Upaguru
Have you seen that word before? "Upaguru." Or sometimes, "Upa Guru." Perhaps it's new to you. It's a Sanskrit term that has various meanings. Broadly, "upa" means "near." And while it has many meanings, "guru" can be seen as a teacher, spiritual guide, or one who leads from darkness into light. Some use "Upaguru" to mean something like "assistant teacher." But that's a narrow view, hemmed in by the limitations of English.
The more common meaning is "the teacher nearby." At least, that's a fair reading of it. Another translation is "the guru within." The concept is that we are not taught only by true and authentic guides, or satgurus, but by anyone or anything that has something to teach us. It's an expansive view, that everything and everyone can be our Upaguru. Spiritual writer Mark Nepo explains that, "The Hindu word Upaguru means the teacher that is next to you in this moment. And so, my teachers include the wind, the stranger, and the broken bit of glass in the alley."
Self-proclaimed "spiritual midwife" Sr. Joyce Rupp, OSM, reminds us that "Upagurus usually arrive unannounced and uninvited." She tells of seeing a healthy young birch tree with a dead limb about halfway down the trunk. Yet even with this "death ... firmly fastened" to it, the young tree also had a least a dozen healthy branches stretching outward. As she considered the contrast, Rupp realized that she had encountered an Upaguru. "The longer I sat and gazed at the birch tree," she recalls, "the clearer the teaching became. 'Live with the brokenness and keep on thriving.' " As she pondered that lesson, she felt a swelling of hope.
Whatever else we may say about this time of pandemic, it is certainly an Upaguru. How many lessons have already been revealed to us? Lessons of grief, of course, and of failures to love our neighbor, both individually and collectively, as a society and as a nation. But also lessons of hope, of kindness, of courage, compassion, and selflessness. Lessons of nature's capacity to heal. Eye-opening lessons about what really matters. And small reminders of how to live lightly and well.
I had such an Upaguru last night. Unannounced, uninvited, and even unwanted, a severe cramp in my hamstring woke me in the middle of the night. In that disoriented state, I would ordinarily jump out of bed before I even had time to think, instinctively ready to walk off the cramp. But for some inexplicable reason, I stayed in bed and breathed deeply though the pain. Four breaths later, the cramp was gone, and soon after that I was sleeping again. But not before I smiled and gave thanks to my body for bringing me a message I needed to hear again: Pause. Be calm. Go toward the pain, and remember to b-r-e-a-t-h-e. You'll come out on the other side. It's a lesson for these days and for all days.
Who -- or what things -- have been your Upagurus lately? Over the years, young children, elders, and strangers have been reliable Upagurus for me. I've learned from synchronicity of all kinds. But there are so many teachers I have not recognized at the time. Perhaps you would say the same. What might this day look like if we were to watch for the teachers next to us? What might we learn from the bees in our garden, from the habits of our pets, from the sights we see on our daily walk? What lessons could we take from wearing our masks, washing our hands, or connecting with family and friends at a distance?
I'll close with Joyce Rupp's take on the birch tree as Upaguru:
"If I could summarize the teaching I received that day," she says, "it would be this: 'Focusing totally on the dead branch results in a narrowing of vision and a tight, empty heart. Releasing that focus and opening up to the possibility of growth does not deny the dangling branch. It simply lets it be and nurtures what can still produce life. For the human heart, wounded yet resilient, much remains.' "
Much remains for us, dear ones. Much learning, much growing, and, yes, much living. Until tomorrow, I wish us all eyes to see and ears to hear our Upagurus.
Stay safe, and be well.
Love,
Nancie/Mom/Mimi/Grandma
The more common meaning is "the teacher nearby." At least, that's a fair reading of it. Another translation is "the guru within." The concept is that we are not taught only by true and authentic guides, or satgurus, but by anyone or anything that has something to teach us. It's an expansive view, that everything and everyone can be our Upaguru. Spiritual writer Mark Nepo explains that, "The Hindu word Upaguru means the teacher that is next to you in this moment. And so, my teachers include the wind, the stranger, and the broken bit of glass in the alley."
Self-proclaimed "spiritual midwife" Sr. Joyce Rupp, OSM, reminds us that "Upagurus usually arrive unannounced and uninvited." She tells of seeing a healthy young birch tree with a dead limb about halfway down the trunk. Yet even with this "death ... firmly fastened" to it, the young tree also had a least a dozen healthy branches stretching outward. As she considered the contrast, Rupp realized that she had encountered an Upaguru. "The longer I sat and gazed at the birch tree," she recalls, "the clearer the teaching became. 'Live with the brokenness and keep on thriving.' " As she pondered that lesson, she felt a swelling of hope.
Whatever else we may say about this time of pandemic, it is certainly an Upaguru. How many lessons have already been revealed to us? Lessons of grief, of course, and of failures to love our neighbor, both individually and collectively, as a society and as a nation. But also lessons of hope, of kindness, of courage, compassion, and selflessness. Lessons of nature's capacity to heal. Eye-opening lessons about what really matters. And small reminders of how to live lightly and well.
I had such an Upaguru last night. Unannounced, uninvited, and even unwanted, a severe cramp in my hamstring woke me in the middle of the night. In that disoriented state, I would ordinarily jump out of bed before I even had time to think, instinctively ready to walk off the cramp. But for some inexplicable reason, I stayed in bed and breathed deeply though the pain. Four breaths later, the cramp was gone, and soon after that I was sleeping again. But not before I smiled and gave thanks to my body for bringing me a message I needed to hear again: Pause. Be calm. Go toward the pain, and remember to b-r-e-a-t-h-e. You'll come out on the other side. It's a lesson for these days and for all days.
Who -- or what things -- have been your Upagurus lately? Over the years, young children, elders, and strangers have been reliable Upagurus for me. I've learned from synchronicity of all kinds. But there are so many teachers I have not recognized at the time. Perhaps you would say the same. What might this day look like if we were to watch for the teachers next to us? What might we learn from the bees in our garden, from the habits of our pets, from the sights we see on our daily walk? What lessons could we take from wearing our masks, washing our hands, or connecting with family and friends at a distance?
I'll close with Joyce Rupp's take on the birch tree as Upaguru:
"If I could summarize the teaching I received that day," she says, "it would be this: 'Focusing totally on the dead branch results in a narrowing of vision and a tight, empty heart. Releasing that focus and opening up to the possibility of growth does not deny the dangling branch. It simply lets it be and nurtures what can still produce life. For the human heart, wounded yet resilient, much remains.' "
Much remains for us, dear ones. Much learning, much growing, and, yes, much living. Until tomorrow, I wish us all eyes to see and ears to hear our Upagurus.
Stay safe, and be well.
Love,
Nancie/Mom/Mimi/Grandma
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