The Skeptical Mystic

         It was the ugliest, most disorganized thing I’d ever seen---two overdone radial bridges forming a crude “Y”, with a few scattered silk strands filling the space between. Wasn’t every spider’s tiny neurons hardwired to build an orderly web?

        I’d been disappointed with my walk eastward on the north shore, and had almost decided to give up future walks. Yet, turning back to the west, I discovered a shoreline magically transformed. Three different sizes of tufted grass caught the last bit of daylight, their silhouettes laced with the gold of a setting sun. The tallest, their giant tufts resembling overstuffed hairy caterpillars, dipped and swayed so deeply in unison that they appeared a line of elegant and supple dancers. A section of smaller tufted grass also bobbed, moving to its own rhythmic beat, while a third---the grass tips expanded outward into delicate fireworks---quivered in the wind. Entranced, I’d knelt while trying to figure out a camera angle which might capture the magic.

        Instead, I noticed the first spider web. Looking around, I noticed scores of similar webs, all standing out now that the sun lit them from behind---all ugly and misshapen. Amazing, how these delicate structures survived at all in the rough winds of the north shore. Some were built between two stalks of grass, some built within an individual stalk and its bent-over tip. Either way, the wind whipped the grass blades until they resembled unruly horses reined in too tightly, bucking and rearing in an attempt to break free. How had these wild breasts ever been tamed by such small masters?

        I knew enough to realize the first silk thread (called a bridge strand) drifted on wind while the spider clung to its undulating stalk. Once the sticky filament caught on either the tip or another stalk, the spider would have carefully run across, anchoring a reinforcement line. I imagined in winds this strong, the initial line had been reinforced multiple times. Crawling to the next anchor point, the spider would have secured a second line, walking back up and across the bridge line to secure it midway---a “Y” that normally formed the starting point for a traditional spider web.

        Yet, something went wrong here. There were no other radial strands. These two strands had been reinforced over and over, until they formed not a one-lane bridge but a six-lane highway.

       Spiders spin their silk threads from protein; the process of spinning is a birthing process, the extrusion leaving them exhausted. The spider rests after creating and securing the radial strands. The traditional web building comes fast and easy after the resting phase. Were these spiders condemned to keep reinforcing and reinforcing until too exhausted to build the tacky spiral strands? Would the occasional scraggly adhesive filaments still evident be enough to catch sustenance?

       Once my surprise abated, I discovered a reaction of glee and delight each time my eye fell on another misshapen web. A hope arose that, rather than being driven by tradition, rather than be a slave to hardwired expectations, these spiders took a practical approach, choosing to hold their world together despite the toughest of weather conditions---looks be damned.

        I'd just recently been discussing the regrets of motherhood with a friend. Despite putting my own life on hold, spending more time with my kids than many two-parent families, I had never done all the things I hoped to do with them, never shared all I thought I could share. I'd never lived up the the ideals of motherhood first birthed when I looked into newborn eyes. As a single parent, there had not always been the time, money or energy to do it all.  I'd wanted to spin the perfect web of motherhood and wrap it about them; instead, I'd had to be content to reinforce the few strands that kept our world together. I rejoiced at the spider webs because---for a moment--these beach spiders were kindred spirits.

         Time and reflection made me more practical.

         In June, when blue and aquamarine waves roll in gentle swells, the beach may host isolated swarms of gnats and black flies during lulls in the soft breeze. Time then to build sturdy webs that might have looked more traditional. Spiders repair their webs every few days, often eating unused sections of web to rebuild their protein reserves. Battling occasional blustery days, they would not have destroyed the main “Y” supports, and I even suspect they were driven to reinforce it each day, before settling back to extruding sticky spiral sections.

         In July, beach winds blow cool across the sweating bodies of sunbathers; whitecaps lace the tops of waves. Clouds of Mayflies hatch from the water’s surface, leaving their larval stage to emerge as short-lived winged adults. Despite the naming of these insects, the colder waters of Lake Michigan mean a late hatch for Mayflies---between June 25th and July 10th. Lacy-winged creatures, closer in appearance to a dragon fly than a house fly, appear suddenly from their watery fairyland, to stretch delicate wings and wiggle slender, flexible bodies.

        In their first winged phase (the Dun stage), swarms of Mayflies cover any rough vertical surface on the land. Porch screens and tree trunks are hidden beneath the airy, folded wings of fragile, harmless creatures. Very shortly, the Mayflies will molt into the spinner phase. Ghosts of tissue-paper silhouettes are left behind, while the new adult spinners begin their short-lived mating sessions above the lake waters.

        This, then, explains the tremendous number of spiders’ webs. This year marks a record hatch of Mayflies, more than anyone had seen for fifty years. There would be no competition for food supplies among numerous arachnoids. Spiders would feast until glutted, enough captive Mayflies to more than replenish protein reserves. Fat and content, they could crawl off in search of safer territories to hide and secure their own egg sacs.

        By August, the winds come in great gusts---to whip the vegetation, blowing loose seeds and scattering them across the shoreline. Waves may build to great swells---three to eight feet tall---that come crashing into the land surface, dragging up seaweed and algae to litter the beach. Deserted spider webs, ripped apart by these gusts, would leave behind only these amazing, reinforced I-beams of support.

        These spiders had not fought their innate programming to create some brilliant new adaptation to harsh winds. They had completed their yearly cycle of gathering food and birthing a new family. The webs were only a ghost town, their eight-legged residents having left before bad weather set in, the ashen-white Dun skeletons of their Mayfly food stock blown away by August winds. Only the prancing tuft-heads of grass remained behind, still struggling to break free.

        My time as mother, protector and family builder was also over. I could hope the reinforced strands would continue to hold as my young entered the world of tougher realities, but in the long run, this phase of mothering was but a short cycle in my life, in the history of us all.  

        Forty years ago, you should have seen the pristine beach. Sections of sand and small stones edged the shoreline; bits of beach grass valiantly fought to establish its domain a short distance from the tree line. Summer cottages were nestled far back behind a tree line of dense vegetation, and from the beach one could only see evidence of human habitation when directly in line with whatever small path lead discretely back to a cottage. Otherwise, one could imagine walking an uncharted shoreline. Alone on the beach, one had only gulls, terns and sandpipers for company, the seabirds lingering close enough to seem friendly, moving just enough to keep out of reach.

        I jealously guarded the privacy of these walks, for it was my unwinding time---I listened to the gulls’ piercing cries above waves lapping or crashing against the shore; felt the breeze off the water (there is almost always wind on the north shore) as the air, cool and moisture-laden whipped about me, tugging at my clothes and lifting my hair. I drank in the view of undisturbed shoreline, indulged in the sensation of wet sand or warm rocks on bare feet, relaxed into the leisurely pace, knowing my thoughts were sorting themselves back into harmony. Ah, the anticipation each year as I headed down to the beloved beach, wondering what I might recognize from previous years, what new treasures I might discover.

        Some years as I walked, I noticed large rocks that appeared in the significantly changed coastline, the waves having shifted sands to new locations. Some years, I saw the giant rocks buried up again, so that only the smooth flat tops remained. The distance from the tree line to the shore ebbed and flowed dependant on lake levels. Each change brought out new curves in the shoreline, new sandbars, new areas where familiar beach weeds could reach their tendrils out across the sand.

        I’d walked the shore the summer that thousands of cormorants swept in and claimed the waters off Beaver Island, darkening the skies for fifteen or even thirty minutes every time the huge flocks passed by in early morning. A sight both amazing and terrifying, the sheer number of birds threatened to annihilate fish populations; the DNR (Department of Natural Resources) and the Beaver Island community joined forces to bring the cormorant numbers under control, so that eventually, the few cormorant birds that remained seemed lonely and out of place.

        I’d walked the beach the year the gull virus struck, killing large numbers of my shoreline friends; it was a year of silent grieving each time I stepped over the remnants of bones, wing sections or whole birds washed up on the beach. There was no stopping the virus; it had to just play itself out. There was no knowing if the gulls would ever rebuild their numbers. (They did).

        Despite a long history of watching change, I don’t think I ever had the emotional reaction to changes the way I did this year. Much of my feeling revolves around old cottages being bought up by new owners. God help us, these newcomers seem as out of place and destructive to the north shore as cormorants had, years back.

        Gone are the old cabins, along with much of the trees. Huge half million to one million dollar modern homes take their place, squatting as close to the shoreline as legally permitted, filling the length and breadth of most properties with a style more appropriate to the suburbs. Here now reside the new breed of owners who love central air-conditioning, two-story glass windows, massive decks, and an unobstructed view of the lake. The first few houses could be ignored but the number increases relentlessly.

        Whereas the old residents were careful each night to carry up belongings from the beach, these new owners feel comfortable leaving beach chairs, kids’ toys, kayaks and coolers near the water’s edge. I passed by the remnants of almost a dozen burned-out firecrackers, and could only hope it signaled a belated celebration with visiting grandchildren. I’d hate to think the owners had left the trash of July 4th until this late in August.

        Where were the seabirds this year? That was another change. I saw one lone gull on my walk. The beach was taken over by crows, black and menacing figures that seemed out of place on a shoreline. Crows were everywhere on the island this year and no one can explain why. I’d hear sounds I never associated with any crow (or other bird) and would look to the beach to find the dark creatures squabbling amongst themselves, though I could not say whether it was over territory or food.

        Is this a temporary change? The island has gone through its cycles, over-populated with rabbits (and then coyotes to eat the rabbits), deer, and even wild turkey. A particular population swells, spilling onto roads, beaches, and back yards; then, after a few years of over-running their territory, the species vanish from sight, disappearing perhaps back into remote forestland. Will the same cycle occur with the crows? I am amazed at myself, at my resentment of the way they dominate the island.

 
       The permanent and long-time residents shake their heads, wistfully reminiscing of older days, when miles of undisturbed shoreline and the cry of gulls could so easily melt away stress and lift the heart. Where is the cry of the gull to mourn the passage of time? We shake our heads and turn away, carrying the cries of ivory birds in our hearts.

To be continued........ 

        Let’s say you’ve been on a spiritual path for some time and you’ve focused for years on giving more love, respect and compassion to those around you.  Isn’t it one of life’s biggest surprises or disappointments when a partner or friend, with whom you have spent years loving and/or sharing hopes and dreams, turns bitter and vengeful toward you?  This other person begins acting in a most unspiritual and uncivil manner: you are left wondering if you ever knew them at all.  It’s almost human nature to fall back into a defensive mode, to react with hurt and then possibly anger at the treatment dished out by someone who was supposed to be your friend or lover.

        I’ve already discussed not returning ‘tit for tat.’ You should never lower your own standards to match that of your nemesis. The challenge of being on a spiritual path when one is attacked unfairly is to continue extending good will and respect, acting the way you would ideally act in a platonic relationship (at the very least), while not letting yourself turn into a doormat.   This is not done because it is the ‘high and lofty’ way to respond. This is in your own best interest, so you can look back later on your actions (and your life) without regrets.  Let me repeat: acting in a spiritual manner does not mean turning yourself into a doormat.

        Of course, confusion remains as to how this person (who entered the relationship supposedly with the same promises and intent of loyalty as you did) could suddenly turn so viscously upon you, seemingly seeking out the most painful ways to hurt you.  If the partner has not been on a spiritual path, it might be easier to understand, but one of the conversations at the yoga retreat was about partners with a similar background, who should have shared a similar moral approach to conflicts and disagreements.

        How can someone continue their spiritual practices while indulging in underhanded and vicious attacks in some of their personal relationships? My friends and I realize that we struggle not so much with the other person’s actions (that’s the way reality is), but more with an inability to believe our own judgments and assumptions could have been so wrong when we entered the relationship.

        Our personal challenge on the path remains that of continually letting loose of our assumptions about how we think relationships (or reality) should be and seeing what is truly in front of us, but it is so much easier said than done.  We start every relationship weighing the pros and cons. Once we decide a relationship is worth pursuing, once we open ourselves to giving our best, what happens to our awareness of the negatives?

        I try to see the best in a person, but in doing so, I’m likely to begin rationalizing or downplaying his or her shortcomings.  Also is involved the tendency (it must be human nature) to believe that because someone we feel close to behaves the same way we do and talks about the same ideals, they must feel the same way we do, to the same level of depth and conviction. Logic may tell us this is a faulty perception, but in the glow of goodwill, we fall headfirst into believing we have found a kindred spirit.

        When personal needs are thwarted, each side retreats to a deeper and safer emotional level. For my friends and me, it means that because of the personal hurt, we must quit giving freely and without reservation.  We become guarded, trying to analyze the next attack, balancing our need to be compassionate and tolerant with the necessity of remaining realistically cautious.

         How painful this becomes when we are dealing with certain individuals---those who chose a spiritual path and yet have no desire to spend time digging out their own demons, or removing their deep-seated fears and doubts.  They float in the peacefulness and comfort of belonging to a spiritual group while life is good.  When their needs are thwarted, the response becomes a retreat to an older level of conditioned feelings and reactions. Spiritual philosophy for these individuals remains a peaceful mental exercise; defense of their inner core is a down-and-dirty fight for survival.

        If our personal relationship is severed with these types, we should wish them good will as they travel on their own path, and let loose of any wish for karmic payback. The worse outcome of any breakup would be to find ourselves bound in future karmic cycles, an issue also discussed by my friends.

        Do not assume letting go is done easily. If you cared deeply for someone, or trusted them, it is not easy to calmly and rationally face them in legal battles or domestic spats. It’s going to hurt with each encounter until you let the relationship ‘die’ and go through its own grieving and/or healing process. When you face the person without your own baggage getting in the way, you’re in a better position to act appropriately to their outbursts and demands. Again, I would say the hardest parts of the healing process are letting loose of the dreams and assumptions of how we want things to be, and then forgiving ourselves for making choices that eventually led us into a broken-down relationship.

        My friends and I work to perfect our own lives, to love ourselves despite the wrong turns and wrong decisions. We accept that those attacking us may define ‘Love Thyself’ differently, as in believing ‘I am right and that makes you wrong’.  That kind of attitude we cannot control; we can only let go, wishing the best for all concerned.

        I’m just back from another retreat with Dr. V.G.Kulkarni. The annual yoga retreat is usually held in November, but V.G. had been terribly sick and unable to leave his house, let along leave India. When he recovered six months later, the Ohio retreat was hastily rescheduled. What a delight to have open windows, warm breezes and the song of birds in the background. How wonderful to see the radiant faces of old friends.

         Friday night began with the usual Lakshmi puja. My ex sat close to the puja table. He is well versed in Hindu rituals and I’m quite sure he had a major hand in setting up the table and preparing everything for the ceremony. This year, above the table hung a gorgeous quilt with brilliant reds and greens, blacks and whites, based on a pattern that suggests a lotus flower or perhaps a mandala.

         My ex took his place at V.G.’s left, where he would be ready to refill the small pitcher of milk, yogurt, honey, bananas, sugar and saffron, as well as to hand over bowls and platters of nuts and flowers when needed. An Indian couple sat to the right side of the table, ready to assist those coming forward as we made our offerings.

        My youngest son had driven down just for the Friday night puja ceremony, and had brought some friends with him. It would be the young couple’s first exposure to a Hindu ritual, and, while my son may not be well-versed in the Hindu faith or belief structure behind the ritual, he has been trained by his father in the proper form to follow during the ceremony.

        As a non-yogi, I am always nervous about participating in this ritual. I usually sit so I can observe the older yogis as they make their offerings, so I can review the proper technique and (hopefully) not make a complete fool of myself. On Friday, I find myself sitting in the second row, my view of the front completely blocked. As Nate comes back from making his offering of flower petals, he signals to his friends that they are to pick up the petals with the thumb and fourth (ring) finger. I’d never known that before, and figure this is one of the many small ritualistic details that my ex has explained to Nathan.

        There are two ways to approach this offering. I take the approach that Lakshmi, as Goddess of Abundance, has already given many blessings to the world, is continually sending out blessings. I use the ceremony to recommit myself in service to the divine, so that the work within Its creation may continue. I ask nothing for myself because I figure the divine knows best what should come in my life. This is a ceremony of giving back---an expression of my love, devotion and dedication.

        The second approach is to give appreciation and devotion in hopes that Lakshmi will bring abundance into one’s personal life. Perhaps, if the ceremony is done properly, with the heart open in humility, the goddess will recognize the individual’s need and send the desired blessings, improving the quality and substance of one’s life. Personally, I have a hard time relating to this approach.

        Anne and I discuss a similar subject later that night. Anne says that most people come first to God in weakness, begging for help and support. They are not likely to think of God when things are going right in their world until they have established a deep relationship. I have grown up seeing this type of petition or prayer expressed in movies and in literature---“I know I haven’t prayed much in the past, but save me (or my loved one) now, Lord, and I promise to be a better person in the future.”

        It seems far removed from my own experience. I was in grade school when I began my personal relationship with the divine, and perhaps it was significant that it was not based on church ritual. I’d found a hide-a-way in the woods, a small hollow where I could be surrounded by small trees and brushes; it seemed as if I was cloistered within a natural cathedral, branches intertwined above me in green leafy arches, the sun shining through and creating patterns of light as if through stained glass. Here I found remarkable peace from psychic intrusions. As a spontaneous psychic, this became my one and only sanctuary from worlds that constantly intruded and disrupted my inner harmony.

        More than this, here in my sanctuary I could feel the presence of God. Why not? The God of my childish imagination would certainly rather be here in the midst of his creations than in some stone and brick church with man-made plumbing and lighting fixtures. Here I was sure God could hear the songs of my heart, even if I did not clothe those songs in words.

        As I grew older, I came to God to express appreciation and love. There were sayings I embraced because they made sense to me at some deeper level. “God helps those who help themselves” made sense because I could not see God creating a capacity for humans to think and reason, and then expect us to simply hand off responsibility for the problems of life to a higher power. I refrained from coming to God in the depths of struggles and came instead when I had resolved the problem, thankful and appreciative of the lessons learned.

        “God provides all that we need; it is up to us to figure out what is provided.” Too many people prayed for a house and never noticed when God provided them with a lumber yard. Perhaps they went on praying, wondering why their prayers were unanswered. Perhaps they gave up altogether, convinced God either did not hear their prayers or refused to grant help. No, if God provided, I felt it was my job to figure out what was provided. By looking around me, I often found new answers to problems, realized new skills that had to be developed, or turned to find other people ready and willing to offer help.

        The hardest times of my married life brought the greatest spiritual lessons. In a state of physical and mental exhaustion, burdened by the responsibility of house, children and financial problems, I could no longer go to God from a position of strength and appreciation. I asked for strength to endure, I asked for insight into the underlying causes of seemingly insurmountable problems. On the worst days, I imagined myself curled up in the giant hand of the divine, asking only that I have a resting place away from the daily stress, a place where I could sink into inner peace and safety, a place to regain emotional balance and harmony, freed momentarily from the never-ending responsibility for problems that never moved closer to resolution.

        After the divorce, in the midst of hard times, I might find myself asking for guidance, for strength of faith to wait and watch for what might be provided, but I went back to believing I could create a better world through my own efforts. I returned to the divine with a heart full of appreciation and dedication.

        Having sampled now the power of coming to God in weakness, I have a better understanding of those who approach ritual as a petition for divine intervention. But I think we sell ourselves short if we think of God as the ‘Great Provider’ and give up our own efforts. I do not think of ritual as a magic ceremony (if I do A, B & C properly, I will be rewarded with D). I believe the divine knows what we need (even without asking) and that the divine provides (even if in the form of help from friends or governmental organizations).

        There are times when people need to believe in miracles and divine intervention. They need to dream of winning the lottery or of escaping the laws of physical reality.  They place their petition before the altar of the divine and their heart is once again filled with hope. Hope is a powerful thing.

        Never mind that I believe the true magic of a ritual is the change that takes place in attitude and awareness, transforming the individual into a better person. We may come to the divine in weakness and ask for help, but we should let the ritual be a freeing of one’s heart and an opening of awareness, not a petition for hand-outs.  I prefer to ask for new insights, not for the addition of divine muscle power to blast forward with 'more of the same' approach to life struggles. 

        Yet, this is obviously my attitude, my opinion about a spiritual life.  Each individual has a choice in how he or she lives life.  I can only participate in the Lakshmi puja and focus on my own choice, rejoice in my own blessings.   I can only hope this ceremony brings good things into the lives of those present.