James Roose-Evans

When the pain of rejection or the experience of someone’s animosity is so intense, we need to breathe in the pain and then release it on the outgoing breath. We take the spear right into our hearts. We breathe in the pain and then release it. And, if need be, we do this for half an hour or whatever is the length of our meditation. It won’t automatically heal the wound, but if we persevere we sense a change, perhaps even learning to accept that there are some situations in life which may never be resolved.

I am reminded of an exercise I often used in my ritual workshops. People would form pairs and, seated in chairs facing each other, would be asked to gaze into their partner’s eyes for twenty minutes, never looking away, but gazing as lovers do. In this silence, in this gazing, each enters deeply into the other, unafraid, becoming naked and vulnerable, meeting at a depth that we rarely achieve.

I am reminded too of the story of the Buddha’s wordless sermon. It tells how, towards the end of his life, he was sitting out of doors with his disciples when he picked a flower and, without saying anything, held it up. Alone among the group one young monk, looked at the Buddha, smiled and nodded. The Buddha smiled back, for he knew that the monk had understood in silence what no words could express.

We live at a time when, increasingly, we need to study and absorb other religious traditions, for the emergence of a global society has brought with it the idea that we must develop a new consciousness and identity as world citizens, finding enrichment by relating to wider perspectives.

The only true way forward is the way within. It is a movement that must well up within each one of us. The way forward is quite simply the way inwards. That is the way in.

The Cistercian monk, Thomas Merton, only a few days before his death, said to a gathering of Buddhist and Christian monks in Sri Lanka:

We are going to have to create a new language of prayer. And this new language of prayer has to come out of something which transcends all our traditions, and comes out of the immediacy of love. We have to part now, aware of the love that unites us, the love that unites us in spite of real differences… The things that are on the surface on nothing, what is deep is the Real. We are creatures of love.

Reading these words I recall those of Dom Bede Griffiths in his ashram in India. Holding up his hand, he pointed to each finger in turn, saying, ‘This finger represents Hinduism, this Buddhism, this Christianity, this Judaism, this Islam.’ Then, pointing towards the centre of his palm, he added, ‘And it is here at the centre, that we all meet.’ In his last days increasingly repeated the phrase, ‘Go beyond! Go beyond!’

There are statues of smiling Buddhas, and the images of such contemporary Buddhist teachers as the Dalai Lama, Sogyal Rinpoche and many more, show them as laughing.

Someone once sent me a card which I have pinned up in front of me. It reads, ‘Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves – for they will have endless amusement!’

We can become too earnest about our practice of meditation; we can try too hard. I often recall the words of my Alexander teacher: ‘Be focused, but not intense!’

Lightness and ease, a sense of mischief, bubbling laughter, are among the priceless gifts of deep meditation.

As a boy we had an outdoor well. I remember turning the bucket down, down, into the water far below, then pumping the handle vigorously as the bucket rose to the surface full of icy cold water.

As we breathe in when meditating it is like drawing up the bucket from our inner depths. We have only to reach down into our innermost being and we shall find there all the wisdom we shall ever need. But whatever we draw up is not just for ourselves. When we meditate we do not do so just for ourselves, but for others. We reach down and we reach out. What we receive we give to others.

Someone wrote to me recently with these words which came to her during a meditation:

Draw deeply from the well of silence
Wherein Love may be found.
Allow it to pour over you
But also to flow through you.
Seek simply
To be a channel
This day and every day.

It is important to realise that, just as we experience many different kinds of weather in the outside world – from days of clear skies and warmth to blizzards, drenching rain and icy winds – so, too, there will be times when we sail through our meditation, but others when we struggle against mental winds and emotional storms. The chief thing to remember is that everything changes. I recall reading an article by a nun who had studied under a Hindu teacher. What she most learned was to be able to say: Today I feel lousy – it will pass! Today I feel wonderful – it will pass!

And so we persevere, in and out of season, in the same way that marriages go through different phases, each dry passage leading eventually to a new oasis.

Often when meditating, no matter how experienced we might be, the mind keeps wandering off and we have to call it back. I am reminded of training our cavalier spaniel who would keep darting off in different directions, and each time I would have to say ‘Heel!’ Patiently of course. Shouting does no good.

So now, whenever my mind wanders, I mentally say ‘Heel!’

But when our mind does dart off, it is important not to squash the thought: it may be quite innocuous, or it may contain some bitterness, resentment or anger that suddenly wells up. We need to look at it dispassionately, acknowledge it, and then return to our meditation. We will find that over time the bitterness or anger, or whatever, will gradually dissolve.

Sometimes people say to me, ‘Oh, I am old!’ and I reply, ‘No! You are older. That’s different.’ The word ‘old’ with its final ‘d’ is like the thud of a door slamming; whereas if we think in terms of ‘I am older’ we have the sense of an ongoing journey of discovery.

We may have pursued a job that earned us enough to support a family, but what will we do when there is no longer any need to turn up at the office? In retirement we have endless opportunities for new challenges, many of which may be without material reward, simply helping others. We have but one life and it is up to us to live it to the full.

Each of us has much to give. And so, long before we retire, we need to sit down and think: what shall I do when I have all the time in the world to myself? Am I just going to sit in front of the television and vegetate?! Perhaps, as many today are discovering, we may be able to do some of those things we have always wanted to do: to dance, act, paint, sculpt, make pots, mentor younger people – or maybe even care for those older than us.

The practice of silent stillness leads to an increased awareness of ourselves and others, to a greater humility – and a quicker sense of humour!

It is all too easy to become too intense, too solemn, too precious about meditating, taking ourselves too seriously. It is essential to keep in touch with the humus or soil of reality. To be related to the humus will beget humility, and true humility ripens into humour. As we become less and less deceived about ourselves we have fewer illusions and are therefore more aware of other people as themselves and not as carriers of our psychological projections.

We become, quite simply, quite naturally, more down to earth.