How to handle the overwhelming roar of thoughts
There’ve been a few times in my life when I have experienced the raw and awesome power of nature.
On a safari with my daughter, a mighty and ornery rhinoceros started to paw at the ground and throw its horn up and down as it decided whether or not to charge our vehicle.
Standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, I was overwhelmed to the point of tears as I beheld the beautiful, gaping maw of earth.
When my daughter and I stumbled upon several huge and wondrous whale vertebrae on a wild and sandy beach, I dropped to my knees as if in prayer.
This same sort of experience happened recently as I walked toward a familiar waterfall here in Minnesota.
I often visit this waterfall in late summer, when the water is slow and smooth. One year when my kids were young, the water was so tame, they’d been able to play in the pool at the bottom.
Now, in late spring, there was an unending roar of water as snowmelt rushed over the red rock.
Anything that found itself in that overwhelming current would have been swept away and dashed to pieces.
Many of us have probably heard of “monkey mind,” but recently, I came across the phrase “the waterfall of thoughts.” As I stood on the edge of this wild and dangerous rush of water, I could appreciate the power of that metaphor.
There are times when there is a generous and calm flow to our thoughts, when they are slow and smooth enough to reflect the golden light. There are times when our thoughts can feel like this spring waterfall, fueled by a higher-than-usual snowmelt.
In other words, when life events are out of our control, our minds can turn turbulent, fed with a charging and overwhelming energy. Then, it feels almost impossible to stop the roaring thoughts that charge and rush, creating damage and dangerous whirlpools.
What’s more, even though it was mid-April, it was snowing when I visited the waterfall. That snow covered icy patches as I walked toward the roaring. I feared that my feet would start slipping and nothing would stop me from plunging into that destructive rush.
I got very, very careful and intentional. I tested each and every step. I held onto the handrail, and when I got near enough to the edge, I planted my feet and watched and breathed.
There was no stopping that water, but that was actually a good thing. If the green of new growth was going to happen, this snow had to melt. That’s when I realized—sometimes, you have to let go of what is keeping you frozen and buried. This might be messy and even terrifying, but it’s what needs to happen to find new life.
Something else I realized? When our thoughts rush and roar, swirl and suck, we have to be as careful and intentional as we can. What are the things that will keep us safe? What are the things that are going to allow us to watch that waterfall rather than drown in it?
As I stood there, I also had the opportunity to practice being the curious witness. I was not the waterfall. I was not in the waterfall. I was standing beside it, watching it do what it would, and letting it go on its way.
Why in the hell is it so much easier to do with an actual waterfall as compared to our overwhelming waterfall of thoughts—especially in the deepest, darkest nights of our souls?
I have no answer. But when the thoughts threaten to flood and drown, there is this practice, of getting grounded, careful, and intentional about breathing in and breathing out. There is this practice of watching the thoughts—from a safe distance. My, would you look at that. There is this practice of surrendering that which is frozen and buried in us, of letting shit go.
You are here.
You are grounded.
You are centered.
You are safe.
You can handle whatever’s next.
Live light.