waiting is always right here, when I surrender ideas and feelings, the ingredients of my self-concept.
I saw that the urgency to write, not wait, is my ego’s impulse to flee from no hope or thought. The push to know, to be in control, to find the right words and solve the mystery, this driving force topples me into thinking, feeling and suffering. I struggle to let go of knowing. I cling to being clever, being in charge.
I sing praises to the pain and frustration of the struggle that comes when I cling. I bow in gratitude to this living force of nature, the power of difficulty and the mystery that is veiled within it. Together they move me beyond what I can know, beyond what I could hope for without this terrible wonderful mysterious fulfilling power.
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.T. S. Eliot
Author: Lao Huo Shakya
A Single Thread is not a blog. If for some reason you need elucidation on the teaching, please contact the editor at: yao.xiang.editor@gmail.com