Kingdom of Acorns
Once upon a time, in a not-so-faraway land, there was a kingdom of acorns,
nestled at the foot of a grand old oak tree. Since the citizens of this
kingdom were modern, fully Westernized acorns, they went about their business
with purposeful energy; and since they were midlife, baby-boomer acorns, they
engaged in a lot of self-help courses. There were seminars called
“Getting All You Can Out of Your Shell.” There were woundedness and recovery
groups for acorns who had been bruised in their original fall from the tree.
There were spas for oiling and polishing those shells and various
acornopathic therapies to enhance longevity and well-being.
One day in the midst of this kingdom there suddenly appeared a knotty little stranger, apparently dropped “out of the blue” by a passing bird. He was capless and dirty, making an immediate negative impression on his fellow acorns. And crouched beneath the oak tree, he stammered out a wild tale. Pointing upward at the tree, he said, “we...are...that!”
Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded, but one of them continued to engage him in conversation: “So tell us, how would we become that tree?” “Well, said he, pointing downward, “it has something to do with going into the ground...and cracking open the shell.” “Insane,” they responded. “Totally morbid! Why, then we wouldn’t be acorns anymore.”
—Cynthia Bourgeault’s version of the metaphor devised by Maurice Nicoll, and popularized by Jacob Needleman
I wanted to write something wise and profound about the process of going into the ground and cracking open but it just isn't working. In fact, writing isn't working for me lately. It's usually one of those things that helps me crack open my shell of illusion, but for the past few weeks every time I sit down in front of a blank computer screen I come face to face with fear. It's not that I don't have ideas. I have plenty of ideas so it's not the typical sort of writer's block I'm afraid of. Rather, it's the actual process, the very act of writing that has become excruciating.
I've faced this situation before in my meditation practice. Every once in a while I settle into my morning period of Centering Prayer and twenty seconds in I feel like my skin is being pulled off layer by layer or a tidal wave of panic sweeps in from who knows where and I feel like I'm drowning in the silence. Sometimes I stick it out and pray that it gets easier as the minutes progress. Sometimes it does. But sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes I don't wait to find out. I flee at the first sensation of discomfort, running towards any noise will distract me from whatever is trying to work its way out.
One day in the midst of this kingdom there suddenly appeared a knotty little stranger, apparently dropped “out of the blue” by a passing bird. He was capless and dirty, making an immediate negative impression on his fellow acorns. And crouched beneath the oak tree, he stammered out a wild tale. Pointing upward at the tree, he said, “we...are...that!”
Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded, but one of them continued to engage him in conversation: “So tell us, how would we become that tree?” “Well, said he, pointing downward, “it has something to do with going into the ground...and cracking open the shell.” “Insane,” they responded. “Totally morbid! Why, then we wouldn’t be acorns anymore.”
—Cynthia Bourgeault’s version of the metaphor devised by Maurice Nicoll, and popularized by Jacob Needleman
I wanted to write something wise and profound about the process of going into the ground and cracking open but it just isn't working. In fact, writing isn't working for me lately. It's usually one of those things that helps me crack open my shell of illusion, but for the past few weeks every time I sit down in front of a blank computer screen I come face to face with fear. It's not that I don't have ideas. I have plenty of ideas so it's not the typical sort of writer's block I'm afraid of. Rather, it's the actual process, the very act of writing that has become excruciating.
I've faced this situation before in my meditation practice. Every once in a while I settle into my morning period of Centering Prayer and twenty seconds in I feel like my skin is being pulled off layer by layer or a tidal wave of panic sweeps in from who knows where and I feel like I'm drowning in the silence. Sometimes I stick it out and pray that it gets easier as the minutes progress. Sometimes it does. But sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes I don't wait to find out. I flee at the first sensation of discomfort, running towards any noise will distract me from whatever is trying to work its way out.
Cracking open sucks. It's painful and messy and confusing. Anyone who buys into the idea of blissful transformation, an easy path to nirvana, obviously hasn't observed nature in action. Acorn to oak tree, cracking open and up, insane indeed.
And there's something not only about breaking open but also about going into the dark that's crucial during these times. For too long I tried to crack open without going into those shadowy places of my being. I'm realizing, though, that it's in just these places where the fuel for true transformation is to be found. So I'm heading for the dark where I'll continue to be for a while, digging deeper into that loamy earth, slowly cracking, slowly growing.
And there's something not only about breaking open but also about going into the dark that's crucial during these times. For too long I tried to crack open without going into those shadowy places of my being. I'm realizing, though, that it's in just these places where the fuel for true transformation is to be found. So I'm heading for the dark where I'll continue to be for a while, digging deeper into that loamy earth, slowly cracking, slowly growing.
