The Question as posed:
Do you meditate daily? If so, why? If not, why not?
Or
do you pray daily? If so, to whom, and why? If not, why not?
My first response: a slightly nettled "No" and "No" ... which means that I have to address "Why not?" and of course that lays open quite a few cans of certified Worms. There are depths and nuances and backstories to be plumbed, and answers to be sought for what I might do instead, on a daily basis, by way of "spiritual practice". Some of what follows is refracted in/by Ceremonial and Ritual Questions, and probably Silences too. Questions on Mental Processes and Mystical Experiences and Solace also have relevant bits ... so yeah, we've been here. No problem with that.
Over the next week or so I'm expecting to collect below a narrative of material encountered as the Question simmers on the back burner ... pausing now and again to adjust seasonings and add inspired condiments as they suggest themselves. The result will I hope be palatable and perhaps even without precedent. Don't Know just how it will turn out.
I'll start with Prayer, about which my first puzzled question is:
So the mind cranks, the tombolo spins, and out comes the beginning of Chapter 3 of Huckleberry Finn:
WELL, I got a good going-over in the morning from old Miss Watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that I thought I would behave awhile if I could. Then Miss Watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. She told me to pray every day, and whatever I asked for I would get it. But it warn't so I tried it. Once I got a fish-line, but no hooks. It warn't any good to me without hooks. I tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I couldn't make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool. She never told me why, and I couldn't make it out no way.I set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. I says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't Deacon Winn get back the money he lost on pork? Why can't the widow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole? Why can't Miss Watson fat up? No, says I to my self, there ain't nothing in it. I went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." This was too many for me, but she told me what she meant -— I must help other people, and do everything I could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. This was including Miss Watson, as I took it. I went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but I couldn't see no advantage about it — except for the other people; so at last I reckoned I wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. Sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about Providence in a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day Miss Watson would take hold and knock it all down again. I judged I could see that there was two Providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's Providence, but if Miss Watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. I thought it all out, and reckoned I would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though I couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing I was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery.
Along the way I found Mark Twain's "The War Prayer" (1923):
..."O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle- — be Thou near them! With them-—in spirit—we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it-—for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.
Just a leeetle bit too resonant with the Gaza of today, the Battle of Bud Bagsak, the My Lai Massacre ... and of course an avalanche of military adventures among the Red Men of North America.
...but then the mind turned to Prayer as an anthropologist might observe and seek to understand it as human cultural behavior, noting that something of the sort is pretty universal: some sort of speaking aloud, or subvocally, as if to a hearer, or perhaps a person-ification. And then email brought me the day's post from the LanguageLog blog, which included this example of Personification:
I'm often surprised at where thoughts lead... Ahura Mazda floated to mind as I wondered about prayer traditions. Wikipedia offers this about Zoroastrian prayer:
Zoroastrians traditionally pray several times a day. Some wear a kusti, which is a cord knotted three times, to remind them of the maxim, 'Good Words, Good Thoughts, Good Deeds'. They wrap the kusti around the outside of a sudreh, a long, clean, white cotton shirt. They may engage in a purification ritual, such as the washing of the hands, then untie and then retie it while reciting prayers.Prayers are primarily invocational, calling upon and celebrating Ahura Mazda and his good essence that runs through all things. Prayers are said facing the sun, fire or other source of light representing Ahura Mazda's divine light and energy.
And so to mantras, about which there is much to be said... and thence to Japan and A Shinto Prayer for Beginners and Shinto Incantations.
And then some wandering thoughts about Iban invocations, which I heard but scarcely understood... and to the doings of Christian missionaries among Dayak peoples in Borneo... the Book of Common Prayer in Iban, for example, from the Anglican infestation of parts of Iban territory. Again, lots more that could be unpacked in that realm.
And then to the Swedenborgians, from whom I sprang: The Magical Power of Prayer from Swedenborg Foundation, and a text about Meditation and Prayer ... which led to the Worship page of the church where my father officiated when I was young (its history is diverting), and When Thoughts and Prayers Don't Matter (and When They Do)...
Rudolf Otto's Concept of the "Numinous" (kenyon.edu) and Rudolf Otto and the Concept of the Numinous Stuart Sarbacker at Oxford Research Encyclopedia
The Numinous Experience (magiscenter.com)
William James was right about our strange inner experiences (Psyche Ideas)
The Cynic and the Ironist in me remembers
God as "Hoary Thunderer" or "Cosmic Muffin" ( narkive.com)
❧ ❧ ❧ ❧ ❧
And on Thursday I started thinking more ...generously... about the Question, and by midday NO had flipped to YES for both, in quite unexpected ways. The steps are worth elaborating.
In my response to Realizing the Beautiful (Brian's Question, June 2023) I referenced a Popova post that mentioned Richard Jefferies' The Story of My Heart (1883!, and one of Rachel Carson's bedside books) which has this marvelous passage:
Lying down on the grass, I spoke in my soul to the earth, the sun, the air, and the distant sea far beyond sight. I thought of the earth's firmness—I felt it bear me up: through the grassy couch there came an influence as if I could feel the great earth speaking to me. I thought of the wandering air—its pureness, which is its beauty; the air touched me and gave me something of itself. I spoke to the sea: though so far, I saw it, green at the rim of the earth and blue in deeper ocean; I desired to have its strength, its mystery and glory. Then I addressed the sun, desiring the soul equivalent of his light and brilliance, his endurance and unwearied race. I turned to the blue heaven over, gazing into its depth, inhaling the exquisite color and sweetness. The rich blue of the unattainable flower of the sky drew my soul towards it, and there it rested, for pure colour is rest of heart. By all these I prayed; I felt an emotion of the soul beyond all definition; prayer is a puny thing to it, and the word is a rude sign to the feeling, but I know no other.By the blue heaven, by the rolling sun bursting through untrodden space, a new ocean of ether every day unveiled. By the fresh and wandering air encompassing the world; by the sea sounding on the shore—the green sea white-flecked at the margin and the deep ocean; by the strong earth under me. Then, returning, I prayed to the sweet thyme, whose little flowers I touched with my hand; by the slender grass; by the crumble of dry chalky earth I took up and let fall through my fingers. Touching the crumble of earth, the blade of grass, the thyme flower, breathing the earth-encircling air; thinking of the sea and the sky, holding out my hand for the sunbeams to touch it, prone on the sward in token of deep reverence, then I prayed that I might touch to the unutterable existence infinitely higher than deity.
With all the intensity of feeling which exalted me, all the intense communion I held with the earth, the sun, and the sky, the stars hidden by the light, with the ocean—in no manner can the thrilling depth of these feelings be written— with these I prayed, as if they were the keys of an instrument, of an organ, with which I swelled forth the note of my soul, redoubling my own voice by their power. The great sun burning with light, the strong earth, dear earth; the warm sky; the pure air; the thought of ocean; the inexpressible beauty of all, and inflatus filled me with a rapture, and ecstasy. With this inflatus, too, I prayed... (31-32)
Yeah, I thought. Such prayer, which asks nothing, seems comprehensible, and seems a doable pathway to something I can imagine engaging with, though I've rarely done so, being more inclined to keep moving, keep looking around, feeding the Mind [which I conceive to be the Library of What One knows, what one has learned][my early model was Widener Library, largest private library in the world..., which I remember visiting with my father and of course frequented myself in later years].
I wondered to myself if one was expected (supposed, recruited) to sign on with one or another movement or crew or tranche of the Zeitgeist... To align oneself somewhere in the evolving history of human thought and identify as a Cynic, or an Aristotelian, or a Stoic, or a Christian of some flavor. Perhaps a Vitalist, a Realist, a Dreamer, or a devotee of Logic, or a Scientist or a Humanist, or simply an Egoist. Or can one escape the struggle and yammer, to follow a more Quietist path, that "turns one's spirituality inward"? Each of those intellectual identities has its own affiliations, secret handshakes, vestments, special headgear, and versions of prayer, and would happily sign up the willing novice.
The Quietist traditions turn up in many places, many of them linked to the Hindu-Buddhist traditions developed in India and spread (still spreading) globally. Each of the Big World Religions has a Quietist tradition, or more exactly plural Quietist traditions, each with its own history and hagiography. Most feature some sort of personal communion, and many sport legacies of suppression by orthodoxies, for their heretical notions of unsupervised personal practice (think: Quakers, Gnostics, saddhus, fool-saints, sufis...). See also Wikipedia: philosophical quietism and Christian contemplation.
I can imagine Jefferies-like communion with Nature as a prayer-ish practice, in which the supplicant is not importuning some deity or force or form of energy—more a matter of acknowledging the vastness and intricacy and ineffability in which one is enmeshed. I could see myself doing that. So a qualified 'Yes' to prayer, the unsupervised and anti-canonical flavor, please. With jimmies, please. Minimal approved ritual, please.
Mindful photography is a powerful practice that goes beyond merely capturing images. It's about embracing the present moment and connecting with the world around us.Amen to that. And I have experienced that sort of work in the direction of satori in my own photography, though fleetingly, and I know of photographers who embody such a stance in their work. I surely could follow/seek that inspiration more fully and more often.
And then it occurred to me that I could claim yellow-pad writing as a personal form of meditation, in that the movement of the pen is quite Mindful, and a matter of concentrated and focused Attention. And that I do it pretty much every day, sometimes more satisfyingly and sometimes less. So why not dignify the activity as Meditative, now that I've realized I don't have to be bound by any specific single definition of Meditation. For me, it clears the Mind. Yes, it surely has to do with thinking, and not with not-thinking, but (again):
One might argue that my notions of 'prayer' and 'meditation' are out of bounds, but a fig, sir, for your bounds.
I've noted my propensity to be bowled over by bits of things I read (see the penultimate paragraph of a recent Convivium doc), and it happened again this morning as I was listening to David James Duncan's Sun House and this passage came along, seemingly of direct relevance to the prayer/meditation thread:
"While you do zazen, are you okay with me doing my own little practice?" Risa asked."Sure. May I ask what that is?"
Risa stopped walking and turned to face Lore. "For your ears only, it's in the bhakti tradition. Path of love. My focus is a name I keep secret. Working with a divine name is a fairly universal practice. The Hesychasts, Hindu japa yogins, Tibetan Buddhists, the Mount Athos monks, and many more invoke a divine name. My faves are the Indian poet saints, and a rare few Americans who take a name. For Mirabai and Lal Dêd it's Narayana, one of Krishna's names. For a ragamuffin Portland street mystic I know, it's Ocean. For Kabir, maybe the best known name poet, it's Ram, short for Lord Rama. 'What is a man without Ram?' Kabir says. 'A dung beetle on a busy road.' Another great Ram poet, Tulsidas, is gentler. 'If you would have light within and without, place the Name of Ram on your tongue like a lamp on the threshold.'"
Pleasure shone in Lore's eyes. "Do you always talk like this?"
Risa thought it over. "Pretty much, yeah, I'm afraid so! And they laughed.
"I'm not asking you to give away secrets, but is it possible to say a little about how you work with your secret name?"
"I take guidance from The Cloud of Unknowing, the author of which is our old friend Anonymous. The Cloud advises that the word we choose be simple, and that it not be a theological idea we have to ponder. Better a simple word or name to which we feel drawn, sans thought. We then, quoting Anonymous, 'fasten this word to our heart so that it never goes away.' The word serves as a shield at times, a spear at other times. We use it to 'block' or to 'strike down' thoughts and let them 'dissolve in a pool of forgetting.' If our thoughts offer to 'analyze' our Word and its meanings, we let the Word spear that thought so mercilessly it staggers away bleeding and, hopefully, dies. But of course thoughts, mine anyway, have more lives than cats and zombies put together! So the Cloud quote that helps me the most goes like this."
Again Risa closed her eyes before reciting: " 'It is not a matter of analyzing or elucidating. No one can truly think of God. It is therefore my wish to leave everything that I can think and choose for my love the thing that I cannot think.' "
Sublime and succinct, no? Can't recommend the book highly enough.
Some David James Duncan links to explore:
his own web site... Sun House is one of the greatest imaginative achievements I have encountered in a lifetime of reading. Page after page brims with invention, mirth, knowledge, irreverence, and deep wisdom. I know of no one who better captures the beauty of the natural world or the ineffable experience of transcendence... David James Duncan transports the reader into a world more radiant and vivid than this one, or rather into a world just as radiant and vivid as this one, if only we attended to it with the heightened awareness his tale urges us to cultivate."
–William deBuys, author of The Trail to Kanjiroba: Rediscovering Earth in an Age of Loss...Jim Harrison meets Robert M. Pirsig, Timothy Leary, and the Dalai Lama......I must say I loved Sun House. One of the most meaningful books, fiction or nonfiction, that I've read in years. Really, really moved me. And I wanted to start by asking you about the genesis of the book. And in the book the main narrator, who is nicknamed the Holy Goat, he describes kind of the impetus behind the book, but it's also stated very emphatically at the beginning of your acknowledgments, where you write, "Though I’d seen countless op-eds calling for a change in consciousness if humanity is to survive, I'd seen zero op-ed descriptions of what this consciousness looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and lives like as it addresses inescapable biological and spiritual realities with the love, truthfulness, and justice they demand." I mean, that's a very powerful and creative mandate to begin a book with, to aim to create something that brings this consciousness to life. Tell me about this......once in a while Dostoevsky goes off like an early Hippie Extraordinaire. An example:Love all creation, the whole of it and every grain of sand. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light, love the animals, love the plants, love everything! If you love everything you will perceive the divine mystery in things, and once you have perceived it you will begin to comprehend it ceaselessly, more and more every day, and you will at last come to love the whole world with an abiding, universal love....I lean on the writings of poets mostly. I could name twenty and get into all kinds of trouble, so let's just say I love American poets who live in the borderland between matter and spirit and take mystics, saints, and spiritual experiences seriously. Christian Wiman. Jack Gilbert. Jane Hirshfield. Fanny Howe
...One thing that comes to mind is that there are magic words, and there are also magic objects. Totemic objects. Iconic objects. [David gets up and retrieves two stones.] These are net stones that weighted woven salmon nets to catch salmon in the Columbia River. These stones could be 11,000 years old. The Columbia and Snake River salmon tribes had one of the longest stable cultures anywhere, ever, till federal dams drowned their usual and accustomed fishing places and wiped out a gift of abundance great beyond our meager comprehension.
...I wanted the hundred stories of Sun House to reveal a kind of compassion to people betrayed in countless ways. I wanted to depict nothing less than the compassion the holy fool Jervis calls "the insane mercy." I wanted to give sufferers something greater than I have the power to give, but not greater than I had the power to feel in my heart and set down on a page. One of my favorite things about Moses is that he did not enter the Promised Land. Whatever his reward was, it came later, outside of scripture. I intuited I was on a similar path.