Like the Lotus

Kelly and I arrived in Bellingham, Washington on Saturday afternoon. Other than the discomfort of being packed in my VW Golf station wagon with Kelly and Locket in the front and the two kitties in the back, the drive was uneventful. And, given the moving van’s slower-moving journey, we are in a largely-empty house completing some of the initial move-in chores and getting acclimated to the new place.

In other news, we were somewhere in Oregon when the election results came in. Like many people, I took a deep, teary-eyed breath in and felt my first full exhale in four years. Of course, there is the expected GOP-fuckery  to walk through between now and the time the electoral college casts votes and then onward to Inauguration Day. In the midst of those impending stresses and strains, the proceedings feel full of hope and possibility, even with a disappointing showing from white women voters. (I know, I know— not me, and chances are not you, dear reader, but well, wow- not an impressive demographic of which to currently be a part. More on that at some point.) 

We had writing group last night and I thought it would be fun to honor the Vice-President elect, Kamala Harris,  with a writing prompt about the lotus flower. I suggested,  And like the lotus, I…. 

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And like the lotus, I have roots in the mud and grow toward the light. The metaphor, of course, is both apt and over-used. The mud aspect seems obvious enough for there is mud aplenty amidst personal tragedies, the snare of addiction’s seductive call,  the betrayals of my  best intentions, and the inevitable grief, anger, and remorse that live in the swamp of such all-too familiar patterns.  

And,  there is the mud inherent in life itself — the messy, smelly, fertile  circumstances of being human  that clings to my footsteps and leaves a trail behind me like well-worn hiking boots on a white carpet. This is the mud that is no fault of my own. This is the  mud that can not be wished, prayed, or meditated away for this  mud comes with being alive and inexorably bound to Mother Earth, a body, and to one another. The suffering of life itself is a mud that cannot be avoided, can not always be tidied up, set straight, or explained away. And yet, the mud of  life  as it is creates the  longing for transcendence, the necessity  for growth, asks that I, like the petals of the lotus flower, reach toward illumination of any kind, wherever it is offered.  I grow toward the light— from roots  that reach into the mud of my own mistakes and shortcomings, as well as into the limitations that are built into the complex equation of my own humanity and relational life. 

I have always responded to  the metaphor  of the lotus flower as a promise of spiritual  unfolding, the assurance of Grace’s redemptive power, and as a symbol   of St, Augustine’s assertion that while “there is no saint without a past, there is no sinner without a future.”  Today, the metaphor of the lotus flower feels less dual in nature— more seamless and integrated — than it has to me in years past. After all, how else can a flower grow, except from the darkness toward the light?  Why separate the roots from the stem and the flower from the mud out of which it emerges?  Why give the priority of my praise to the visible flower that is pleasing and fail to see that the blossom is simply  the inevitable unfolding of a process encoded in, and moving through, Nature as Itself?  

Of course, these are rhetorical questions, to which any ordinary person has answers that are not too hard to find given that  suffering is painful, the mud is messy, and our embodiment is fraught with peril. After all, even when glass ceilings break, one must still be cautious of the sharp edges of jealousy, the  fragments of hatred, the shards of deceit that litter the floor during momentous occasions of breakthrough. And yet, there is a beauty in the mess, dignity can arise in the midst of corruption, and  the sound of glass breaking is a reminder of possibility for us all.  

On one level, whether today  I  identify with the mud or the flower, the entire organism is essential— each aspect necessary and vital to the whole, worthy of my praise and appreciation in some way, if, and when, they can be made useful. Not to be confused with “it all happens for reason” or any trite new-age aphorism, this perspective is a life’s work and a practice of moving-toward, rather than arriving-at.

All right, the day calls with some asana and organizational tasks. 

Keep the faith.

More soon.