With gratitude to J. Krishnamurti
I do not know if you have ever noticed that when you give total attention, there is complete silence. And in that attention there is no frontier, there is no centre, as the “me” who is aware or attentive. That attention, that silence, is a state of meditation
J.Krishnamurti
Sitting on my favourite bench overlooking my allotment on a cold winter’s day, the sky and the day are grey and leaden and my fingers smart with the cold. There are no grey clouds as such but rather a weighing down in a featureless vista which is neither near nor far. I am aware how quiet everything is, even in this urban park setting.
Out of nowhere comes a bright chime ringing through the air. It’s a Robin singing somewhere nearby though I don’t see him or her. The sound pierces through the heaviness of the day and at that moment that’s all there is. I’m carried beyond this bench and park into the unknown. I listen in complete silence – though that’s not quite accurate – there is only listening. There is only the sound, the song of the Robin; there is no separation, no listener, and consequently no sense of time or space. And that is the beauty of it all.
Robins sing in a melodic and wistful tone, somewhere between cheerful and melancholic and not especially loudly compared to many other birds. But in total attention, that’s not how I perceive it: the song seems to pervade and penetrate all existence, reverberating like a clarion call throughout the heavens. It’s just the nature of reality in total listening, but not as a listener, not being separate from the song.
This is meditation, the dissolving of separation, relaxing into the fullness of life all around.
Postscript
Recently, I have been reading from a booklet of quotes by J Krishnamurti, the influential independent philosopher and spiritual figure who died in 1986. I attended some of his public talks in the 1970s and 1980s, and though I struggled to understand his – to me at that time – complex philosophical reasoning, I was always moved by his authentic presence and unity of being, and a strong feeling that he was one of those who knew – whatever that might mean.
I particularly loved his journals where he wrote evocatively about his daily walks in nature in the early mornings or evenings. I felt a strong transmission in these descriptions of his that spoke directly to me in a way that I couldn’t access in his lectures. At that time, most spiritual paths I had encountered seemed to have little interest in, or even regard for nature. Reading Krishnamurti was very empowering to me, being someone who from early childhood had always had an abiding passion for the living world.
Anyway, I recalled one of Krishnamurti’s oft repeated phrases, “The observer is the observed”. It always sounded profound and I would wrestle with it and pretend I knew what it meant, but actually back then, I really didn’t understand it.
Now, decades later, I find that I see what he meant. In my little vignette above about the robin, there’s no ‘observer’, just ‘observation,’ to use his terms. There’s total listening to the robin but no listener – with the listener or observer being the past, memory, knowledge, experience. Then there’s suddenly no separation, no space between me and the robin singing, and so there’s no distance and there’s no time. And that quality is one of fully participating in the whole of life.
Of course, this little story is just a moment in a day. Nowadays I find such moments happening very regularly without any attempt on my part to have any particular experience; and anyway, this can’t be forced. It might be seeing the smile of a child looking up to her mother, or the sight of gulls gliding effortlessly in the blue beyond. Or the rich scent of fallen leaves on the path; or the glint of sunlight on a nearby glass fronted skyscraper. It can be almost anything that precipitates such events.
These varied moments all show life to be much fuller, more mysterious and awe inspiring than I could ever imagine. It definitely helps that I’ve long made it a habit to just be simply present when I go out for walks. I purposely don’t think about stuff or try to work out any issues, but rather give attention to my immediate sensory experience – what I see, hear, smell and touch.
I wrote about this previously in, Practising Animism: Back to the Future
And another related angle which I’ve written about is: Awe: Practicing Awe and Wonder
I don’t look at my smartphone or wear headphones when I’m out walking, since with all of the richness of life already flowing on, this is more than enough for me. I’m present, I feel and sense all these things and am empathically connected with the lifeworld.
