The Heart Opening In Between
Last weekend, a visit from distant family took us on a walk at Antietam Battlefield in Maryland. This site is known as the place where, on a beautiful September day in 1862, the deadliest single day of battle in US history came to pass as Northern and Southern troops met in the cornfields of this Maryland farmland.
It’s so easy to walk through my days without awareness of the past. Concrete and paved streets, fluorescent lighting, the distraction of technology, all hold little reminder of the human existence that ever was. Yet, here on these grounds that held the division of the Civil War, it feels like the past comes in to speak into the present—we are not so far away from all that has been.
This time of year, too, echoes with this reminder. October’s transition into November offers the pagan story that this is the time when the veil between the living and the dead becomes thin. That there is less separation and we walk among the dead for a time, a remembrance that there is always death before there is new life. Those who have passed seem to speak into my present—we are not so far from one another.
On November 1, I spoke the names of people who I like to imagine sitting close on that thin other side of the veil—my father, my mother in law, my dear friends Victoria and Adrienne. To say their names feels like I’m reaching out to part some foggy space between us, to remember the past and feel its nearness and recall the finite, short span of time that is one’s lifetime.
There’s a kind of living between two worlds, with a reverent awareness of the past and soft attention to the present, that seems to speak to the kind of heart stretching I sense that this season has me in. November sets a table before me that seems on one hand to overflow with gratitude. Social media posts remind me to look at and praise all I’ve been given, all I have to offer thanks for. Yet, the darkness and the dying leaves, the bare tree limbs and the memory of death remind me that it’s also ok to pay attention to all that’s missing. It’s all here together, I sense in the table invitation.
So I sit down and prepare to feast. This act of paying attention to the world both dim and bright is a continuous act of faith, a practice that takes embodiment to stand with structural soundness in the in-between of all that is and not close my eyes or crumble too quickly. Most days I need consistent and persistent reminders. Acknowledging both life and death, gratitude and frustration, joy and pain, is the work of a teetering kind of balance.
Every time I stand on the ground of Antietam, each time I speak the names of the dead, when I come together with family at a table set, I remember all who are not here, all that has not come to pass. And I sense all the healing, all the life and brightness that very much is present. To learn to hold both, to see beyond the coverings that allow me to turn my eyes away from what has been or away from what is, to remain permeable and not concreted in to some modern disconnection—this feels like important work.
In the practice of yoga, the sutras that establish its philosophy begin with the reminder: The practice of yoga (union) begins now. Now is layered over with so much that has been and so much that is. And now drifts into the next moment so quickly. To hold that tension is a kind of holiness that reminds me not to turn away from the now.
And you, friend? How do you meet this tension, how to do you greet this in yourself and in the world? We are in a time when these questions might nudge you, not to answer necessarily, but to stay curious and aware of. As one might say, questions to live into.
Recently, I offered a yoga class that I’m sharing with paid subscribers here. Most of the work is standing, using a chair for stability and exploration. The class ends with a deep release lying down over a bolster (a couch cushion or stack of blankets would also suffice). I’ve noticed that embodiment comes best lately when I have cultivated both stability in my lower body and expansive openness in my upper body. If you choose to practice friends, let me know how you feel after. You’ll find the practice after the blessing below. Be well and stay in touch.