A big theme in the crone years — and for monasticism in general — is acceptance of limits.
In my essay "Of Hearth & Shadow: A Contemplative Norse Polytheist and a Fledgling Animist Sanctuary" in Polytheistic Monasticism: Voices From Pagan Cloisters, I wrote that I'd been a libertine in my youth, and was surprised to discover that the limits of monastic structure can be so liberating.
While I appreciate that embracing limits means deepening contemplative practice, nonetheless I still regularly find myself resisting limits.
If I encounter a limit I have trouble accepting and find resistance arising within me, sometimes the message is: "You’re barking up the wrong tree."
After over a decade of trying to leave the US and move to Sweden or Germany, it became clear that habitual striving or pursuit is not the way to go. It is simply not aligned with the Sanctuary’s monastic Rule: "follow the ways of non-contrivance."
There's relief in letting go of that quest, because it's exhausting to strive for things that continue to elude me for all kinds of reasons outside my control. I've heard this described as "tired from the inside out." Habits of living for the future and striving toward ambitious goals are deeply ingrained.
But there's also loss and grief associated with accepting limits. (More on this below).
My early crone years are teaching me again and again that I must continue to identify, acknowledge, and let go of old patterns of effortfulness if I am to deepen my contemplative practice and find the right new home for the Sanctuary.
Letting go of habits of pursuit and striving also means repeatedly facing the fact that I probably won't ever do many things I'd love to do. There just aren't enough waking hours in the day. So many interests, so little time.
There's also the "time tax" — the heavy administrative labor required just to keep up with the demands of daily life in the US (and operate a solo business, in my case). That labor consumes a great deal of time and attention.
Being overextended, stretched thin with projects, and overwhelmed by the 24/7 firehose of information does not make for a conducive environment for contemplation. These conditions crowd out the more dispersed qualities of attention that permit insights and creative material to surface from the deep mind and the subtle realms.
I tire easily and quickly become overstimulated in environments of frequent input and context-change. I am learning anew the importance of un-subbing, un-following, and otherwise deliberately limiting my information intake. This is why I minimize social media use, and shut off notifications when I'm overloaded. It's why I limit the Discord channels I follow to just a few, and why I rarely respond quickly to correspondence.
However, even with all the steps I've already taken to prioritize what's important and limit input, my attention still seems too dispersed… which points to the need for more measures to close off more of the avenues that carve up my attention into chunks. Being overextended is a multi-faceted problem, so coping with it requires more than just self-discipline or a shift in mindset. In a social-media-saturated attention economy, efforts of the conscious mind are insufficient; the technology continues to shape my behavior regardless of my best intentions.
As part of this practice of limit-acceptance, I recently took a few tentative steps in the direction of finding a new home for the Sanctuary in Oregon.
Ideally, the goal is to build monastic infrastructure that does much of the necessary limit-setting by virtue of its very design. Physical monasteries serve many important functions, including screening distractions out of the purview of monastics so they don't need to rely on fallible things like conscious effort or willpower to maintain a contemplative space.
(For me there are some health and lifestyle restrictions involved, too — I don't drive and I have allergies to animal dander and various synthetic scents/perfumes, which restricts my options to only specific kinds of living environments).
In the absence of appropriate physical infrastructure designed for monastic purposes, I find myself relying heavily on tools.
Atmospheric dark ambient + drone music is one of the best tools available to counter information overwhelm and ease directed attention fatigue, which is one reason it's a central element of monastic practice at the Sanctuary.
As we often say at Black Stone Sanctuary, Simon Heath of Cryo Chamber once described dark ambient music as "only a mile wide, but a thousand miles deep." In a culture that constantly seems to pull us in the direction of "only a mile deep, but a thousand miles wide," ambient music can serve as part of the limit-setting infrastructure necessary to create contemplative spaces.
Dark ambient boosts focus and clarity through the power of limits: it closes off many distractions in a way that requires no effort of will. It keeps the cerebral cortex occupied, which in turn enables the deep mind to take the reins for awhile.
The Sanctuary's dark moon incubation retreats are another useful tool. Retreats serve as a womb or cocoon to encircle, protect, and facilitate many types of incubation processes. Even though the retreats are currently limited to the tiny live/work studio in Portland that I've occupied for the past 16 years, the rhythm of taking time and space for a dark retreat each month is still an important ascetic practice rooted in acknowledgment of limits.
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It's not easy to release habits of being future-oriented and in a perpetual state of anticipation about some future event. Yet many contemplative practices in the crone years are rooted in learning how to be with time in more accepting ways.
Crone contemplative practice involves finding the wisdom in limits, whether they're self-imposed or not. I often describe this practice as a delicate balance of:
Cultivating a softened stance of patience, flow, and openness.
Releasing the effort to grasp or push toward desired goals in any way. Not even little "harmless" nudges.
Engaging with what IS, rather than what I wish could be. (Much easier said than done!)
Starting anew, in a sense, by scrapping ideas I've been holding on to about what it even is that I'm pursuing, and why.
Not seeking after something I have in mind ahead of time, so I might find or rediscover what's already here.
Surrendering the illusion of control and not trying to steer or otherwise direct outcomes for the Sanctuary.
Savoring the time I've got as much as possible, while I'm here to enjoy it.
Attending to day-to-day matters responsibly, and letting the rest take its course.
Refraining from imposing top-down plans, and allowing for the possibility of continuously building a modular, emergent monastic practice from the ground up.
Preserving long stretches of unstructured, open-ended time free of interruptions or other demands on my attention, since anything I've got scheduled (especially phone calls or appointments) alters my experience of time in ways that limit access to creative flow states and the deep mind for the rest of the day.
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Instead of searching for specific opportunities/things/places, these days I often wait for things to come to me. Not in a passive or non-desirous way, mind you. Desire continues on much as before. But I'm learning to deal with even the most intense desires in a way that acknowledges the limits of my own ideas about what's best for me and for the Sanctuary.
I'm learning to navigate by instinct rather than by objective. I remain open to possibilities, but I spend more time listening for guidance, and less time getting ahead of myself by hashing out plans.
Yet there is grief in these processes, and it needs space to move. Letting go of plans, hopes, and desires hurts. Once I've peeled off one layer and think I might be done, often another one awaits underneath it, with more attendant sorrows.
The psychological and spiritual processes involved in releasing habits of striving and clinging stem from an earnest acknowledgment of both my own limits and the structural limits imposed by the world. Coming to terms with these limits means grieving many losses, including aspirational versions of the self that may never come to pass. Part of the Sanctuary's incubation work is creating and holding space to grieve these losses in fits and starts over time.
With respect to finding the Sanctuary a new home, my approach is to simply wait until something changes and/or I'm given clear nudges from Those I serve.
In other words: follow the ways of non-contrivance.
Cover art: Trish Deneen.
The Wayback Machine hosts the original version of this post, first published Sep 30, 2022 on Substack.
