stay

I had the enormous privilege of spending last week in the Paradise Valley of Montana, at Chico Hot Springs, for the Elk River Writers Workshop. It was a week filled to the brim with workshops, panels, walks, readings, reckonings. I feel such gratitude for the bonds formed throughout the week, and I have a feeling I’ll be reflecting on lessons from the week for quite some time, like one that arrived the first full day of the workshop.

The first morning, something tugged in me to go to the early morning meditation with Mary Clare, despite having never participated in group meditation before. I think I knew that if I didn’t go the first day, I wouldn’t give myself permission to go the rest of the week. Something inside me seemed to know that how I showed up in the beginning of the week mattered, that to start the week with vulnerability and presence would be important. So I went.

Mary had chosen a beautiful spot on a wooden platform near the Chico gardens. She sat cross-legged on the ground, wrapped in a shawl, facing us, we in chairs in a crescent around her. Mary spoke softly, and everyone leaned in to listen. “The sun should rise over the mountain behind me while we meditate, warming our faces.” She reminded us to ground through our feet flat on the floor, to sit our hips back in our chairs. And then ever so gently, Mary encouraged us that whatever we might know of meditation, whatever contemplative practice we might have—drop it. Just drop it. After a few deep breaths together, we closed our eyes and settled into silence.

Chickadees called out, and robins. I noticed the sounds for a few moments, and then remembered Mary’s advice and dropped into stillness.

And Mary was right—the sun rose over the Absaroka mountains. But when it did, it wasn’t a gentle warming. The light seared, burned white hot in my eyelids. I was so uncomfortable, I wanted to flee, to fly my eyelids open, anything to escape the searing. I was uncomfortable, and I wanted to go. But a voice rose in me instead—you’re uncomfortable, so stay. Stay. So I stayed, and sat, and after a few moments, the discomfort lessened, and I returned to presence, breath moving through me, shoulders relaxed, thoughts emptied. And in that moment, I felt deeply connected, to the presence of the breathing beings around me, and to this familiar landscape that I love. Belonging returned by sitting through discomfort.

“One step beyond hope,” says Martha Beck, “everything is fine.”

One step beyond comfort, everything is fine.

Deep gratitude for the lessons of meditation. Deep gratitude to Mary for her presence and for this grounding, that truly did set up a week of lessons and learning. Find more about Mary’s work here.

What are you walking into this week with? What would it look like to just drop it?  

This week, where can you sit through discomfort? Where can you stay?