Struck by the cross-religious continuity of the power of enoughness here on this cool grey Tuesday morning in San Francisco.
I hopped off the cable car and walked past Huntington Park this morning and it was chilly and wintery and there were Chinese grandmothers doing tai chi in the park and my coffee was strong and the soy milk hot and my hat kept me warm as my gloves did my fingers, and I felt a certain double chaturanga soreness and a softness in my hamstrings and I looked forward to the long day of teaching ahead and reminisced about a warm dinner outside at Gracias Madre last night with two of the fiercer Kali-women in my life and I thought to myself: It is enough.
This is one of my favorite mantras of all time. I remember dark years, years spent in shadow, when I would sit down and, in the midst of great sorrow and struggle and loss, feel my heart beat in my chest and watch my breath rise and fall and think to myself: It is enough. In spite of all the suffering that comes with being alive in a body, with having a heart that beats, and lungs that breathe: It is enough.
And it remains so. We speak this in different words: santosha (Sanskrit for "contentment"), dayenu (Hebrew for "It would have been enough"), and in so doing, we embrace that radical project of resisting the cultural mandate to operate from a persistent place of Lack. This countercultural idea that in spite of all shadow, in spite of all struggle, we can sit in the midst of uncertainty and tumult and say: hey, it's enough. In this brief moment, this breath, this morning: it's enough.
Have to close with Lao Tzu's perfect variation on the theme:
“Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are.Amen, bro. Amen.
When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”