I wonder if the solutions to our global challenges have much less about what we do, and much more about what we let go of. If we were to release our mad dash for success, prosperity, and achievement; what would be left in its wake? Would we need to blow up mountaintops to get the coal to run our machines? Would our appetite for fish continue to strip the oceans of their abundance? Would we need to dose ourselves with pharmaceuticals just to get through the day?
Recently, I went on a camping trip with a beloved friend of mine. I spend time in the wilderness regularly for work and have spent countless solitary days in the wilderness for the purpose of spiritual pursuits. Though, this was neither of those. We had no agenda to do anything of the work variety. Neither did I go with a list of ceremonies to enact in order to deepen my relationship with God (okay, maybe one). Mostly, the presence with one another in an unstructured place was the agenda.
Both of us were surprised by the ease we felt in our bodies, in our minds, and in our relationship from the simple act of going to the woods without any agenda. Stress we had been carrying in our nervous systems seemed to melt away. I am one who often struggles to reside in the present—my mind continually arcs towards the future. I've spent nearly a decade with a regular meditation practice in order to cultivate consistent presence, failing. Though, in this single day, I found myself settling out of my neurotic habits and into communion with the moment. As the two of us engaged in a friendly competitive board game, I thought of little else. In a world filled with countless distractions, possibilities, and an uncertain future; this single moment was enough.
I could go on about this, spinning off in countless philosophical implications, and I'm sure I will. Though, in another way, there is very little else to say. The significance of such an attitude is clear in a culture that obsesses over work and achievement. At this moment, as I write this, I find myself again in the dilemma. This moment is complete. Yet, I am drawn ever toward the future.
It is a profoundly revolutionary act to reside wholeheartedly in the present. More than political action, environmental activism, or any other such activity—it is presence that holds the seeds of true revolution. The American Revolution was simply a changing of the guard compared to the changes that might arise from a populace steeped in presence.
The structures and institutions of our civilization must change. How much can they change, though, if the minds that imagine them are the same? If we still conceive of ourselves as beings in need of redemption or achievement, if we still imagine Eden as some far-off or unachievable goal, if we still conceive of the world as some raw material needing to be changed by us—what truly new world can we create?
Revolution lies not in the changing of institutions, but in the changing of the consciousness from which those institutions emerge.
Those individuals who have had the most lasting impact on society have not been those living in the center of civilized narratives. Henry David Thoreau lived for years in a cabin in the woods. Siddhartha Gautama spent years wandering the world without possession before sharing the founding teachings of Buddhism. Yeshua of Nazareth wandered alone in the desert for 40 days. Muhammad ibn Abdullah began receiving the revelation of the Quran during several weeks of prayer in a cave.
To the civilized mind, all four of these men were engaged in the fruitless pursuits of nothing. Though, can you imagine the transformations of the psyche that might occur during such non-activity?
I don't know what happened to these men during their departure from traditional civilized lives. Though I, too, wandered for 40 days in the desert and I can tell you what happened to me. I speak of it rarely, for it seems too precious to sully by turning it into an exciting narrative or casting it as pearls among swine. However, I can say one thing.
People often fear periods of extended solitude for fear of succumbing to madness. If someone participates in such a thing, they must already be mad themselves. Otherwise, those with more mystical aspirations may think that the value of solitude comes from some experience of great purity, revelation, or the like. However, I think this is mistaken.
The truth is, we're all mad. Could it be any more obvious? We are products of and participants in a culture that wages war on one another, throws dynamite in the ocean, and allows some people to hoard money in mansions while elsewhere children starve in the streets. We may think that these activities are the madness of others, though we are steeped in the same cultural assumptions that give rise to all of this. Whether or not we realize it, the madness of the world is also our own.
In my time of desert wandering, I was privileged to encounter my own madness. It was not that the madness was brought upon me by the beautiful nature around me. Rather, it was the madness that emerged from within me when I was deprived of the distractions and narcotics that kept it down (like television, socialization, and all the rest). I was able to witness, at times, precisely the sort of madness that keeps me engaged in the relentless pursuit of achievement. I witnessed my demons, I felt my personal pains. Slowly, I was able to release them and discover a new way.
I forget this way sometimes. Often, in fact. It would probably be accurate to say that I only remember this other way in fleeting moments—in between periods of having forgotten. Though in these moments of lucidity, I know I have discovered something true. Something that is the birthright of every human. It is available to all of us. It is inseparable from Nature and its nature is Divine.
I am not a religious prophet, nor am I a great philosopher. Though I have tasted the nectar of the present, which is available for every human being.
When I remember the taste of that nectar, I know:
There is no more important thing.