Laurie wrote this on November 4, 2016, for me to post.
Returning home from a week away, I unrolled my woven mat on the sheltered deck where a misty rain met the metal roof, gathered into drops, and rolled off into a steady pattern of pitter-patter sound. Tea tray set with care. Cushions likewise. The incense sending a smoky sweet swirl upward. The decorative clay pot of ancient pu-erh steaming. I sat, breathing in the scents of wet earth, fallen leaves, a hint of mold. Songbirds twittered at the neighbor’s feeder hanging in the crape myrtle tree. Traffic shushed past; the drivers headed to school or work. The block-away voices of walkers and joggers came and went like casual visitors passing by. My thoughts stilled, my heartbeats slowed. Gratitude for a safe homecoming rose up and wrapped me like a warm, soft shawl. Minutes ticked past, uncounted and unimportant. I remained one of the lucky few who had no place to go and nothing to do. Sitting became my sole reality.
When I returned from my reverie, the tea pot stood empty and cold, the incense stick had burned out, the rain that had swelled into a burst of storm had ceased. Gathering core strength, I stood to practice the Tibetan Rites. I set aside the cushions and the tea tray. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something not right near my feet. A strange configuration of green and white against the myriad browns of the mat. I knelt to see. A snail carried an eye-brow-shaped, still verdant leaf on its back. It moved slowly, searching its way with reaching and retreating antennae, leaving in its wake a glimmering trail of slime. Odd. There were snails everywhere in the yard but few ventured up onto the deck, and this one had traveled some distance during my meditation to make it this far onto the middle of my mat. The brilliant green of the curved leaf stuck to its shell had caught my eye, otherwise, I probably would have stepped on it, crushing it underfoot.
I lowered my head to the mat to look at the snail eye to eye. It paused, then pulled back into its shell, the leaf tipping slightly from side to side. I stayed there, cheek taking in the pressure of the mat’s weave, wondering if the snail had come for a reason, or with a message. After some minutes, at this quiet stalemate, I decided to gently move the snail off the mat so I could continue my practice. With peaceful thoughts, I picked up the snail and set it several feet away onto the moist rain-beaded surface of a large fallen leaf. Here, the green of the leaf on the snail’s shell appeared even more unusual, more purposeful, yet no real reason occurred to me beyond the fact that I remembered a story about a snail that I had once heard from DK and the Zen Master Monk she trained with. The memory made me smile and brought deeper peace into my being. The present moment snail safely out of the way, I followed through with the six movements of the Rites.
Twenty minutes later, I finished my final prayers and opened my eyes. Of course, I looked for the snail and found it moving again in my direction (odd, again, because it could easily have gone any other way, even toward the close-by shelter of the fig tree). Now, however, the green leaf had fallen off its shell. I watched as it met with a metal chair leg and began to climb upward, only to change its mind, turn, and crawl back down, then continued toward me. I waited, wondering what would happen. After all, I had no place to go and nothing else that I had to do (unpacking and laundry, making soup, and cleaning the house could wait). Bent over at the waist I studied the snail’s movement as it came ever closer to my bare right foot. Surely it would sense my presence with its antennae and turn away.
But that was not the case. The snail did not retreat or change direction. Its probing sensors touched my skin and then its mouth took a taste. The sensation created was slightly sucking, like a kiss, and slightly scratchy. I took a deep inhale to calm myself and allow the snail’s further exploration, pushing aside thoughts of its sharp tongue and the possibility that it might be carrying some kind of toxicity or disease. Why I wondered, would a snail be interested in a human foot?
The nibble continued as the snail crawled along the side of my foot moving toward my toes. I sensed nearby movement and saw a seven-legged daddy-long-legs spider hurrying across the mat, headed right for the snail. Would there be an engagement? Was there some purpose here or was this only happenstance? Why did the spider have only seven, instead of eight, legs? How had it been injured? I didn’t like spiders. What would I do if it tried to crawl up on me? It took everything in my being to stay still, calm my breath, and stay present in the moment.
An inch from the snail the spider stopped and scurried back half a foot; then it approached again and retreated; and yet again. The snail paid no attention whatsoever. Perhaps from its perspective, the spider did not exist. Twice more the spindly-legged arachnid rushed forward and then hurried away. The final time it continued fleeing, disappearing over the edge of the deck and onto a jumble of lichened stones. The snail may be satisfied with its initial exploration, turned upward and began to climb with some determination onto and over the arch of my foot. I flinched at a sharp sting, but saw quickly that the feeling did not come from the snail but from a tiny gray mosquito that had latched onto my foot below the joint of my big toe. Ordinarily, I would have shooed it away with a wave of my hand, but I did not want to disturb the snail’s forward movement. My back and legs began to ache. I argued with myself about staying still to see what would happen or breaking the magic of this bizarre communion in order to get on with the day.
I stayed longer. Waiting until the snail had descended the inside curve of my foot, and began once more to nibble along the edge of the sole, again moving toward my toes. A strange thought came to me—that the snail might be drawing toxins from my system (the same way that leeches were once used to bleed bad blood from people who were sick). Or, the converse, that the snail was giving me some kind of medicine via its tiny bites and slime trail. Still drawing no clear conclusion about the snail’s meeting with me, I put my forefinger in front of it. Without hesitation, it climbed abroad, seemingly comfortable with my skin’s scent and texture. I pressed the tip of my finger to the wide sill of the deck’s wood railing and the snail glided forward onto this very different terrain, its shell tipping slightly then righting itself. Bending down, once more to be eye-to-eye, I whispered my thank you and good wishes on its ongoing journey, wherever it may go. The sensation of my breath caused the snail to withdraw briefly, but then it re-emerged, wiggling antennae to check out its new surroundings.
I stretched upward for my Namaste, then folded forward to pick up the tea tray. Something miraculous had just happened to me. I just didn’t know exactly what to call it or how to interpret the encounter.