During my extended mental, spiritual, mid-age, whatever crisis, I walked many miles. I hiked on any trail I could find, pounded many city streets, sometimes walking several times a day. In hindsight, I was running from something and running to something. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was seeking, either direction. In those days, I was also inclined to stripping my clothes off in secluded forests, where I would romp around or just lie on a rock in the dappled sunshine, staring up at the canopy of green and blue. I didn’t understand the compulsion but succumbed whenever possible.
One day, I was on a long-wooded trail in the city outskirts. I decided to have the best of both worlds, so I removed my bra. The risk of running into people was small, but possible. And my breasts are not small, nor do they possess any element of perkiness, if they ever did. But I figured people would recuperate from the horror of seeing saggy breasts flopping around under my tank top. Which happened to be white.
I became aware of a sensation that day, one I had long forgotten. It was the sexual energy of childhood. It was not in my loins (such a funny, old-fashion word!), but coursing through my veins and radiating sweetly through my entire body and psyche. It was open, innocent, and pure. It was a wordless experience of life’s potential, of life’s fullness. It was a full-body sensation of the pleasure of being alive and breathing, walking, blood pumping, skin feeling the air breeze by. It was a corporeal awareness of the marvel of my existence.
And then it was gone. I got in my car. Strapped the bra back on, and off I went to run errands and live life.
I’ve thought about that experience often, and here I sit writing about it many years later. I think of the tale of Adam and Eve and wonder if it was the same innocence and pleasure with which they might have played and explored. And I remember that innocence and openness from my earliest years but lost it over the course of development.
We come into a world in which that sweet vital energy is perverted and exploited, among so many unhealthy and dysfunctional aspects of our culture. The thrill of life, along with the natural curiosity and creativity of a child, can be driven out of us. We are sinful and ignorant. We are guilty and dirty. There is something wrong with that very existence that had ignited us, once upon a time. We learn we must fix ourselves or die trying. Oh God, we are going to die! Paradise is lost.
It’s like we’ve fallen from grace. Except we haven’t. Within us lies the same, sweet, curious, playful, creative soul who was thrilled to be alive and grateful for the opportunity. We can connect to it through the vital energy that courses through our entire bodies and radiates beyond.
Vitality is the difference between this body and a corpse. It animates and excites. It beckons and attracts. But we don’t recognize or remember it. We confuse vitality with the thrill of sexual escapades, shopping, clicking on media, drinking alcohol and other addictive distractions. It can be confused with the thrill of clinging to or resisting an idea, a situation, or a person. It can be confused with the excitement of rushing, complaining, judging, and worrying. These are coping mechanisms, resulting from a false and prevailing sense of imperfection and inadequacy.
The practice of cultivating a connection with vitality is the practice of awareness. Our lives and bodies run on that vitality, it’s powering everything. We need only open to it, which requires a full examination of everything that closes the connection.
I thought of all this last night when I was walking alone on a secluded beach as the sun was setting. There is just a week or two before the busy beach season starts, and the island will be packed with people. It was a spectacular experience, having this pristine place to myself. I was wide open to the adventure, curious to explore the landscape, and play with the sand, the sea, and the setting sun. I was so grateful, I was gratitude itself.
I reached the farthest point and turned back to discover the group of four men I’d passed earlier. They were still far away but heading toward me. An old warning blasted my thoughts: Danger! And then I recognized the fear that threatened to close me to this moment, and opened to this sweet moment. There is no other.
I started to fantasize about how easily they could kill me and toss the body into the water. And truly, I shit you not, I laughed. I’ve made courage a practice, and have remembered that true risk is essentially non-existent. My motto from those early days romping naked in the woods: “I’d rather be eaten by a bear than worry about being eaten by a bear.” And I spent many years unraveling the knots of fear, including the one about being eaten by a bear. And now, the one about being killed and tossed into the ocean.
Like most people, I have imagined and dreamed of my death many times. I’ve developed an attitude of interest about what will take me out, sooner or later. But sooner. I laughed at the idea that these four men in their golf shirts and khaki shorts could deliver my last breath. And I vowed to be fearless if it happened. I don’t want my last breath to be soiled by fear if I can possibly help it. I fantasized that I would try to have a conversation with them, with some curiosity about what would lead people to extinguish the light out of someone else. I’d want to know their names. I’d say, “Nice to meet ya.” I’d succumb without resistance and try to be fully present for the last precious moment. No hard feelings.
There is only one moment. If we can occupy it fully and openly, vitality reigns. If the price of life is death, and it is, the pleasure of one innocent and open moment of awareness is well worth the cost.
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