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Barefoot on the Earth Sometimes I feel like a dog off the leash. There’s that “click” of the catch, then a split-second of complete stillness, and then the dog is running as fast as it can across the expanse of field or beach. There’s a quality of liberation, of joy, of release that the dog seems to celebrate as it races first to one side, then the other, eyes gleaming and tongue hanging out. That’s how I get. Well maybe my tongue doesn’t actually hang out. I was walking down the boardwalk at Jetties Beach and I started to smile. When I got to the end and shuffled a few yards in my sandals, my smile got bigger. Then I paused, kicked off my sandals, picked them up, and continued barefoot, each step bringing me closer to the water. Ah. There is a kind of liberation of the spirit in walking barefoot on the earth. For me, standing barefoot on the sand, gazing out at the ocean, is at the same time joyous and peaceful. I think of it as a spiritual experience, and call the act of seeking it “spiritual practice.” This idea may not be everyone’s cup of tea. There are people who do not believe they have a spirit. Perhaps they are right. There are people who do not believe that I have a spirit. Perhaps they are right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that each of us find ways to still the clamor of our minds that results from the many demands we have upon us, the chores we have to do, the list of obligations, the intrusion of noise and traffic and government and, yes, children. Faith Oldham ’s method was the New York Times and a martini. Others prefer a good book and a glass of wine. Some take a walk. Others meditate, or do yoga—practices that demand a bit more commitment to the idea of seeking the spiritual. The Dalai Lama, certainly one of the world’s great spiritual leaders, and dedicated to his meditation practice, warns us with gentle humor not to try too hard for a spiritual experience: “The best meditation,” he says, “is sleep.” At the same time that I am interested in the science that attempts to explain what we feel when we have what is called a spiritual experience—for me that “dog off the leash” feeling—I am also conscious that it doesn’t really matter what the scientific explanation may be if the experience has the effect of moving me toward serenity, toward that balanced center of peacefulness that recharges my batteries. My grandmother used to get down on her knees to pray every night. It seemed excessive to me, even when I was a child. I tried it once. It made my knees hurt. But even through the ache of kneebone against hardwood, I felt a tremor that might have been the echo of what my grandmother experienced. It is not so much what the practice is, but the intention with which we enter into it and the extent to which it requires us to set aside the mundane. I like the way the Prophet, Kahlil Gibran, puts it. He says “Forget not” (hear that?) “Forget not that the Earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.” So I go down to the beach just before sunset, when the whole of Nantucket seems to be floating in the air, and I let the earth feel my bare feet and its winds play in my hair, and watch the ocean and listen to its sounds, and remember that I am connected to these remarkable creations. The science on spiritual practice is fascinating. Even the Dalai Lama has taken part in studies, along with other Tibetan Buddhist monks who are experienced practitioners of meditation. The data is gathered through studies of brain imagery while the monks meditate. Sometimes they are shown disturbing images, and the scientists measure how long it takes for them to return to a meditative state. The monks recover faster than ordinary people—it might be said that they recover their balance more readily. One concern of Tibetan Buddhism is the development of “open presence,” or awareness of all things: a mental state that is sometimes called “mindfulness.” Another is development of the ability to focus, to direct the attention. A third is the development of feelings of compassion for all beings. All of these abilities have practical applications for our everyday lives, although most of us aren’t able to spend the amount of time in meditation that Buddhist monks do. Even so, brain-imagery studies of ordinary Americans who are taught meditation show that with minimal practice they are able to improve their ability to stay calm despite stressful events. Each of us has our own way of finding a center of calm from which it is possible to be aware and yet compassionate; focused yet not tense; and connected to the world around us. We may sometimes need a reminder that the moments of respite we claim are not snatched selfishly from our obligations to others. The time we spend walking barefoot on the earth—in whatever way this metaphor suits us—is time that enables us to be more fully human, to live lives that are happier, more productive, more compassionate. The question that always arises for most of us when met with the suggestion that we find ways to give ourselves respite is, “When?” The traditional advice is to set aside 15 minutes in the early morning, or just before bed. This advice is almost useless for anyone who has ever been too rushed in the morning, or tired in the evening, to floss. Of course the right thing to do is liberate ourselves from a schedule that leaves us stretched this thin. That is usually easier said than done. But there are other ways—ways that, if pursued, can lead us out of the fog of too much to do into spiritual wholeness. The simple way that has always been my resource when life gets too busy is to steal moments. I think of it like that: “stealing” moments. With an emphasis on moments. Not too long ago I was off to a doctor’s appointment in Boston near the end of an incredibly busy week. Several pastoral emergencies had occupied me. There were more children than usual in the house. I arrived at Logan airport with just enough time to take the T or a taxi to my appointment. It was pretty much a toss-up: several changes on the T would take time, but so would a taxi in Boston ’s crowded streets. Of course the T was a whole lot less expensive, but it involved burrowing around in the city’s graceless tunnels. And the taxi, not much better, would mean the clangor and fumes of city traffic on a hot day and almost certainly no air conditioning. There was a third way. There was a boat. It’s true that the boat did not take me to the doctor’s appointment. It took me to Long Wharf , where I would again face the choice of T or taxi. But I stole a few moments of respite, time to cross the water, feel the wind in my face, smile into the sunshine. Perhaps sensing my need for respite, the boat captain invited me to stand at the front. I was the only passenger. I held onto the rim and let the air flow over me, like a dog with its head out a car window. Respite. Only a few moments; no real deviation from my schedule; but an opportunity for exuberance, joy, bliss—and spiritual renewal. Standing barefoot on the earth is a metaphor for all the ways we find to steal a few moments for spiritual re-connection with ourselves and the universe. It is also, for me, a practical way to set aside the normal routine and affirm a basic element of my humanity—that animal part of myself that yearns for a chance to run leashless. It doesn’t take long. You can even do it on Main Street if you can find a patch of grass. But I think it is better to walk barefoot in the garden, or on the beach, or anyplace where you can truly let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. To stand connected to the Earth and know that something deep inside rejoices in that connection. Each day comes to us as a new gift. Each day places before us the glories of Life. May we learn to fill our arms with the white and pink flowers, to reach out with both hands and grasp all the beauty we can hold. Even if it’s only for a moment. |
