Dawn meditation had barely begun when I heard the soft, melodious baritone of a brass bell that, I guessed, was about the size of an orange. Its sound was irregular as if related to the movement of something or someone else. I’d heard it before, but never this close, as if an owl’s “Who cooks for you?” were coming from the next room.
In some Buddhist circles, the ring of a bell––whenever it occurs: out of the blue or by design––is an invitation to stop everything and return one’s consciousness to the present moment. In my case, on that day, the invitation arrived in the form of our neighbor’s steers. A herd of about twenty, the matriarch adorned with that bell to make the group easy to find should they wander. Indeed they had wandered, having escaped their pasture, and were now roaming our front yard.
I treasure meditation like nothing else. It quiets my being, allowing me to bring more space to any consideration, to be ever more receptive to the guidance of the universe. I believe it was Einstein who said if he had an hour to save the world he’d spend the first 55 minutes defining the problem. I’m with him. I’d be meditating those first 55, letting the solution (which I’m confident would already exist, as all solutions do in my experience) reveal itself. A bit like air, without meditation I’m one kind of dead. Yogananda said, “By meditation we connect the little joy of the soul with the vast joy of the Spirit.”
Ironically, I’ve known people who’ve gotten pissed if the deep silence of their meditation is interrupted. One of those people is me. It can take a while to learn that being unduly attached to anything is the opposite of love.
I smile remembering one of the delightful bon mots of my late mother-in-law: “Don’t run over Jesus in your hurry to get to church.”
And the not yet late Jesuit Greg Boyle, maybe the most popular Catholic in America, who might add: “Perhaps Jesus has come calling in his least recognizable form.”
One of meditation’s gifts is greater ease in remembering that everyone is our teacher.
I look more closely. The cattle are admiring my stone sculptures, frolicking in the riding ring, inspecting our tractor, and most of all enjoying freshly mown grass––all the while leaving poops the size of a small pizza.
I grab my camera and head for the door.
Big Smile