The last of my scheduled retreats was intended as an indulgence: a weekend spent planting heirloom seeds with a master gardener. I had studies with this teacher before, her reverence for the earth clear in her words, and was looking forward to the wisdom she would share as we planted the gardens. It looked to be a fabulous weekend: clear skies and warm earth, perfect for the task at hand.
The day before the retreat began I went for a farewell hike. I had really enjoyed exploring the area on foot: the architectural details of the homes around the center; trails with their quiet and views; and the people an animals I met along the way. One favorite was a dog, a white Shiba Inu with a brown mask across the left side of her face. I never discovered she lived, but I loved it when I caught a glimpse: her shiny white Subaru Outback barreling down the road, plume of red dust in it’s wake, with her holding court, window down, from the bench seat behind the driver. She had the feel of indifferent royalty as she gazed out at the world (or perhaps that was just the wind in her face), and I found myself hoping to cross her path every time I stepped on to the road. This day I was in luck: after only a few minutes she came around the corner, and I waved at her human as she approached. They stopped and I was able to share how much I had appreciated the sight of her during my stay. (There was also some conversation about humans as dog staff and ‘strong willed’ dog temperments.) After a wave goodbye, the rest of the walk was spent in the hills, taking in the mountain air and city views one final time.
On the first day of the retreat our group split, half traveling to Prajna Mountain Refuge (nestled 9600 feet up in the Santa Fe Wilderness) and the rest of us remaining in the lowlands to touch up the beds we would be planting the next day. I had spent the days before weeding and composting beds, so I raised my hand when they asked for volunteers to tidy up the labyrinth. It was nice work, slow navigation of the maze with a bucket and trowel, teasing interlopers from between the rock borders. The sun rose, the air grew warmer, and I began to glow with the heat of the day. I filled one bucket with grass and other opportunists, transferred them to the wheelbarrow, then filled the bucket again, and again. After an hour or so I become lightheaded when I stand. Familiar with this from yoga, I sip from my water bottle before pressing on.
The next time I get up I am so dizzy I almost fall down. Through the haze of fading consciousness I hear Sharon’s voice from the week before, encouraging us to be kind to ourselves. Time to put theory to practice. I steady myself with a few deep breaths then make my way to the cool of the kitchen where I rinse my hands, wipe my face and drink some water. Still unsteady, I refill my glass and take it to the porch for rest. I settle in and regain my bearings, just in time for one of the teachers to pass by and address me in a low voice: “Lightweight”.
My foggy mind was suddenly clear, stunned by the casual aggression of the aside. I was reminded of how once we put a name or label on something we only see the label, and subsequently gloss over the true nature of the person or situation. I thought of the fundamental attribution error, how we judge ourselves by context and others by inherent traits, and how easy this makes it to judge ‘us’ as good and ‘them’ as bad. Then, in an instant, my heart broke open, recognizing how we separate ourselves so thoughtlessly: judge and judged, right and wrong, oppressor and oppressed, strong and weak. With this awareness I felt one with all beings, complete with a full-body buzz. I sat in the shade, sending lovingkindness to all beings. I sipped some more water. I wondered if this is what enlightenment feels like. After a while, I went back to my room, showered to cool off, and curled up to ponder this new insight.
But my insighting was not over for the day.
After dinner, we gathered in the zendo to share our groups’ adventures. The other group had meandered in caravan through foothill towns on their way to the Refuge, stopping in Chimayo, famous for miracles and hot chiles (pronounced chee-lays), and Truchas, a Spanish Land-Grant town where the chapel ceiling is stained with blood from past monks’ flagelations. They shared their experiences planting at high altitude, that the work that had seemed overwhelming when they began was accomplished in time to allow explore the area. Our group reflected on the preparations and plantings we had accomplished. There was much reverence by both groups for the old ways.
The lecture then turned to Memorial Day. One teacher explained it had originally been the last Monday in May, so this weekend was the True Observation of wartime losses. She told the story of how red poppies came to commemorate battle, and of a recent art installation that used poppies in protest of Iraqi and Afghani civilian casualties. The other teacher jumped in and shared her views of corporations and the military and how they were responsible for so much suffering and destruction, before turning to her opinions on the increasing use ‘mindfulness’: in corporate programs to increase productivity, by the military and VA to help soldiers cope with their experiences, and shared a caution to no confuse ‘wholehearteness’ with mindfulness. She finished by mentioning (with distain) the term ‘mindful fracking’.
As the evening progressed, my heat- and altitude-compromised mind came to hear not so much the words as the black-and-white sentiment behind them: one side all good, the other all bad. I though of friends who deliberately work in dark places, hoping to bring some light. I thought of the language as a tool of violence, and the growing recognition that demonizing and dehumanizing language is the tipping point between civil war and genocide. I heard language patterns the same as those used by my white nationalist or “add more military” friends when they described brown people, Middle-Eastern extremists,or others they disagreed with . I heard a wave of compassion towards the people on one side and complete derision of the other. I painfully recognized something I should have seen long before: there is a difference between anti-war and pro-peace. I wondered whether I’d been looking for one in the home of the other. My heart broke open further.
The next morning we were back in the garden, and with some good news. Several local stewards had extended samples of heirloom seeds: Tepary Beans, recently correlated with lower diabetes rates; blue and white corn that had been developed in this very valley; local squashes and legumes; and one hundred seeds of the famed Chimayo Chiles (recovered from a can in the back of a barn, the first time this strain had been planted outside the village); each with it’s own history, lovingly shared. After a hearty breakfast and a blessing ceremony for the land, the planting began.
We worked as a group at first, turning the soil, hoeing rows, entrusting the earth with seeds, but as the day grew warmer and the task list shorter we broke away to other things. We shucked the last of the previous year’s beans and corn, then ground the corn on a stone. We painted prayer flags that when raised would send our wishes in the five directions (and also flutter the birds away from the garden). After lunch there was music, residents on guitars and a banjo, and even some singing. It was a jovial atmosphere, filled with the satisfaction of meaningful work. By the time we cleaned up I had dirt under my nails, between my toes and in my nose, always a good thing in my book. But I was still unsettled by my perceptions the day before. It would take some time before I made sense of these thoughts.