Way of the Wolf

I filed for divorce on Friday.

I felt anger and sadness. I felt relief and joy. All of this at the same time.

Then I got in my car, picked up my friend Winnie, and drove to the Hill Country. We spent four hours on the road driving through spitting rain. It was cold. It was gray. It suited my mood. Even when you know you are doing the right thing, it’s hard to end your marriage; even when you know in your heart of hearts it’s the only way you can get on with your life, it is a hard thing to do.

We arrived at the Way of the Wolf Retreat and B&B in the late afternoon. We walked into a sprawling ranch house and found our rooms. Mine was the Gypsy Dance Room; Winnie got the East Lake Room. Karen, our host, came along and pointed out the woodpile, the path to the prayer center and hiking opportunities. Then she quoted a Mary Oliver poem to me, something about a long time ago, someone I loved gave me a gift of darkness, and I can learn even from this. Something like that. I knew I was in the right place, though. Mary Oliver was just right.

Before sunset, Winnie went out to explore the grounds. I curled up on one of the big, comfortable beds and cried. I wrote in my journal; I read a few pages from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. I dozed off contemplating that suffering is the spur for spiritual transformation.

Winnie woke me on Saturday to watch the sunrise from her room. There are six windows in the East Lake Room and the odd special effect, as the bright orange sun crept up from behind the hills, was of two simultaneous sunrises. The smell of coffee and pancakes drifted through the heating vents, and we wandered out to the great room for breakfast. Ron was cooking; Karen had set the table with six complete sets of mismatched china. The table looked like art. Fresh orange juice and fruit with muesli and sweet cream complemented a meal of lemon crepes and sausage. We dined with four other guests and enjoyed rich conversation along with the food.

Afterwards, despite the 24˚ on the porch thermometer, Win and I set out to hike down the draw. The dry, scraggly trees reached into the ice blue sky, which appeared at times to be layered with different shades blending into each other. I meditated on a rock in the draw; I hiked further down and found another, where I meditated some more.

After our hike and a visit with the longhorn cattle, who seemed to pose for photos, we did an extended yoga session on the screened-in porch of our east wing. It was crisp and cold and in the distance we could hear a medley of several quarreling jays, one confused rooster and the wind whistling through the bare trees. We stayed warm in the sunlight during the more strenuous poses; during corpse pose and meditation, we lay under heavy blankets brought out from the house. The smell from the fire was in the air as we practiced, the sweetish, sticky aroma of mesquite.

We both had the chance, on Friday night, to spend time in solitude in the prayer center. It is rare, in my experience, that a place designated as sacred truly feels that way to me. The prayer center at Way of the Wolf is just such a rare gem. It smells of cedar and pine; it fairly glows with a warm light. The polished wood of its floorboards, the stone circle of its kiva, the sky blue door – all part of an ambiance that invited just the quiet contemplation we both needed.

At sunset on Saturday, Win and I went down to the prayer center intending to quietly reflect for a short while and then hasten back to the ranch house for a game of Scrabble. But once we were absorbed in the warmth of the space, we couldn’t leave. We found two copies of The Gift by Hafiz; we spent four hours reading 14th Century Sufi poetry to each other and talking about how relevant it was to our lives. We wrote in our journals; we read from the books we’d brought with us; we returned to Hafiz again and again.

Over the course of the weekend, I thought about the reasons my marriage ended, again, just to be sure. They aren’t very original. They’re the same reasons anyone gets divorced. I forgave myself. Again. I breathed and focused on my breath and tried that lovely technique I’m learning, to rest in and expand the space at the end of a breath when you’ve just finished exhaling but before you inhale again. If enlightenment is going to happen, I believe it’s going to happen in that space. That is the space where you – I – anyone can realize and embody one’s true nature, one’s fundamental self. I remembered that I am not my celebrated ego, “garrulous, demanding, hysterical, calculating.” I have an internal, wise guide and if I follow her voice of “discriminating awareness and let ego fall silent,” I’ll come to experience that presence of wisdom and joy and bliss that I really am. “Spiritual vision is not an elitist luxury but vital to our survival.” (The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.)

The most exciting thing about Hafiz’s poetry, I think, is that, like Buddhist teachings, he embraces the idea that God is not a judgmental, separate force but rather a Divine presence within every single one of us. This must be cultivated and loved.

WHEN I WANT TO KISS GOD
by Hafiz

When
No one is looking
I swallow deserts and clouds
And chew on mountains knowing
They are sweet
Bones.

When no one is looking and I want
To kiss
God

I just lift my own hand
To
My
Mouth.