The Holy Pilgrimage (Day 18)

I once read an article about taping concerts which gave me a new perspective on live music. A member of a band was talking about how flattering it was that people wanted to tape and trade their shows, but how, when they did so, they were really missing out on the experience itself, distracted with power cords and stereo connections instead of listening to the concert. I quietly ceased my concert-taping days in order to be more present to the unfolding melodies and beats.

I thought of this message during the Resurrection Dance Theatre performance. Amused, I watched a high school student fidgeting with his digital camera in order to tape as much as possible. He consequently missed the performance due to battery problems, end of memory card issues, rain. I wanted to say, “Hey, kid, don’t worry about it and watch the show!”

I should have been speaking to myself.

I thought of another passage where a nun was trying to live Paul’s exhortation to “pray at all times without ceasing.” She became so obsessed with the idea that she could never do any of her other work, constantly breathing her sinfulness and begging for mercy. Finally a priest, concerned with her zeal, told her that she was praying well but living poorly. She became instantly happier when she stopped.

As the wind flowed through my hair at 40 miles an hour on the byways of Jacmel, I thought about how I had missed some of my delay routine here, meditation and prayer, reading, etc. Our hours are always different with groups, so sleep patterns change regularly. I simply do not receive the time I need to be in quiet space, with God and with my breath. I have lamented this frequently, but yesterday the realization was given to me that this silent time is often just like taping a performance. It is a time for rest, rejuvenation, for sure, but also for analyzing the day, considering ideas and experiences, or trying to forget about these things in favor of a still mind. However, when the Jacmel breeze hits your face, you should not worry about the hour that you should have been meditating. You open yourself to the breeze that goes where it blows. You feel the salt in the air. You watch the blue rocking of the waves.

Today when I went to the History Museum of Haiti, I tried to listen to the words of the guide, but instead of attempting to remember too many details of the story, I tried to feel the shadowy presence of the ghosts on the walls. Touissant Louverture. Dessaline. Mars Plaisir. Boukman. I tried to feel the horror of the indigenous people who were tortured and terrorized by Columbus and his crew. I tried to feel the weight of the shackles of the slaves who were sent in floating caskets. I tried to imagine the silent drums resting unplayed in the shade of plantation oppression. Not by my efforts, because it was impossible for me to really embody these things so far removed from my life, but by the murmuring of the dead did the monument open itself as sacred, a lotus surrounded by words, words locked in time, sadness meted out in the bloom.

The timing is peculiar for this unfolding. When I came to Haiti, I was prepared for all sorts of experiences, wanting to do all sorts of things while I was here. I slowly succumbed to the fact that not everything I would like to do is a good idea. I also became more passive because I was trying to make experience happen without success. Or I became too practical. Or, on occasion, fearful. Now I am obligated to be open to what comes. I was made to fail in order to appreciate more what was already in front of me.

I had already anticipated that I would be happy here just like home. I do not miss my life “back there,” nor music, which might be surprising to some. I have made many attempts in frequent travel to be at home anywhere, happy with anything or nothing, present here and now. This seems to be just another petal on the blossom of presence.

To be sure, I will still take as much time for my daily practice as I can—it brings moments of peacemaking around me and in me—but it must be balanced with the outward extravagances of living, the full and rooted occurrence of happenstance. It is in the unfolding of these outward moments that I have the most difficult time living, favoring the inner acceptance of thought, judgment, analysis. But they must become a see-saw, tottering between two poles. At some point they will be level with each other. When they do they become a smooth and poignant place like the horizon: ready for anything that intrudes itself into the yielding openness.

Having written this, I came upon my nightly reading by Deng Ming-Dao:
“When people visit a holy place, some say that the spirits of the place speak to them. Others remember the exotic pageantry. When it comes to sacred sites, it’s better to be a pilgrim than a tourist. Go with a humble attitude, and let your heart be moved by what you experience. Then you will receive the true treasure of the shrine.

Ultimately, it is not the place that is important; it is what you feel that is lasting. To visit a place is minor; to change within yourself is greater.”