So I sit, breathe in, and watch my breath, and my thoughts appear like clouds in the sky. What helps is to note them and let them pass through. “Thinking,” I say to myself. “Planning,” I notice. And then, as always, back to watching my breath.
Mary taught me the California quickie. In her studio in the woods of Topanga Canyon, we sat down together, she set the timer for five minutes, and then, in a far-off space and place, I rested briefly in a peace that felt timeless.
There are many versions of a loving-kindness meditation, which is a way of blessing the world. My version starts by breathing in love to myself. I imagine a golden light coming in with my breath and filling me from head to toe.
When I breathe out, I picture that love and light going to others, surrounding them like an aura. I might start with my family or friends or anyone I know who is suffering or in need. But whomever I start with, I ultimately imagine the light going farther—to troubled areas, our president, our planet. What surprises me is how sending love out feels even better than breathing love in.
Gay Lynn and I used to meditate together, the good old watch-your-breath way. Then Gay Lynn returned to Catholicism and found a way to meditate that touched her soul. It goes like this: Think of a word that signifies what you want to feel, such as love or peace or God, and keep returning to that thought when your mind drifts away.
I think of Divine Presence. And sometimes, as soon as I think it, a calm falls over me and I feel at peace.
So there I am, sitting in meditation and wondering yet again, What am I here for? What should I do? Oh yeah, watch my breath. But that’s so boring, so nothing, so totally blah. Then I feel this great relief as I realize there is nothing—nothing—I have to do for these ten or twenty minutes: no thinking, no planning, no working in any way. I can just be bored or still and watch my breath. I surrender. Ahhh.
It’s nice to ring a bell or a chime at the end. It gives a sense of closure, and the ritual’s complete.
HEART LIKE A CRYSTAL
I went to see a shaman. Brant Secunda. Down-home and funny, he grew up in New Jersey—my kind of shaman. So I signed up for his workshop: three days of teachings he learned from the Huichol Indians, a Mexican tribe that rescued him in the Sierra Madre Mountains. The young Brant had been searching for a spiritual teacher, but when he reached the jungles near Ixtlan, he became lost and sun-dazed and passed out. At the same time, the revered shaman Don José Matsuwa dreamed he saw Brant coming and sent his clansmen to save him.
Brant stayed in their village for eighteen years, living with this isolated tribe that followed age-old traditions. And Don José adopted Brant as his grandson and taught him all he knew through an arduous twelve-year apprenticeship.
“He put me in a cave without water for five days,” Brant said. “He told me, ‘If you die, the apprenticeship is over!’” Then, when Don José died at 110 (attributing his longevity to “not too much sex, only once a day”), he left Brant in his place to spread the Huichol wisdom.
In the workshop, Brant explained that shamanism is not just a form of healing but a way of life. He taught us how to strengthen our connection with nature, to honor and heal Mother Earth.
We also learned a Huichol practice to heal our inner wounds. Negative emotions leave holes inside you, Brant said, but you can fill and cleanse those holes by sitting and facing the fire, sun, or a candle and breathing in its light. “If you’re fearful, imagine opening your throat and letting in the light. If you’re angry, let the light into your stomach. If you’re jealous, let it into your heart.”
With plain talk and a modest manner, Brant spoke of amazing rituals and miracles he had seen. But what struck me most was the familiar, the common ground beneath. For under all their rituals and miracles, the Huichols were, like most people I know, simply looking for ways to deal with their emotions, connect with spirit, and become better people—which was why, Brant revealed, they use crystals.
That said, he opened a leather pouch, poured two dozen crystals onto a small Mexican rug, and asked each of us to choose one for our meditations.
Some of the crystals were so translucent you could see right through them. Others had a frosted appearance or mini-crystals within. I chose one of the latter, thinking its flaws made it more beautiful and would evoke a deeper meditation. Pleased with my pick, I felt a little sorry for those folks who had chosen ones that were boringly clear.
Then Brent said to make sure you liked your crystal; there was still time to change, and you wanted one that was as pure and transparent as possible since it would be a model for your heart. Aargh! I blew it. Humbled, I stepped forward and traded mine in for the clearest one left.
“Learn to harvest the light, brighten your spirit, and become crystal clear,” Brant said, holding up a crystal as a purifying tool.
Till then, I had considered crystals New-Agey, unaware of their long tradition. But reading a pamphlet that Brant passed out, I learned that the Huichol Indians have been using the crystal since ancient times “as a model for how our hearts should be. They strive to keep the crystal of their heart clear and vibrant so that light can shine through them . . . and into the world.”
When the workshop ended, I returned home and put the crystal on my altar. Now and then, I
