Accidental Contemplation

An odd fascination.

That's what I felt, reading Chapter 4 of A Sunlit Absence.

And, at first, a sort of dance of both recognition and defense—as I began to see similarities between my year outdoors and Laird's description of how Contemplation progresses.

Then I smiled. A smile of release.

After all, in my year of outdoor solitude, I had not promised to stick to any practice except going outside with my cup of tea and (sometimes) a little book of Psalms. I had not promised to focus on a particular prayer, or to "scrutinize [my] thoughts" or stay in a state of "attention." And I certainly had not promised to avoid a nap, should it be so gracious as to show up after I finished my last sip of tea.

So, between Laird's lovely descriptions of "light meeting Light" and "spaciousness" and "inner awareness" that seemed a little abstract, I suddenly began to remember something that felt real and touchable.

I remembered that, simply by showing up outside every day for a whole year, to a relatively quiet place where no one required anything of me, I had begun to want to know the names of things. Of plants and creatures and the people who served me in stores or at ticket counters. I remembered how I had begun to open doors for people, to listen to the sound of their voices (and be more willing to be quiet in order to gain the privilege). And, yes, I remembered how I had "dozed" (an apparent aberration to be avoided in the Contemplative stance). Oh, I had dozed! And it had been a wonder. Because if I stayed outside and let the restful time pass, I always moved back into a state of unforced attention again; the nap had been needful.

Laird says that one of the steps in Contemplation is to come to a place where you feel you can "just be." Maybe one of the most difficult places to do this is in regards to spiritual practice itself, accepting that it's okay if we have chosen the nap and the tea and the little book of Psalms. It is not a contest after all.