Noise of the World

From Louise March, a pupil of Mr. Gurdjieff:

"Rather at the beginning of my work with him, while I was still amazed that Gurdjieff did not look for anything which constitutes the pleasures and strivings of all other men, he placed himself one day (when he was obviously tired) next to me after he returned from the café. We were on the terrace with the beautiful view of the garden at the Prieuré, where I was working on the translation of the first series of his writings. I asked him, ‘Why don’t you also work here with the view of the roses, the goldfish pond, and the trimmed rows of Sycamores, in such good air?’

"He replied, ‘I always work in cafés, dance halls, and similar places where I see people, how they are; where I see those most drunk, most abnormal. Seeing them I can produce the impulse of love in me, and from that I write my books….’ "*

This aspect has always fascinated me. When I worked with Mrs. March during the 1980s, she taught us much about learning to be quiet, to make space for something higher to come into our experience. We often ate in silence, and worked at crafts in workshops where a quiet atmosphere of concentration was encouraged.

In years since then there has been much to explore about residing deep within oneself while at the same time being immersed in the noise of people, media, commerce, and the busy world.

If I am close to myself and innerly working at times, externals sometimes shift from being distractions to reminders. It is a delicate process. For instance, once in a while, standing in a crowd, hearing the radio or even sitting in front of the TV serves up a tiny-pure stimulus to work on myself. It is the rare exception rather than the rule, but it happens...

If others in the Work or other traditions have explored along these lines, perhaps you can make a little noise about it here. ;-)

* The passage is quoted from an out of print book by Beth McCorkle titled "The Gurdjieff Years 1929 - 1949: Recollections by Louise March."

REALITY CHECK

Copped this from my friend Adam's facebook page today.

I Live in Two Worlds

I am standing with a circle of parents of girls on my daughter's basketball team. We are outside the school gym on a shiny tile floor, talking about this and that after the game. The conversation is pleasant, laced with laughter and a bit of light gossip. Somehow it comes to me that I am here in this moment; my body is standing upright on earth, swaying a tiny bit. We are all standing here, biped creatures, breathing, alive.


Most likely, no one else in the circle is having a moment of self-remembering, coming back to the stunningly simple fact of existing in this moment of Now. We're all just a bunch of Northern Virginia suburbanites talking amicably. I am feeling the subtle vividness of my senses opening up and sending impression-signals to something within me that registers the fact that I am alive; I am.

The funny thing is, I am in the same moment participating in a friendly banter session with other parents; we are talking about our kids, the game they just won, and stuff going on with other teams: Someone heard something about so and so; that other team's coach used to be in the military; that must account for why he yells at his girls sometimes during time-outs on the court. . .

I want to stay in contact with an awareness that I am here; to keep that delicate sense of "am-ness" going in the midst of all of this -- because it is a sacred feeling, being in touch with the miracle of existence. The conversation of basketball parents goes on; I get drawn into it and forget myself again and again -- but the thought and wish for Working comes back.

I wonder how to creatively solve the problem of Working now in this moment. There is a question: how can I Work in this situation? My hands are hanging loosely behind my back, touching a little. I put two fingers together, using that tiny sensation as a reminder that I'm alive. All the while, the lively conversation is going on. What should I do, split apart from it? Nod politely and walk away? Take a leave of absence from something I've critiqued as "superficial"?

It dawns on me somehow that the pathway is not to walk away, but rather to become more involved, get engaged more deeply through simple interest and attention, participate as genuinely and transparently as possible.

I turn back toward everyone, laugh and nod my head, make a comment, connect eye-beams with folks in the circle, listen to what is being said. Talking with others is as easy as riding a bicycle. We are all ordinary people on this earth. It is a blessing to be alive and to have this moment to enjoy together. There is an experience of the indescribable in the midst of all available descriptions and motions, right here in the lobby outside the gym.

L'Alchemiste

Synchronicities of the heart are no doubt familiar to you as they are occasionally to me.

There was a day years ago when I traveled to Boston to meet my friend, guitarist Pierre Bensusan. He was touring the U.S. and performing at Johnny D's in Somerville. We agreed to have dinner at the club before the show.

I had to take several trains to get there and was hurrying through the late rush hour crowds, determined to be on time. Plodding through the doors of the last subway car, I plopped into an empty seat and rubbed my aching neck.

As the train began to move, I looked up and faced a young man sitting in the seat directly across from me. He was reading a paperback book -- The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

Something about this sight touched me and I didn't know why. I just felt happy over the chance to visit with Pierre again and hear his music played fingerstyle on acoustic guitar -- it has been such an inspiration and a gift in my life.

I got to the venue on time, listened to Pierre's sound check, enjoyed dinner with him and friends and then settled into my seat for the concert.

Somewhere in the first set my ears opened wider as Pierre began to play a richly harmonic tune I had not heard before that he had newly composed. Afterwards, he told the audience it was called The Alchemist and was inspired by Paulo Coelho's book.

You can hear this lovely tune at Pierre's YouTube page, if you like. You'll also find there information about his latest U.S. tour -- International Guitar Night -- starting this month, which I can tell you will be a bonanza for lovers of all things musical.

Painting by the Equatorian artist, Jaime Zappata.