I always feel like these articles are a bit self-indulgent. Today, however, that feels just fine because I want to tell you about someone very special, my friend Fred. (That’s me and Fred in the picture at Shambhala Mountain Center almost three weeks ago.)
On the path
Alfred E. Smith from Tipton, Kansas. I met him on Friday, Oct. 9, at 5:30 pm and by 9 pm knew he was a person I would never forget. Fred is a rancher, a retired cop, the father of four grown children – two boys, two girls – part owner of a restaurant, editor and founder of his small-town newspaper The Tipton Times, a Christian, a seminary school graduate, a gifted writer, and a Buddhist; and since last week, my dear friend.
Fred has a statue of the Buddha sitting by the stream that runs through his property. It sits under a Cottonwood tree you can see from his front porch. Every time he drives his big blue Ford four-door off to Colorado his friends say, “Fred’s gone lookin’ for the Buddha again.” They mean it in jest and yet it is their way of acknowledging they don’t understand, but they don’t mind. They love him. Fred draws strength from his faith in God, but his faith allows him to see the depth of joy and open-heartedness that is fostered by his Buddhism. Like no other person I’ve ever met, Fred knows his own heart.
The fact that he exists in Tipton – an anomaly – speaks infinitely to his boundless sense of self, to his courage to accept himself without shame, quilt, or influence from those who might not understand him or want him to be otherwise.
Being on retreat at Shambhala showed me a lot about myself that hadn’t been clear: that I could trust myself more, that in fact I was beginning to already; that I didn’t have to listen to self-doubt or internal shame and let it lead me; and that if we are compelled to create or make an offering that is up to us and the rest is not really our business. But more than any of those things there was Fred.
On our last night at the center, Fred and I walked up the long path to the Stupa (that’s what is behind us in the picture up top.) This was Fred’s fourth visit to Shambhala and he took great pleasure in pointing out all of his favorite things along the way: the expansive growth of fragrant sage, the beautiful turning Aspen leaves, the lacquered, honey-colored bridge, and the small Japanese shrine resting in a grove just before the the Stupa.
He told us, although we weren’t supposed to pick the flora and fauna, he had clipped a bunch of sage on his first visit; he just couldn’t resist the sweet smell of it. This was, of course, before he knew it was against the rules. “As a cop I’d never accept ‘I didn’t know’ as an excuse but I made an offering, asked for blessings, and dedicated the merit so I figured it was okay this one time.”
He was burning the sage at home to cleanse the space before meditation.
As we walked we came upon a woman who was attending another program. I’d met her a few days before wondering around looking for my room. Her name was Karen. Fred was pointing out a pair of beautiful winding Aspens that had grown together – he’d takea picture of them the last time he was there. We all looked. I took a picture. The woman Karen turned and stared. She was crying.
“My niece just committed suicide.” Fred went to her, but said nothing. He just held her gaze and her hands.
It is rare that you see a person so wholly present in the face of someone else’s grief. Instead we often hide behind condolences and awkward silences, an opportunity to look away. What happens when we are afraid to see grief? What good are we to the other person? We seek to exaggerate our potential for helping or undervalue our ability to be enough without doing anything. We don’t trust ourselves.
Fred knew. He stepped into her grief without hesitation, yet it wasn’t grief he was holding, it was kindness, compassion and a willingness to be himself – cheerful, grateful, at ease – and simply witness the pain someone else was experiencing, without taking it on or pitying it. He seemed to me a true and perfect reflection of the moment.
We walked back with her then and it dawned on me what a gift this was, what a gift Fred was. He’d shown me what true trust in yourself can look like; gentle, confident, kind and without pretense or reluctance. This is the kind of person I want to be in every aspect of my life, as a teacher, a mother, a friend, a wife, a sister, a leader, a boss, a writer, a person no better and no worse than anyone else, simply trusting.
And for our own part as Pilates practitioners and teachers I would ask you:
What does it mean to trust your body?
Do you trust your body enough to let it find it’s way to greater ease and efficiency, greater vitality?
Instead of looking at this as an opportunity to find all the ways in which we do not trust ourselves, I see it as a chance to look at how we do trust. I think you will find that the seeds of trust are much bigger than you think.
May you have a brilliant and nurturing fall season — a great time to turn inward and honor what and who you are. Perhaps you will find new wells of trust in your body and in your practice. I look forward to seeing it!
With gratitude,
Chantill
“Ultimately, that is the definition of bravery: not being afraid of yourself.” –Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche from his book “The Sacred Path of the Warrior“
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