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Non-vichara shows up in great stories from the past which often turn upon a violation of expectation. The world’s children’s stories often focus on a crisis, for example, a child getting lost in the woods and experiencing intense fear, confusion, and bewilderment. Of course, such disorientation greets the grown-up as well, forcing the question: Where am I, and what can truly be relied upon?
David Wagoner’s poem “Lost” gives a simple instruction for those moments when we are discombobulated, unable to find our way through the forest of life:
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here.
The terror of being lost arises from not knowing and not seeing. Yet the poem reverses the perspective: the forest is not lost; the disorientation lies within. If we are continually trying to escape from here, then we are truly lost. When we encounter a here that is unfamiliar or painful and respond by fleeing from it, we set ourselves up for a lifetime of running.
Here is where we meet the Heart amid the apparent imperfections of experience. This is the place where vichara can teach us how to override the impulse to avoid, resist or escape present conditions. Portable vichara reminds us that here is where the work is to be done, where all will be decided.
And yet, even if we find ourselves running, each moment offers the opportunity to stand still—to observe and register our discomfort without immediately reacting to it, to renew our commitment to the work of knowing ourselves. In this sense, Bhagavan’s silence is equivalent to standing still.
Standing still exposes the mechanisms of identifi-cation and turns attention towards that which is neither born nor dies. Things are as they are, and inward order begins when we cease demanding that reality conform to our preferences. If we blame our surroundings or fail to appreciate that the forest knows where we are, we are likely to find ourselves exiled from the spiritual Heart. Stated briefly, everywhere is our home and being “lost” is only a passing mental state born of the inner estrangement. The poet continues:
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
In other words, nothing is alien to Raven and Wren, nor is anything grasped as the familiar place called home. Raven and Wren are not merely at home—they embody home, the belonging we previously imagined could only be found outside ourselves. The poet concludes:
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
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