Inward Vision

At the end of June I was on retreat at Menla. The experience of the land there was pretty incredible, but what struck me the most was the wind. It ripped through the valley many times per day in powerful, smooth currents that rustled the leaves and carved through the bands of energy.

I used to have a strange and persistent aversion to wind— maybe it was many years with blunt bangs, but it use to annoy me so intensely that I would sometimes actually grunt or yell about it. When I began a practice of working with the elements energetically, I knew I needed to confront this agitation and slowly I forged a healthier relationship with wind.
So although, of course, the wind exists outside my personal frame of reference, it felt auspicious to feel the brisk air move through the land on retreat as I emerged transformed and reassembled, if you’ll forgive the hyperbole.

And it was an added wink from the universe that fully half of my time in the Outer Banks this month included days of 25+ mph winds and gale-like gusts. While playing in the waves it sounded almost like static or “TV snow” moving through my ears, and I welcomed its ability to drown out the mind.

The element of Air is usually associated with the mind, as well as the suit of Swords in the Tarot. I’ve long been attracted to working with the elements, but Air was not the one that came most naturally to me, thinker though I am.  As I’ve worked on detaching my sense of identity from the machinations of my mind, I’ve found much benefit in contemplating the movement of thoughts and the cultivation of internal wind.

When we are stressed, distracted, anxious, and discontent, we often seek to calm the mind. We wish for it to be slow and steady, easeful and cohesive. This is probably a top goal that I have heard from people coming to therapy: I want to feel more calm.
Which is a more pleasant experience than a racing mind perhaps, but when thoughts are moving fast this goal can feel elusive and unattainable. And often times there is some meaning, a “pointing out” that we miss when we seek to quell the mind instead of listen beyond the static.
What does that mean?

If all behavior has some (positive) purpose, then even our ruminating thoughts, our most irrational fixations, hold potential keys to our healing. Getting to that potential requires us to examine the quality or themes of our thoughts, moving ever deeper towards their roots in order to address the underlying cause of our distress.

A possible example to illustrate:   A preoccupation with the “to-do list” that leads to endless planning.

Why the planning? There’s so many things to do, I can’t forget any of them.

Why not? Because (something bad) will happen if I make a mistake.

And then what? (People) will be disappointed in me, I will be seen as irresponsible, and I will feel bad about myself.

Why would you feel bad about yourself? Because if I’m not succeeding then I’m not good enough, and other people will know that.

And here we arrive at a root, something that is worth addressing rather than sweeping away. Now maybe you did need to write down a schedule for getting important things done, but that doesn’t require rumination. This question of “good enough,” of making mistakes, and self-image requires different actions. Much like the good friend that knows when to challenge you and when to just listen, our intuition and self-attunement can guide us towards positive self-talk or “letting the mind run” and learning where these feelings come from.

I was heartened to observe this subtle theme while reading the Yoga Sutras of Pantajali:  yes, we are trying to shape and loosen the mind, but we can’t neglect also addressing the underlying roots and desires that drive thoughts. We must actually resolve or dissolve them, which often takes some time being present with whatever emotions arise.  Usually more than a few rounds of this will be necessary, perhaps quite a few. Our daily practice forms the preparation and structure that allows wisdom to take root in the place of that inner wounding.

I might think of this process as a clearing wind, that wipes away debris and freshens the energy of the mind.  When we listen without interrupting, the mind can continue its flow in a single direction until it reaches a point of resistance. There we find a fertile space of healing, where we can address the wounds that normally rest out of sight. The term “active listening” comes to mind, meaning that we are not formulating our response simultaneously, or  focusing on some details and not others. We are present, observing and feeling, and erring on the side of some silence or pause to let the thread fully unfurl.

Seeking to listen first, without attaching— identifying themes rather than focusing on the exact content— changes our fundamental relationship to discontent of the mind. Over time we identify the origins of our insecurities, anxieties, fears, and grief. For most, these feelings will ultimately simplify to just a few core wounds that have taken on a variety of manifestations.
With practice it can become almost automatic to see the underlying themes that drive certain thoughts.  The stories around the thought patterns become less compelling, and we can more quickly attune to the needs calling for our attention.
As those needs are attuned and soothed, the noticing doesn’t require further action and there’s no need to “let the thought go” because it passes on its own. We say “oh yes, this old story, I remember that.  I wonder why is this surfacing now?”

The distance between emotion and awareness, that once might have been experienced as avoidance, becomes the trunk of a tree which is firmly planted as the branches sway and shake. The presence of intrusive or unpleasant thoughts is then an opportunity, rather than an interruption. We become an observer of the mind, knowing when to tend and when to let it run its course.
We remember that we are not merely our mind and its thoughts. We may even come to welcome these interruptions because they are invitations back to the deeper essence of who we really are.

Wind in the environment can be an invitation to explore the mind, and a metaphorical tool for considering how the mind can change. What needs to be stilled and what needs to move? What are the qualities of this movement of air, and in what ways do they mirror or contrast with movement of the mind? Can the quality of this energy sweep through the ears, and clear the debris?  Can it reveal something you would benefit from seeing? Can it cool what is too hot, can it feed a flame which has grown dim?

It’s no surprise that one of the most powerful tools to organize and soothe the mind is to shape and move the breath, our literal internal wind. Through the conscious process of breathing we can uplift our energy or calm it, we can move energy and sensation around the body, and we can draw the senses inward. In the last year I’ve been called back to the more subtle and slow forms of Breathwork, or Pranayama. And I’ve designed a workshop coming up next month that will include conscious movement of the breath, along with visualization and other elemental energy techniques, to drop below the surface of the mind and navigate the Terrain of the Body. For it is in the body that we often find those roots of our discontent, that take the form of thoughts and stories. The “unthought known” seeks to protect us from touching in the pain of our wounds, and in allowing it to be felt we can forge new paths of connection and security.

You can tune into the next newsletter for a continuation of elemental energy in the body, but for now if you haven’t seen it already, you might wish to work with this conscious breath practice to deepen your relationship the the breath itself.