Stand Still

Henry Miller wrote a book called "Stand Still Like the Hummingbird." I no longer remember much of the content, but the title was enough to build a life around. What I do remember from the essay that gave the book its title was the second half of an important sentence: Stand still like the hummingbird . . . the honey is right in front of you.I was eighteen or so when I made that phrase my unofficial manifesto. Can it be that I have been practicing so many years, yet still spend so much of my day asleep at the wheel? What I would say in hindsight is that there is a vast difference between believing something one reads in a book and practicing it on a daily basis.

The call is to pay attention, and not defer life until some ideal happiness or state of affairs lands on the doorstep. I shudder to think how much of my life I have lived in a place of deferral. It's really insanity, expecting that someday I'll be able to get all my circumstances in alignment so that I can say, "Here. I've gotten everything checked off the list. Now I can be happy." The call is to recognize the completion in each moment, to say "enough" as in "this is enough, for it is everything." Maybe I am also shouting "Enough!" to the inner voices that prompt me to look outside to the next event, the next circumstance, rather than gracefully sipping the nectar in front of me.

I have become distrustful of lessons learned through intellect alone, of phrases read in books and inspiring literature. This "standing still" is not learned through the mind, but apprehended one breath at a time. The good news is, this gives me limitless times to start over, again and again, on any breath. I am doing this now, as I write, and a gentle smile starts to form. The words become a meditation, not a chore. The sounds of my keyboard are the percussion in an orchestra that takes in the birdsong in the forest outside, the hum of the refrigerator and the beating of my own heart. Stand still. The honey is right in front of you.

For a moment, I find the rest between the notes, a pause between words, between letters, a place of no-mind. Then, just as quickly, I am hijacked by thoughts again, pulled away from here to the what's nexts and the what ifs. Oh well. I can begin again on the next breath, saying "here." Stand still.