This morning I awoke in the ashram of my mind, which was not just of the mind. I rose and dressed and filled my glass with water, setting out to greet the Phoenix dawn. Roaring garbage trucks blared salutations. It is, after all, Phoenix, and in 2015 the city still must work. Regardless (regarding) I felt old gurus trailing slightly by my side as I turned into an affluent alcove for its wealth of desert trees. With my water and jean jacket uniform, I am learning lessons of the morn.
My face is calm and open. Not with the blankness of one who, yes, chose a meek kindness over bombast, but has not yet inhabited himself. This calm and open face belongs to one learning without much todo, with a quiet dedication and an increasingly light touch. The most useful mode: listening. Here I strive to be a poised listener and a student of the silence from which it springs. Who let me into this ashram, this apprenticeship of my own fashioning, drawn on by the looks and the books that whispered my name when I was alone enough to hear them? Drawn by a light pull on a heart string long tugged taught, wrung into hyper-tension when I used to turn away, but now that I walk toward its source, its tension gives to momentum. I follow the string, which I can feel almost exclusively when surrounded by large amounts of space, when my companions are selected by careful acceptance of their uttered invitations.
I continued my walk to a suitable end and turned back. The next step: unlocking the door and preparing coffee. Most basic of basics. Here I am practicing. Exactly what I don’t know matters, but what does is that it isn’t overly-spoken. Exploration, incubation, recalibration. I am tuning to a different, slower, more intentional rhythm. These things are very simple. This simplicity will be the bedrock for future becoming, but for now, I simply listen.