Pebbles in Shoes

An anecdote about Mr. Gurdjieff was posted on Paulo Coelho's blog recently, recounting the story of a man at the Prieure whose personality constantly irritated and exasperated the other members of the community. When he left the group, everyone was happy and relieved. But to their chagrin, Gurdjieff brought him back and secretly paid him to stay. . .solely for the purpose of giving community members some extra incentive for work on themselves.

Groups I've lived and worked with have had, at the very least, one or two incorrigible characters who could push your tolerance to the limit. They weren't being paid to hang around, but group leaders were aware of the dynamic and made an unspoken place for this "pebble in shoe" effect.

Sometimes you end up doing the job yourself, functioning by accident or design as a pebble in the shoe for someone else. Or someone serves as a pebble in the shoe for you. There's no getting around it in the elbow-to-elbow, Purgatorial atmosphere of a group that works together for the long term.

The result for anyone on the receiving end is simply little bits of reaction and suffering -- either the automatic kind, or suffering that is of use in linking up to work and awareness.

A friend of mine up in the little Rochester group takes it literally and puts a real pebble in her shoe from time to time. Talk about a sole to soul connection...

This business extends beyond working in spiritual groups. In life at the office, a situation stares me in the face. This morning I almost lost my cool at someone and realized the pebble of her behavior might turn into a boulder quickly if I don't get back to being collected and present. She's the kind of person Gurdjieff would have hired to spice up the atmosphere just when things were getting cozy-smooth.

An office friend said, "It's easy to be nice to nice people. With the ones you don't like, it's harder."

All's Well That Pours Well

Gurdjieff group intensive work period in upstate NY. I joined the kitchen crew, preparing stir-fry for a gathering of 120.

I reconnected with three or four people not seen in 27 years. Warm encounters, sounds, breezes and smells opened my 'seven senses,' reminding of life's precious existence in the moment. I tried to stay grounded in physical work, moving two pianos, pulling nails out of old beams, and chopping sweet red peppers.

Before the meal was served, I was recruited to pour Armagnac into 120 thimble-sized ceramic cups and shotglasses. "Now be generous," said the work day manager. "Whoever poured the Armagnac yesterday gave us practically nothing. Today is Mr. Nyland's 32nd memorial; so make 'em doubles."

Using a little pitcher-spout, I poured and poured and poured. Simple repetitive motion, a tiny stray drop of sublime liquid falling once in a while on on the table cloth or even onto the wooden floor where we do the Movements. I started to sweat and get a little nervous when it seemed Armagnac would run out before reaching the end. But the last drops fell perfectly into the last shotglass, and thus was our Gurdjieff group stocked with more than the usual 'homeopathic dose' to make a proper toast after the meal.

This episode didn't sit well with a 'Senior Madam' of the group, who is beloved to me despite her occasional capacity to 'bend iron with a withering glance.' She accosted me after the meal and expressed displeasure. "We don't do SHOTS around here, you know!" I stood my ground, and she walked away with a shrug as if to say, "Ekh. . .it is what it is."

On break from the kitchen, I walked around the Barn and came upon a room full of sitting knitters knitting. What a nice atmosphere emanated from that room.

This is not a 'mum' group. There's breathing room for conversation in every corner. Talking with friends and colleagues provides an active setting for the work of observation and presence in the moment. Or failing that, you simply become identified and lose yourself in it. Quite like what happens out in the routine world.

But then, with reminders for Work pervading the atmosphere and pressing into your senses, there is a chance you can come back to yourself. . . right on the spot, or during a moment alone.

She flew 3,000 miles from Oregon for this.

I've met and heard the accounts of a few people who sat at Mr. Gurdjieff's table. Sometimes I wonder: how would it go if he would visit our Work days, and watch us shuffling about and talking and conducting business in his name.

No cause for reproach there. In the absence of avatars, you work sincerely with your mates, do the best you can, with an invisible angel on one shoulder and an invisible devil on the other, each whispering in your ear. Once in a while your attention shakes free, hearing echoes of a toast Mr. Nyland gave many years ago: "Drink to Gurdjieff. He helps us."

Simon and Bill and Garfunkel and Me

My friend Bill drove down from Warwick in his magnificent new (old) Ford Crown Victoria, stopping for an overnight en route to North Carolina. We had a quiet 6:30 a.m. walk in the nature center with little Rosie, and spent the morning talking about music, friends, and stuff. It is such a pure reminder when friends from the group visit.


Bill recalls the first time he met Mr. Nyland in 1969, at a meeting upstairs at the Gotham Book Mart on 46th Street in New York.

"Simon and Garfunkel came to the meeting. They had both ridden in on motorcycles and were wearing their leather motorcycle jackets. Garfunkel was very interested and even continued coming to meetings for a while. Simon had no interest in what was being discussed and kept looking around, obviously bored."

Bill's experience was different. To this day he vividly recalls the impression that Mr. Nyland made. "He was addressing a room packed with people, but at a certain point I had the strangest sense that he was speaking to me, and just at the moment when I felt it strongest, he looked directly at me."

Thirty-eight years and thousands of work days later. . .who is and who isn't still crazy after all these years?

A portable suggestion

Ravi Ravindra: "Madame de Salzmann came into the workshop where there was a great deal of noise from the saws and drills. I was struggling over a large piece of wood on the table saw. She came close to me and smiled. Over the din, she said loudly, "Do you see it is the same here as in the sitting?" *

I was in the Guild laundry room, making marbled paper. I used to do it there because you need a big sink and running water to rinse the sheets, and lines with clothespins to dry the papers. I hovered over the marbling tank, pulling a pin-toothed comb to drag circles of pigment through caragheenan thickened water.

Mrs. March entered the room on silent sandaled feet, eyes glittering at me under her wide brimmed straw hat.

"Ahhhhh. . .you have been here long? How does it go?"

"Pretty good."


She leaned over the tray to watch me working. "Yahhhh, so dis is how it is. Mmm-hmm." She was pleased to observe the body mechanics involved in marbling, a craft she wasn't so familiar with.

You have to be fluid in this activity, bend your back and maintain a steady motion with the hand on the comb. If you're shaky, or calm and present, the color pattern shows it. It is one of those arts that unforgivingly reflects back how you are in the moment.

"So." She looked up at me. "You can say 'I. . . . .am. . . .' " Gliding her arm to mimic my motion. "I. . .am. . ."

We smiled at each other with nothing much to say, and I kept working. After a minute she took her leave to go upstairs to the weaving workshop.

21 years later, I'd tell her, "It was a good suggestion, thank you. Applicable in a lot of situations: shoveling snow, buttering toast, wiping the table clean, sitting with the parents on my kid's basketball team. Took a long time; I'm just getting a bit of traction with it."

*Heart Without Measure, Morning Light Press