Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Then I saw that we have two new regular advertisers in the newspaper: a hypnotist and an astrologer. Perfect! Here was a unique take on working on resolutions, and also something I knew nothing about. I hoped it would be interesting to me and to our readers.
And so, I interviewed Anthony Royce Barnacott of Kamalot Astrology and Donna Rodolph of Hypnosis for Change. Both were knowledgeable, enthusiastic and contagiously thrilled to talk to me. But there was a bonus that I wasn't expecting: both also offered me a free trial to get a taste of what they do.
Anthony is currently preparing my TimeLine, an astrological chart which will tell what is in store for me in 2010 based on my Dec. 26, 1962, 5:43 p.m. birthdate. It should arrive in the mail in the next day or two. So that is still to come.
Today, at 12:30 p.m., I was hypnotized by Donna. She specializes in helping people overcome problems, things like losing weight, stopping smoking, overcoming fears, reducing stress or managing pain. Although there were any number of things on that list I could have chosen, I selected the biggest obstacle in my life: food. I have struggled with eating disorders and weight gain and loss since I was a young teenager. I have periods of stability, then again go back into the cycle of destructive behaviors. Could hypnosis really work?
Well, we'll see. The session was surprisingly relaxing, and did not, as I thought it might, put me into an unconscious state. Instead, it was more like a deep attentiveness, with a complete absence of tension. Donna had me visualize what it would be like to be healthy and fit, and I had a strong image of myself as a runner, something I used to do, and have been considering taking up again.
I still feel a bit skeptical of the whole process. But despite that, hopeful. Maybe this really can help me rewire my brain, and establish new behaviors.
An interesting note to all of this was Donna's comment that she could not offer me any "satisfied customers" names for interviews, because when she was starting her still relatively new practice, most of her clients were Christians. As in fundamentalists. And, because of that, they were very guarded about their participation. Apparently there was some sense that a good Christian shouldn't be turning to something as potentially "spooky" as hypnosis for answers. I guess God was supposed to do it for them.
All of which made me reflect on my own spiritual practice. I didn't turn to hypnosis and astrology looking for answers - what I was really looking for was a story. But once I was there, it made me wonder a bit. How does all of this fit in with Zen?
I guess the good news is that it doesn't have to fit. There's enough room in my Zen, anyway, for everything....even the far out stuff. Because it's not a religion - it's a way of being present for life, no matter where each day takes me.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Joan Amaral gave a dharma talk at the Rohatsu Sesshin in which she quoted this passage from Dogen's "Eihei Koroku":
"Traveling the land without fearing the tiger is the courage of the hunter. Sailing the sea without fearing the deep sea dragon is the courage of the fisherman. Facing the sword drawn before you and seeing life as like death is the courage of the general. What is the courage of a patch-robed monk? Set out your cushions and sit; lay out your bowls and eat. Exhale through your nostrils, radiate light from your eyes. Do you know there is something which goes beyond? With vitality, eat lots of rice, and then use the toilet. Transcend your personal prediction of future buddhahood from Gautama."
There are different kinds of courage. In my heart, I know this to be true. The courage it has taken me to find peace with myself is just as great as that of the general or the hunter. Different, but equally valid.
Dogen tells us that simply by setting out our cushions and sitting, we can find transcendence. He honors that everyday courage of being alone with ourselves.
And, I do believe, that coming to the point where I can "radiate light from my eyes" will, eventually, change the world.
Monday, December 28, 2009
In the main living space, women slept on the floor (as they still do in Japan). It was a large, open room, with few places to keep personal belongings. Each woman, however, had her own pillow - a shallow wood or ceramic block-shaped item, that contained in it a slender drawer. The doors became the repository for small personal things, like hair combs or love letters.
It was here also that the women kept their journals, small notebooks filled with their musings about life, poetry, notes on love. The journals came to be known as "pillow books" because of their most usual "secret" spot.
The most famous pillow book is the one by Sei Shonagon, written in the 990s, which has survived to this day. It is a fascinating look into life in Heian Japan, as well as being a masterpiece which can stand on its literary merits, separate from history.
I have always been intrigued with the idea of the pillow book, placing a personal record of thoughts underneath your head at night, pulling it out to record the day's entry.
During the Rohatsu Sesshin, those five days that we spent sitting in the zendo, it was similar to the great living room of these Japanese courtiers. Although we slept in a separate room, all of the rest of our day was spent side by side in the zendo, with our personal space limited to the zabuton and zafu that we were sitting on.
Much to my amusement, I realized at some point during the retreat that my zabuton had become a Heian "pillow" of sorts, with personal items stored not in a drawer, but simply tucked underneath. During the course of the sesshin, I stowed Nicorette lozenges, my clappers for the tea ceremony, my kokyo's chant book and daily schedule, gloves, a hat, tissue, a small notebook, a pen, and even extra "feminine products," not to mention the growing stack of support cushions on top of my zabuton.
It made me wonder what I would have found if I had gone around the room and flipped up all the cushions....
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
I received a holiday greeting from Tony Patchell that was simply too good not to share - so I am stealing it, and offering it up to all of you....
"Please accept with no obligation, implied or implicit, my best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low stress, non-addictive, gender neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all and a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally accepted calendar year 2010, but not without due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose contributions to society have helped make America great (not to imply that America is necessarily greater than any other country or is the only 'AMERICA' in the western hemisphere), and without regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical disability, religious faith, or sexual preference of the wishee."
And with that....off to eat more cookies!
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Two days before Christmas, and we were immersed in the Wednesday deadline at the newspaper, having eaten our fill of chocolates and cookies, when the phone rang. I happpened to miss it - I had stepped outside for a quick smoke. But when I sat down at my desk, I heard my boss Pat say, "Well, I guess I better go home and help Ramona deal with this." And she headed out the door.
After working together for nearly eight years, we all know each other (and each other's partners) pretty well. I was fairly confident that I knew what that tone in Pat's voice meant. "Are the dogs out again?" (Ramona, not being a huge dog fan, always calls for back-up when Grace and Skeeter pull a Houdini and disappear over the back fence.)
I was completely unprepared for Kim's reply: "No, she had to go home because someone stole their van."
What? Someone stole their Honda mini-van? Yep. It was gone. They had parked the van in their own driveway, which is on a quiet cul-de-sac in Calistoga. As is their frequent habit, after years of small-town living, they had left the keys sitting in the console, because Ramona needed to move it in the not-to-far-off future.
And someone had just come along, opened the door, inserted the keys, and driven off. Merry Christmas.
Although stunned to hear the news, part of me is surprised that this doesn't happen more often here. Having lived in large cities for much of my adult life, I am always amused by the low security standards of small town citizens. Almost no one in Calistoga locks their cars; many leave their keys in the console or under the floor mats. And at least weekly, I see an idling, empty car parked in front of the post office, its driver checking his P.O. box inside the building without wanting to bother with shutting the engine off.
I still lock my doors. And I clean out the car every time I arrive at my destination. If I must leave something in the car, valuable or not, I put it in the trunk, out of sight. In my old neighborhood in San Francisco, on 16th and Capp Street in the Mission, even leaving a single cigarette on the dashboard was an invitation for a break-in. Just like learning to walk the streets at night, making yourself an unattractive "customer" for thieves is part of urban survival.
Last summer Calistoga had a rash of car burglaries. People kept calling up the police station and saying, "Someone stole my designer purse (or my laptop, or my cell phone)." When asking for details, the police found that almost without exception, the items had been left in plain view in an unlocked car.
I wouldn't say anybody deserves what they get, but, come on, now! Maybe work a little bit at making it harder for the bad guys?
That said, I still feel pretty awful about poor Pat and Ramona. Because it's not the stolen van that they're broken up about. The rear of the car was loaded up with all of their camping equipment: old Girl Scout cookware, plastic plates made by their son and nieces and nephews, the air mattress they've been using for years...in short, memories. That's what was stolen.
And what about the thief? Of course, the things in the van will mean nothing to him. The van itself might be simply a convenient solution to a temporary transportation problem, soon to be abandoned somewhere by the side of the road.
Theft is such a heartless act. Taking what is not yours - yes, it's wrong. But beyond that, look at the consequences for the victims: shattered trust, loss, anger, inconvenience, financial hardship, interrupted lives. For what? Easy money? A thrill? I would make a rotten criminal. The karmic burden would be so heavy I wouldn't be able to get out of bed in the morning.
Keep your eyes out for a white Honda mini-van with a license plate frame that reads: "I'd rather be in Calistoga." She'd love to be home for Christmas.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
People brought photographs and placed them on the altar. I chose to honor Sabrina, my wife, who inspires me continuously with her generosity, compassion, and open heartedness. Darlene Cohen echoed my sentiments by honoring her husband, Tony Patchell, especially for his words years ago that gave her the courage to continue practice when her own spirit was flagging.
Tony brought a beautiful black and white photograph (shown here) of Suzuki-roshi, the Japanese priest who came to the United States and founded the San Francisco Zen Center, and later Tassajara, the first monastic Zen community in the country. Darlene and Tony (and so all of us, their students) are in the lineage of Suzuki-roshi, and Tony brought his image so we would all remember that without this man, we would not be together on this night.
At the recent Rohatsu Sesshin, student Roland Brown gave his "Way-Seeking Mind" talk, telling us how he came to follow the Zen path. In that talk, he shared this quote from Suzuki-roshi:
“Without Way-Seeking Mind, enlightenment is meaningless. With Way-Seeking Mind, even failure is enlightenment.”
Leave it to the great teacher. Somehow, this charming Japanese priest found just the right words, time and again, to calm our worries, to give encouragement, to challenge our smugness, to push us to new discoveries. I never saw him with my own eyes, but feel privileged to be meeting many people who did know him, and can share stories.
For anyone who is interested, a wonderful biography of Suzuki-roshi is available by David Chadwick, entitled "Crooked Cucumber."
Right now, there are piles everywhere. The two baskets in my kitchen that I use to hold mail and other miscellaneous "to take care of" items are both overflowing. There are stacks of clothing on top of my dresser. My office is filled with precarious tilting mountains of paperwork, magazines, and notebooks, gradually encroaching upon the workable space. I have packages from UPS that haven't even been opened yet. My bookshelves, normally holding only the books that belong there, have miscellaneous items perched jauntily on all the edges.
The closet which holds all of those things that don't need to be out in the open is bursting at the seams. When I open the door to retrieve something, like Christmas wrapping paper, I am hard pressed to get the door closed again, because of the cascading chaos.
This state of affairs makes me uneasy and discombobulated. I take one look at the disorganized mess around me, and want to gnash my teeth and tear my hair.
When I was first living in Calistoga, I rented a room for a while in the home of a very sweet woman who happened to be the most disorganized person I had ever met. She had severe adult-onset Attention Deficit Disorder, which meant that it was nearly impossible for her to stay on task and get things done. As a result, the entire house was a labyrinth of piles - laundry, cooking utensils, books, etc. It was in marked contrast to my simple living space, which was sparsely furnished and neatly organized. She used to come to the door of my room and peer in, never even daring to step in. One day she said, "Your room is so Zen."
For many years, I moved constantly. I rarely lived anywhere longer than a year, and sometimes I moved two or three times in a single twelve month period. Because of that, my belongings were very minimal. I kept only what I actually needed, and traveled light.
Six years ago I met my partner Sabrina, and after we moved in together, into her house, that all started to shift. It began slowly. Initially, I continued to keep all of my things in a single room. But gradually, as I settled in, and felt more expansive, I began to move into other rooms of the house. Now, with the exception of Sabrina's office, I have "things" in every room, parts of me throughout our entire home.
It is a testament to the sense of security and "at home-ness" I feel that I have been able to transform my nomadic, pared-down lifestyle into this one of expansiveness.
So, it appears that allowing myself to be messy sometimes might actually be a sign of health and wellness. Perhaps it means that I feel safe enough to allow things to get crazy, knowing that they can again be brought back into alignment.
And it is, after all, only a few more days until time for New Year's resolutions. I can make an easy one right off the bat - I vow to clean up the piles.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A sesshin is an ideal place to do this, because the tight schedule and focus on silence and routine remove many of those distractions of our ordinary lives. It is much easier to be mindful at a meal when there is no conversation at the table, simply a keen awareness of the food on your plate, the tastes in your mouth, and the sounds of humans eating.
Staying in the moment is more challenging after the sesshin has ended, when you must return to jobs, chores, and family life.For me, the "to-do lists" very rapidly create a mindset of worrying about the future, instead of staying right here.
In a dharma talk that Darlene Cohen gave during the sesshin, she referred to this quote from Dogen:
"Continuous practice, day after day, is the most appropriate way of expressing gratitude. This means that you practice continuously, without wasting a single day of your life, without using it for your own sake. Why is it so? Your life is a fortunate outcome of the continuous practice of the past. You should express your gratitude immediately. "
— Zen Master Dogen quoted in Enlightenment Unfolds edited by Kazuaki Tanahashi
I love this quote. I love the idea of expressing gratitude by practice. Darlene also said, during that talk, that it was our task nor to become a "better" self, but to become more fully who we are. It seems to me that these two ideas are integrally connected. Learn and become my own true self; practice continually in order to show thankfulness for everything. Two steps both incrediby easy and incredibly hard to follow.
Every moment of every day that I can create space around myself, a gap between input and reaction, a slowing down of movement, I am moving closer to active zazen, continuous practice.
What do you do to bring practice into your daily life?
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Tuesday, Dec. 22
7 p.m. sit, special Bodhisattva Ceremony
Tuesday, Dec. 29 (the week between Christmas and New Year's) - CLOSED
Russian River Zendo:
Saturday, Dec. 26 (day after Christmas) - CLOSED
Thursday, Dec. 31 - (THERE IS A WAITING LIST FOR THIS EVENT. Sorry....all full.)
8:45 p.m. until after midnight, New Year's Eve Ceremony
(9:30 zazen, 10:05 kinhin, 10:15 zazen, 10:45 kinhin, 10:55 zazen, 11:30 kinhin, 11:30 zazen)
Includes Full Moon Ceremony (It's a blue moon!) and 108 rings of the densho bell.
At midnight, warm sake upstairs with potluck and festivities.
For all of you with many more years experience as Zen practitioners, I imagine you are already chuckling to yourselves, because you can see where this is going. Certainty? Zen? You're kidding, right?
I have been told that Zen has a long tradition of not providing all the information. When new students came to monasteries, they were not given a list of rules. They simply had to stumble along, being as observant as they could, trying to figure out what to do by watching others. When they blundered, a teacher or more senior student might yell at them to point out their mistake, but may very well not tell them what the correct action was, leaving that for the young student to figure out.
You can probably guess that this is not my most comfortable learning style. I detest being "caught out" wrong, particularly when I had no idea that I was doing anything incorrectly.
The recent sesshin was a great example of this. Though we had an extensive orientation before starting, it was impossible to cover all of the bases. And even with what we did cover, much of it was forgotten due to information overload. So throughout the five days, we were continually figuring out what was proper form, when to bow, how to acknowledge each other, etc.
As kokyo (chant leader), I was very focused on my role, and of course, aimed for a perfect performance of all aspects of the job. Shortly after the first time I used the clappers for afternoon tea, Joan Amaral (our doan) told me that I should strike them much more softly, like a kiss. She felt that by the end of a five day sesshin, the vigorous thwack I was giving would split everyone's head open. I practiced the new, quiet sound, and vowed to be perfect again. At our next meal, I used the clappers - this time, with a whispered kiss. After we were back in the zendo, Tony Patchell, the acting priest, came up to me and said, "Michelle, when you use the clappers, give them a great big resounding Japanese whack!"
Shortly thereafter, one of our dinners was late in the kitchen, so that all of us were milling about waiting to be served. I was standing near the front of the room (by the kitchen) and Tony and Darlene were in the back. The kitchen staff motioned that all was now ready; I turned and motioned to Tony. (We were in silence, remember.) He smiled, and waved me ahead, and I got into the food line. Afterward, one of the attending priests came up to me and said gently that no one should ever serve themselves or eat before the teachers. I felt completely chagrined. I honestly had only done it because Tony waved me ahead, but I didn't realize there was an absolute rule about "teachers first." Even worse, not knowing that, I suspected there might be a bunch of other things I didn't know, rules that I was about to break at any moment.
Later, after some stillness in zazen, I was able to find a sense of humor around the whole issue, which is always the first step towards change for me. I know (almost) nothing - and that's pretty funny, if I can just manage to steer myself away from over-zealous seriousness.
And maybe, just maybe, it will help me keep my balance.
Friday, December 18, 2009
At the Rohatsu Sesshin this last week, we of the Russian River Zendo chanted the names of our Buddhist ancestors for the first time as a sangha. These chants, intoned at daily services at Tassajara and many other zendos, go through the entire lineage of teachers, those who have brought us "the middle way."
The first chant begins with "Bibashi Butsu Daiosho Shiki Butsu Daiosho Bishafu Butsu Daiosho Kuruson Butsu Daiosho...." down through "Eihei Dogen Daiosho" and ending with "Shogaku Shunryu Daiosho" and then, with barely a breath in between, on to the women ancestors: "Acharya Mahapajapati Acharya Mitta Acharya Yasodhara..." until finally coming to the last name "Acharya Chiyono."
"Daiosho" is a Japanese term which means "great teacher," a title which follows the name, in the same way "Teacher Tanaka" would be rendered "Tanaka-sensei" or, directly translated, "Tanaka teacher." "Acharya" is a Sanskrit word for spiritual teacher, and it precedes the name.
We did the ancestor chants as part of our morning service, following the chanting of either the Metta Sutta (Loving Kindness Meditation) or Dogen's Fukanzazengi, which tells practitioners how to do zazen.
I served as kokyo (chant leader) for the sesshin. When preparing for that role, the instruction I was given was to bring my full energy to the task, not being afraid to use a full, resounding voice. Throughout the sesshin, I worked closely with Joan Amaral, who was serving as doan (bell ringer and timekeeper). Joan has a wealth of experience with the "forms" or rituals of Zen, including many years of monastic life at Tassajara. She helped me fine-tune my chanting skills over the five days, working on pronounciation of the Chinese names, over which I stumbled some, and assisting me in setting the pace and rhythm of the chants, particularly the ancestor chants.
Our first attempt at the ancestor chants was a little rough - great spirit, but pretty ragged. But thanks in large part to Joan's tutelage, I was able to step more firmly into my role as a leader, and as everyone in the zendo grew more familiar with the chants, we really rose to the occasion. By the final day, it literally felt as if we were calling each one of our ancestors into the room to sit with us.
Chanting kept me centered throughout the sesshin. I love the musicality, the repetition, the sounds of the bells. And I hear different aspects of each chant freshly each time, bringing my attention keenly in tune with one section one day, and another the next. Morning, noon, meal time, end of day - lifting our voices out into the mountain sky felt so celebratory. Serving as kokyo was such a delight, that I didn't want the week to end at all. I wanted to go home and lead chanting services in front of my altar every morning.
But most profound for all of us, as a sangha, was the chanting of the ancestors. I think each one of us experienced the connection to our past, from India to China to Japan to the United States, in a way that we had never fully realized it before.
All the way to Shunryu Suzuki-roshi....who will be the next name in the chant?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The five days held an entire lifetime of emotion, sensation, pain, suffering, energy and joy, all flowing from one to the other. The routine was simple: we sat, we did kinhin (walking meditation), we ate, we chanted services, listened to dharma talks, and slept. Most of the day was spent in either zazen or kinhin. Zazen typically lasted 30 minutes, and the three long days had 14 separate sessions of zazen. That's a lot of time to be alone with yourself.
The first thing I noticed was heightened sensory awareness. The room we used as our zendo had flat industrial carpet, but over the center of the room, there were two large area rugs. As we did kinhin, I felt the plush, deep pile of the rug near my zabuton, followed by the thinner, more threadbare texture of the second rug, then the firm carpet. Each cycle around the room sent these sensations in through my feet and throughout my body.
The day was marked by the sounds of bells and clappers: the small bell to signal transition periods, the large deep toned bell used in service, the still bigger, bold bell calling us to sit first thing in the morning and after each meal, the clappers marking the beginnings and endings of meals and tea.
Added to these sounds were those of the elements. It was a wintery week, with mist, drizzle, and sometimes wild downpours and gusting winds. Sitting in the zendo and hearing the rain pummel the roof, and the wind buffet the windows, there was a connection to nature that felt profound and joyful. There was even one kinhin period outside where we got caught in a sudden torrent of water, drenching our clothes and faces. So the rain was not just a sound, but also a body sensation: cold, wet, clean.
And of course, there were all the gurgles and breaths and coughs of fellow practitioners in the zendo. Bodies spoke to each other; one person's stomach would rumble, and then the stomachs near by would call out a response. Even the sound of swallowing was perceptible, ricocheting around the room from one seated figure to the next.
The long sit periods held challenges for each of us, as we coaxed our uncooperative and gradually tiring bodies into yet one more session of zazen after each strike of the bell. What kept me going was the incredible example being set all around me, watching and feeling those in my sangha sit and sit and sit in stillness.
I found myself, of course, running after my thoughts during these quiet moments. I covered a lot of ground for someone sitting still on a zabuton. When I realized that I had once again gotten lost in my mind, I would silently chant a short passage from the Fukanzazengi: Think of not-thinking. How do you think of not-thinking? Non-thinking. This in itself is the essential art of zazen.
During dharma talks, Darlene Cohen told us, as the days wore on, that we would begin feeling a building energy from all of this zazen. She called this energy piti, which is a Pali word meaning rapture, bliss or delight, the pleasurable quality in the mind generated during meditation. She urged us not to squander this piti by succumbing to the desire to talk to our bunkmates, but instead to plow it back into our practice, putting the giddiness and joy right back at the center of our sitting.
I did experience piti - unbidden, a growing, irrepressible joy built up over the five days. I also felt a very deep and strong connection, to my sangha, to myself, to the ancestors and to Buddhist tradition. I experienced a profound awakening, or more accurately, a series of awakenings, each one building upon the last.
French philosopher Blaise Pascal said, "All human miseries come from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone." That is the challenge we set for ourselves - come face to face with all of our imperfections, the wayward behavior of our wandering minds, the rollercoaster ride of our emotions - and through it all, sit, just sit, and sit some more, in a quiet room alone.
My life was changed. Perhaps that was true for each of us. Perhaps that change will ripple throughout the world.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Did you ever go away to summer camp when you were a kid? Do you remember how that one week somehow seemed like a lifetime? You start out kind of scared and alone, but you start doing fun activities, you meet new friends, you create things. By the end of the week, you're heartbroken to have to leave everyone behind, because they are all your best friends by now, and you have a vast shared history together.
Sesshin is kind of like that. I feel as if I could write an entire book about the experience. So much happened in such a short time.
I had to launch right into the work week today, and tomorrow will be my weekly deadline. Because of that, I will be brief for now. But I hope to explore more deeply and more minutely the wonder of sesshin over the coming week in this blog. I certainly have no shortage of material - I have dozens of notes jotted down already.
For now, just this - the sesshin brought to me a huge, sweeping feeling of energy. By the final day, despite the aches and pains in my body, and the lack of sleep from the tight schedule, I was actually more energized than I was on the first day.
Tony and Darlene and eight of us who were at the sesshin met tonight at our regular Tuesday sitting group in Healdsburg. Before the sesshin, I thought, oh, I'm going to be hard pressed to attend my sangha after the fatigue of those five days! But quite the opposite turned out to be true. The sesshin energy was evident in the room tonight. You could just feel that we all were still joined from the experience. Our service was particularly powerful, and everyone was practically giddy by the time we got to the dharma talk.
I feel like I could just keep going, and going, and going....
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tomorrow bright and early I will be leaving for Black Mountain Center for the five-day Rohatsu Sesshin. Rohatsu means "Dec. 8" and it refers to Buddha's enlightenment. The silent sitting period is in honor of that historic date.
I had hoped to be rested and ready - instead I have not yet packed, and I'm worn out. But, it will be what it will be! I'll try to sleep fast tonight.
I will be offline until Monday night, Dec. 14.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A former prince, Siddhartha left home at age 29 on a spiritual quest. He spent the next six years in severe ascetic practice, frequently going without food, shelter, and comfort. But at the end of that time, although recognized as having attained a high spiritual level by others, he himself felt that the answer was still not realized.
So he seated himself under the Bodhi Tree and vowed not to move until he became enlightened. While sitting, he focused on the ultimate nature of all things, "emptiness." Emptiness does not mean nothingness. It means the absence of distinctions, and a clear vision of the complete interconnectedness of all things. This is what we do during zazen - letting each thought come up, and then letting it pass, continuing to sit while being aware of body and breath.
Buddha sat under the Bodhi Tree for seven days. During that time, Devaputra-Mara (chief of the demons) conjured up fearful visions of falling rocks and mountains, and blazing fires. But Buddha's concentration was so great, that through his samadhi the rain of stones turned into flowers, and the fire became rainbow light. Next Mara went to enticement, sending countless beautiful women. He also tried to tempt Buddha into the trap of ego, thinking himself separate from and better than others. Buddha resisted all of this.
On the eighth morning, he looked up and saw the morning star twinkling on the horizon. In that moment, he experienced a deep and profound enlightenment. He saw there was a "middle way," lying between self-indulgence and self-denial. And he sensed the interconnectedness of all things,
The Dalai Lama said, paraphrasing, that at the heart of Buddhism lies the belief that the potential for enlightenment lies within each human being.
Buddha was merely a man. The way is as open to each one of us as it was to him.
Happy enlightenment day!
Monday, December 7, 2009
She makes a compelling case for the complete rethinking, as she puts it, of the insult "bird brain." Alex had a wide-ranging vocabulary, could make new sentences out of the words at his command, and even showed evidence of being able to add numbers. He asked for what he wanted, and threw a lot of personality into the mix, breaking up boring repetition of exercises by innovative change-ups.
As an example, he was being asked to identify different colored wooden blocks, by yellow, red, green, and by three corner - triangle, or four corner - square. Irene was saying things like "How many yellow three corner?" And Alex would answer correctly, "Three." Etc. But he grew tired of the routine, and suddenly began answering, "Five." Five was not the correct answer to any of the questions. Finally, in exasperation, Irene said, "Okay, smarty pants. What is five?" To which Alex replied, "None." Irene was dumbfounded.
This remarkable demonstration of the concept of zero shatters many previously held assumptions about animal and bird intelligence. In this, as in so many other ways, Alex proved to have the intelligence of a three-year-old human, instead of a "bird brain."
The book is fascinating - but none of the results surprised me. Sabrina and I have an African grey named Barney (pictured here), and we are both well aware of the depth of intelligence and emotional awareness that he has. Dealing with him is like dealing with a willful toddler. He knows what he wants, and he'll let you know about it in no uncertain terms. He is a master at mimicry, but he does not just "parrot" words. He uses them at appropriate times - like when he scolds the dogs with a resounding "No!" because they have just knocked something over in the living room. He is interactive and inquisitive, and he even has a sense of humor.
Reading the works of scientists who study animals coming from this place of respect and willingness to learn (instead of those who use animals as lab specimens) always leaves me more devoutly a believer in the thin line that exists between humans and the other animals who inhabit this planet.
Atrocities are committed against human beings, generally, under the guise of belief systems which claim that the victims are somehow less than human. That is the basis of all war propaganda - reducing the enemy to a caricature, or to a demon. Just think of the ways we depicted the Japanese during World War II, or the ways the Germans were represented. And of course, similar propaganda measures were being used abroad at the same time. The slave-owning history of the United States was founded on a widespread belief that blacks were more like beasts than humans, that they did not feel pain, that they could not think or reason.
We commit atrocities against animals using the same fallacious mind set, establishing a hierarchy with humans on top as thinking, feeling creatures, and animals on the bottom as thoughtless, brutish beings incapable of feelings such as devotion or love or fear.
Work like Irene Pepperberg's blurs that distinction between "us" and "them." After reading "Alex & Me," it is impossible to imagine eating a parrot. However, most of us don't eat parrots. But what about other birds? What about chickens? How much can they think and feel?
Many of us have dogs or cats in our lives, and feel horrified when we hear of people in other cultures mistreating such animals, even using them as a food source. But again, why do we draw the line there? Are not bears and deer and raccons equally intelligent? And how far removed are they from pigs and cows and sheep?
For me, vegetarianism is one small thing I can do to honor my belief that animals are, after all, not that much different from humans. I know that there are people in the world who do not have the luxury of adopting a vegetarian lifestyle, people who still hunt or raise animals for necessary food. But I can easily live without meat in my life in the Western world. It has been nearly 20 years since I gave it up, and not once have I regretted it. It makes me feel synchronized with my basic belief system, one in which animals are family, not other.
Tuesday, Dec. 8
7 p.m. sit, service, and dharma talk by Darlene Cohen
(on Buddha's enlightenment)
Tuesday, Dec. 15
7 p.m. sit, service, and dharma talk by sangha member Dennis
Tuesday, Dec. 22
7 p.m. sit, special Bodhisattva Ceremony
Upcoming Closures: Tuesday, Dec. 29 (the week between Christmas and New Year's)
Russian River Zendo:
Saturday, Dec. 12
closed for sesshin at Black Mountain Center (Dec. 10-14)
Saturday, Dec. 19
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:35 a.m. dharma talk and tea
Upcoming Closures: Saturday, Dec. 26 (for Christmas)
Sunday, December 6, 2009
At first glance, vowing not to steal sounds pretty straightforward, something fairly attainable. As long as you avoid grand theft auto and shoplifting, you're good to go, right?
Not according to Chogyam Rinpoche. As Tony Patchell puts it, the man must be a lawyer - his dense paragraph about the myriad ways in which one can commit larceny leaves no legal loophole. Everybody can be caught up by this precept.
The first line: "I commit myself to refrain from stealing my own opportunities for realization and squandering the proceeds in attempting to create more comfortable methods of remaining in samsara." Samsara is defined as the endless cycle of birth, suffering, death and rebirth. What a concept! That we seek to make ourselves more comfortable in our suffering - more money, better security, more things, excellent health - instead of coming face to face with the reality of the human condition, as it is. Choosing not to pursue the path of Buddha, choosing not to hear the truth of dharma, choosing not to work towards alleviating the suffering of all sentient beings - this is a theft, stealing from ourselves our opportunities for enlightenment.
And the next line is just as hefty: "I commit myself to the awareness that I cannot extricate myself from involvement in exploitation, social injustice, oppression and theft." We are all players in this drama - not one of us is free from implication in the dark forces of the world. This was a good line for me to read. The things I am most passionate about are issues of social injustice and oppression. In that fight, I fall easy prey to the tyranny of self-righteous anger. And then I help no one, especially not myself. There is never a clear role of victim/perpetrator. We all have a part in this. No good guys in white hats, bad guys in black hats. Instead, a whole lot of grey.
Chogyam Rinpoche continues: "I recognize that it is impossible to be 'pure' and disconnected from the causes of loss, impoverishment and deprivation of other beings. Because of this I commit myself to making the attempt to deprive others as little as possible through my presence in the world. I recognize that simply to live is to have gained personal advantage from the disadvantage of countless others."
This part is important - he points out that although it is impossible to avoid causing loss, impossible to take nothing from anyone in the world, still we can make a vow. We can commit ourselves to depriving others "as little as possible." Every day we make purchases that can be traced back to exploitative labor practices and disastrous environmental policy. Every day we our wages, our food, our general affluence, is gained at the expense of others less fortunate on the planet. But what is crucial here is that we cannot despair in that knowledge. We still need to make the commitment, to vow each day as much as possible to minimize our negative impact, our plunder the treasures of the Earth. Every small step counts: the conscious choices at the grocery store, the reusable canvas bag, the boycotting of companies that employ child laborers in sweat shops, the adoption of a vegetarian diet, the sharing of our personal wealth and time with service organizations. Living as gently as possible is something that each of us can reach for each day.
Chogyam Rinpoche says, "I commit myself to generating kindness and generosity, by sharing my time, energy and resources with those who experience need." In other words, the second precept is not just about vowing not to steal. It is about committing to the reverse of stealing - promising to be open and magnanimous, giving from our hearts, our wallets, and our minds.
Quite a vow. And yet, all it takes is this action, in this moment, to begin.
Friday, December 4, 2009
"When we in the West speak of 'basic facts of existence' we tend immediately to conceive these facts as reducible to certain austere and foolproof propositions--logical statements that are guaranteed to have meaning because they are empirically verifiable. These are what Bertrand Russel called 'atomic facts.' Now for Zen it is inconceivable that the basic facts of existence should be able to be stated in any proposition however atomic. For Zen, from the moment fact is transferred to a statement it is falsified. One ceases to grasp the naked reality of experience, and one grasps a form of words instead....The whole aim of Zen is not to make foolproof statements about experience, but to come to direct grips with reality without the mediation of logical verbalizing."
I am addicted to words. I am a writer; I think in letters. When I am trying to fall asleep at night, I unconsciously begin to visualize my thoughts as letters on a keyboard, typing out each sentence until I grow drowsy. At work, I write news articles and feature stories, movie reviews and columns. At home, I pen poems and essays, short stories and blog entries. My entire identity, the sum of me, seems to reside somewhere inside of that so-familiar alphabet. Without writing, I would be lost.
And then I find Zen. Zen, which says words are a mask, a veil. Zen, which presents me with koan riddles that make no more sense to me when answered than when they are first asked. Zen, a confusing, bewildering stream of thoughts which turn one back upon another, encircling, coming closer, closer...but to what?
As I sit down at the computer to write about Zen, I am stumped. How does one write about something that exists not only beyond words, but before words?
There is some comfort in knowing that I am not alone in trying. Searching the Sonoma County Library's online catalogue reveals 399 books about Zen. When you turn to the mother lode, Amazon.com, typing in "Zen" reveals 170,444 hits - more than Islam (139,000), Judaism (112,000), or just plain Buddhism (82,000). The only major religion which has greater literary output in English is Christianity, with a whopping 425,000 entries.
But the other "isms" aren't Zen. They are not founded on "direct transmission outside of scriptures." In fact, the opposite is true - they have sacred books on which the entire religion is based.
So, once again, what about Zen? A philosophy/religion without words? And yet, of course, that is impossible. Without words, there would be no dharma, no teacher/student relationship. Words must be part of the equation - but how do we know when we have gone beyond "words as tools to communicate direct experience" to "words as subterfuge"?
As a passionate believer in poetry, I know that the proper words can illuminate something tired and familiar, restoring the object or idea to is original "it"-ness. Is that not true of Zen also? Can an entire lineage of Zen poets be wrong?
How can I find the words?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
We are seven years apart. We were talking today, and noted that adding up our years, we'll be 101 this year -- and then that led to the realization that, as old as we seem to be getting, our combined age is just two years older than my grandmother, Gladys.
Gladys is a remarkable woman. She turned 99 in August, and she's still going strong. On Mondays, she volunteers at the Welfare League thrift shop in Santa Rosa, sorting purses and accessories. She is the historian for the Santa Rosa Garden Club, and an active member in Native Daughters of the Golden West. Once a month, she puts together layettes for needy mothers, which are then distributed from Santa Rosa Memorial. And she's a seamstress. She is still taking in sewing and alteration jobs, working on the fancy new machine she purchased a few years back. She does not wear glasses or use a hearing aid.
Gladys lives in a senior apartment complex, so her meals are provided for her. But she still does all of her own laundry, and basically takes care of herself. She loves to gamble, and makes frequent trips to River Rock Casino, as well as her yearly trip to Reno with Sabrina on a senior over-night bus trip. She is always game for anything, whether it's trying Indian food, going to a concert, or heading out to the Hall of Flowers at the Sonoma County Fair. In short, she is an inspiration.
Sometimes I simply marvel at what the world must look like through her eyes. She was born in 1910. Her first car was a 1932 Ford with a rumble seat. She worked in San Francisco in an era when you put on a hat and gloves to go to the city. Her only daughter, Alice, spent several years of her childhood in an iron lung, because of polio. So many things are new and miraculous to her: computers, cell phones, CDs. So many things are challenging to the standards she was brought up, like me, for once example, her tattooed granddaughter with a shaved head. Yet she has adapted to everything, continuing to embrace the world every day with a freshness and young-at-heart attitude.
As my own age keeps creeping up, ever closer to 50, I have moments when I feel incredibly old. And then I think of my grandmother, who has lived more than twice as long as I have, and shows no signs yet of stopping. It puts things into perspective.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Heartbreak isn't my issue; it's sadness. I have a long history of clinical depression, which has been kept in check in recent years, for the most part, through a combination of helpful medications, hard work in therapy, meditation, and lots of personal soul searching. In July, my mood imbalances resurfaced in a big way, and I went through a med adjustment. I felt great for about six weeks, then crashed again. Another dosage change, another leveling out of emotion. But now the pendulum has swung down one more time, and I am beginning to feel scared and hopeless.
Part of what makes this so frightening for me is its familiarity - my "sadness," for lack of a better word, has led me to some very dark, very lonely places. Because I have spent the better part of the last six years in a more positive space, reentering that world of gloom is terrifying. It is difficult for me to think, "This is just one bad day; it will change." Instead, I go to that thought: "Here it is again. I'm in the pit, and this time I might not be able to climb back out."
Piver suggests offering the hand of friendship to the negative emotion, whether it is grief or sadness. Instead of trying to fix it, or make it go away, she encourages us to really sit with the emotion, feel it fully, and learn more about it.
She cautions: "This process is really, really hard, so you need to appreciate yourself and what you are going through."
Further on, she urges us to be gentle with ourselves, saying, "Gentleness means simply that you acknowledge and embrace your own experience from moment to moment, without judgment. Without trying to fix it. Without feeling ashamed of it...gentleness is actually an advanced form of bravery. You aren't afraid to take on your own suffering, even though you don't know how or when it will end; still, you agree to feel it. Somehow, this acceptance beings to calm things down. On its own timetable, gentleness begins to pacify even the most raging emotions. Gentleness is the spiritual warrior's most powerful weapon."
Agreeing to feel it - that's a tall order. But I like the allusion to gentleness being "the spiritual warrior's most powerful weapon." I like the idea of fighting, even if that fighting is actually a surrender. Because this surrender is active, not passive. It is a moving toward, not a stepping away.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
My altar is a collection of items on top of a square low table, one that I picked up at a garage sale. The minute I saw it, I knew it was exactly what I wanted. It was the right height, and big enough that it could hold a wide collection of important artifacts.
At its center is a 16 inch tall wooden Buddha. I first saw one similar to it at a Indonesian dance performance in Santa Rosa. When I inquired, I was told they were sold at Gado Gado, an import store. There are numerous Buddha figures there, including the large wooden ones, with different mudras, or hand postures. The one I chose uses the mudra of reasoning.
Over the Buddha's arm hangs a mala, or string of wooden prayer beads, that I purchased at a temple in Kyoto when I lived there 16 years ago. I have a second mala sitting in a stone dish - this mala is from my wedding to Sabrina last summer, where we exchanged malas as well as wedding bands as we recited our vows. I also have candle holders that were used in our wedding.
There are several small flower vases that I use to hold buds. One is from my sister Ali. Another is from a Japanese friend. I also have a bamboo plant in a vase, near the back of the altar.
A second, smaller Buddha figure is a token from a trip to Angkor Wat in Cambodia. The Tibetan singing bowl was an anniversary gift from Sabrina. The incense bowl I found online at Shoyeido, the Japanese incense store.
And one of my favorite items is a small, hand-made purple tea cup, roughly shaped with imperfect edges. I bought it at a small roadside teahouse in Korea in 1993. It epitomizes the Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi, beauty in the imperfect. It now holds my used matches.
When I sit down in front of my altar to light candles and incense, I am pulling together the energy of my wife, my sister, my friends. I am joining the places of Japan and Indonesia and Cambodia and Tibet. I am uniting aesthetics with spirituality, art with practice.
When I sit down, I feel like I have just come home.
Monday, November 30, 2009
A while ago, I met two women who had spent a week doing a homestay with a family in Japan the previous year. The women explained to me that during the visit, as they entered the house, or the garden, or the toilet room, there were always slippers placed on the floor. Their hosts instructed them to slip out of one pair and into another as they ventured around the house and yard.
The alarming frequency of slipper donning and removal soon had the guests completely bewildered. They were constantly wearing the wrong slippers into the toilet, or forgetting to shed the toilet slippers when back in the house. The hosts were beside themselves, trying to explain in broken English the proper time and place for each kind of footgear. And whenever the guests made an uncorrectable error – that pair of slippers ended up in the trash.
My friends laughingly told the story about their complete inability to adopt a custom which, to their Japanese hosts, seemed simple enough for a child.
Having lived in Japan for a long enough period of time, I shared the wronged sensibilities of the Japanese hosts. It is a very basic rule. The world outside of the home is dirty. Shoes that you wear on the street should never, never come into the house. That rule is absolute. Not even construction workers or moving crews violate it. When two men moved a piano into my home, they picked up the piano in the street with their shoes on, and, balancing it on their backs with straps, paused in the doorway long enough to remove their shoes before stepping into my foyer. Once the piano was in place, they slipped back into their waiting shoes and were gone. In the house, it was acceptable to wear house slippers. But those were not to be confused with toilet slippers. You had to slip out of the house slippers, put on the cheap plastic slippers meant only for the toilet room, use the facilities, then step out of those slippers and back into the house slippers. And if there was an inner garden...well, there was probably another row of slippers to put on to wear in the yard.
When I was first trying to rent an apartment in Kyoto, I had several instances where I was initially told there was a vacancy, and then suddenly informed that the apartment was taken. The rapid change occurred when the landlords discovered that I was an American. Or really, not a Japanese. At first, I took great offense, thinking it was clear and absolute discrimination. But later, after talking to a Japanese friend, I found out the truth: landlords were afraid that a foreigner would ruin the floor in the apartment, since they had no concept of slippers and such.
Once I discovered the fear, I was able to alleviate it. I met with the potential landlord, explained (in Japanese) that I understood Japanese customs, and professed complete understanding of the shoe issue. The floor was sacred ground, as far as I was concerned. As if by magic, I found that the previously occupied apartment was now vacant, and I was given a warm welcome, with no further problems.
Thinking back on all of this, it makes me wonder how often a simple difference in custom creates seemingly insurmountable barriers between different groups of people. If shoes can lead to housing discrimination, imagine what a difference in religious beliefs might stir up?
It has served as a gentle lesson for me. When faced with behavior that I do not understand when traveling or when coming up against other cultures in my own country, I try first to observe instead of passing judgment. Often, sitting quietly and watching, or opening dialogue, has left me with a new understanding of the situation. You could call it the wisdom of slippers.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
I missed the last two weeks of sewing group, first because our teacher Connie was out of town, and then because I was home tending to my little dog Houla. At our last session before that break, I was "ahead" - keeping pace with one other student, I was farthest along on the project.
But the missed time meant that now I am more in the middle of the pack, with three people significantly deeper into the sewing. While I was concentrating on my final vertical seams on the front piece this afternoon, I was overhearing the instructions they were receiving on the next steps, and I often glanced in their direction to see what was in my near future. They were marking and cutting the frame, pinning and sewing the frame, measuring the white fabric that will lie on the reverse side.
Two things happened: one, I didn't like being "behind." As much as I knew it was silly, as much as I know this is not a race, I love being "ahead." That's a very, very old habit, and one which is definitely in need of revision, so it's probably excellent practice for me to lag behind. In fact, I should stay behind for the rest of the classes, just to work on sitting with that uncomfortable feeling.
The second thing was this - I began to stew and fret about the future steps. They looked hard; I didn't fully comprehend what others were doing. It seemed like I would not be able to execute the tasks when it came time.
What's comical about this is that when I was "ahead," I wasn't worried at all. Because I had absolutely no idea what was coming next, I had no reason to worry about it. I simply did the very simple tasks Connie set before me, one at a time. Now, suddenly, because I am aware of the progression of the building of the rakusu, I am starting to stiffen up with fear and feelings of inadequacy. I'm looking five steps ahead and thinking, "I can't do that!"
What a great metaphor for staying in the moment! When there was no future, I had no worry, and I was completely competent, with "beginner's mind" fully intact. As soon as a future appeared, I began to fret, and "expert mind" took over, leaving me feeling absolutely stymied.
A young friend of mine, age eleven, has been learning for the last several years to deal with obsessive compulsive disorder. She calls the two voices in her head "Bossy Brain" and "Worry Brain." "Bossy Brain" tells her to do things, like wash her hands over and over again, or turn on all the lights in the house. "Worry Brain" is the voice of anxiety, creating tension over imagined negative outcomes of things that are off in the future. When she feels herself succumbing to one of these voices, she talks to herself: "Now, that's just 'Worry Brain.' Summer camp will probably be really fun. I'm not going to listen to you, 'Worry Brain.'"
Today, I realized, I was sewing with "Worry Brain." As soon as those words came into my head, I laughed to myself. Ah, I recognize you! I gave "Worry Brain" a little talking to, quietly coaxed "beginner's mind" to come up out of hiding, and got back to work.
So goes the sewing. Life lessons with every stitch.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Or at least in that vicinity. It started our first year together, when I lost my father to lymphoma on Oct. 30. The first week of November all eight of my siblings and their families came to stay at my parents' home, while we prepared for the funeral together. It was a time of incredible pain, because my father was in many ways the glue that held all of us together.
Shortly after the funeral, Sabrina was scheduled to go on a working cruise trip with her friend Jacqua - Jacqua gives informational talks on board ship, Sabrina acts as her technical support person, and they travel at no cost. They generally go on at least one trip each year.
Right before their departure, our rescue greyhound Mocha attacked one of our cats, nearly killing him. Ziggy went in for emergency surgery, and then came home to be tended by me, since Sabrina was leaving. While she was away, his condition worsened, and I had to make the decision to have him put down. So there I was, barely two weeks after holding my father's hand while he took his last breath, holding one of our pets in my arms until his body went limp.
Since that time, it seems as if many of the hard things wait for that time of year, when it's cold and the days are short. We have had pet emergencies, crises with friends, difficulties at work, all coming up around this time.
So now this year, we started early with the parrot scare on Oct. 23, when Barney fell off his cage and chipped off the end of his beak, ending with an emergency late-night trip to the vet. Then Sabrina left on another cruise, and our dog Houla had the lens luxation eye crisis, which ended in having the eye removed last week. The same night that I was rushing Houla to the hospital at UC Davis, a close friend called to tell me that her father had died.
Sabrina returned home on Monday, and I took a deep breath of relief. It felt like things were getting back to normal. We'd make it through. Then this afternoon, as we were brewing a fresh pot of coffee,we heard a loud thump and a screech. We ran into the living room, where Barney was sprawled on the floor with his left leg held at an awkward angle. We both thought he had broken it. Again, the adrenaline rush - again, on a Saturday, when there are no bird vets on call. Again, November!
As luck would have it, it appears that the fall was simply painful, and the damage more akin to hitting the funny bone than breaking anything, because Barney seems to have recovered and has been acting normally for the last several hours.
But - enough already! Sabrina turned to me and said, "I'm done with November."
I'm sure there's nothing to this, really. When you look for patterns, you can see them anywhere. We have a houseful of furred and feathered children; somebody's always getting into mischief, and accidents do happen. And having eight brothers and sisters, plus untold nieces, nephews, aunts, cousins, etc. - the odds are pretty good that something will go wrong somewhere almost every month.
I am not, though, immune to superstition. Right now, I am crossing my fingers that we get through the last two days of November in one piece.
Healdsburg Sangha:Tuesday, Dec. 1
7 p.m. sit, service, and dharma talk by Darlene Cohen
Upcoming Closures: Tuesday, Dec. 29 (the week between Christmas and New Year's)
Special Ceremony: On Tuesday, Dec. 22, a special Bodhisattva Ceremony will be held.
Russian River Zendo:
Saturday, Dec. 5
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10:35 a.m. dharma talk by Tony Patchell and tea
12:30 p.m. Precepts Class
Saturday, Dec. 12 (for sesshin at Black Mountain Center)
Saturday, Dec. 26 (for Christmas)
Friday, November 27, 2009
I attended the AROHO women's writing retreat in August, and Barb was an invited guest. She read from her new collection (just published this October), part of a short story called The Invitation. It was funny and wise and sweet, and uniquely told in her voice. I couldn't wait to read the rest of the book.
Barb is from New Orleans. She grew up in a small town in Louisiana, and eventually ended up in the big city, working for 20 years as a carpenter. At some point along the way, she realized she had stories to tell, and enrolled in a Master of Fine Arts program.
Barb brings to life the women and men and children of Louisiana, in all their specificity, with regional color and gorgeous description, peopling a world in her pages. What is truly remarkable is that she wrote the book in the wake of Katrina. Although the storm is not mentioned in the stories, the writing of it took place living on her apartment's balcony, surrounded by the hurricane's aftermath. She speaks of how beautiful it was at night:
The darkness provided a relief from the visual assault that went with life in the daylight: debris everywhere, pieces of my neighbors' lives sitting in the middle of the street, animals that hadn't made it through the storm.
Every day, National Guard patrols would drive by, and say to her, "Ma'am...you can't be here. This neighborhood hasn't been okayed for occupancy." And I'd say, "Yes, I know." Then they'd wave and drive off, and I'd go back to writing."
In an afterword to her book, she said:
Anyone who was in the city at that time was starving for something normal - seeing a neighbor, walking the dog, sitting down to a meal with friends. Writing was the only thing I did after the storm that I'd done before it. It was normal. Having to write under those circumstances banished forever any notion that things had to be a certain way - neat desk, good coffee, agreeable temperature - in order for me to write.
And the result of that labor, produced on a laptop on a balcony in the midst of hurricane disaster, is this beautiful book. What a metaphor for what art can be!
Sitting and working at my neat desk, with the heat on, a roof over my head, coffee brewing in the next room, I know that there will never again be a valid excuse for not being able to write. The words do not rely on perfect conditions. All that is required is showing up.
About six months ago, I had a gratitude moment so transformative, so intense, that I feel it must have been some kind of "Wake up!" shout, a call of transitory enlightenment.
It started out simply enough. I was sitting on the deck having a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette. As I sat there with my coffee mug in my hand, I became aware of the heft and weight of it. I began to look closely at the cup - one we had purchased in Mexico a couple of years ago, made by an artisan there, with coyotes and cactus painted on the outside. I realized I loved the mug - everything about it - the memories, the connection with my partner Sabrina, the design and texture and feel of it. I loved my coffee cup.
With that moment of love, I cracked open. Things started coming to mind, one after another, things that I loved: the clothes line Sabrina hung up for me last summer when I was wanting to "go green;" my bike messenger bag from Timbuk2; the work we've done on our house over the past two years; the trees surrounding the back side of our property, and the vineyard/valley views in the other direction.
The list kept growing. Everything I thought of, I loved - from the wooden Buddha on my altar to the art hanging in my home office. From the inanimate, my love moved to the breathing beings in my life: my faithful yellow lab Ripley; Houla and Teo (dogs), Gordy, Dozer, Idgie, Kenji and Bailey (cats); and Barney the parrot. Then on to my partner, then to my best friend, then to other friends, then to co-workers. Bigger and bigger and bigger - my heart opened wider with each thought.
I was grateful for the present. I was grateful for the past. And for the first time, in a profoundly deep way, I was humbled with gratitude that I was still alive to experience all of this. Given my path, which has included multiple suicide attempts, my being here at all is nothing short of miraculous.
The gratitude experience was a complete, whole body manifestation of emotion, something which continued to build for several hours. Eventually, it began to subside, and by the next day, it was gone.
Gone, but not forgotten. I managed to avoid the desire to retain that altered state, thank goodness. Instead, I felt truly blessed to have experienced it, and amazed that although it has ended, I can remember exactly what it felt like, and through that memory, I can at least return to the consciousness of it all whenever I want to, even though it might not be with the exact same emotional charge.
So today, my first Thanksgiving since that day - I am taking time out to remember. And it feels good.
May you find deep gratitude for your life this week.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Apparently, among the many Buddhist bloggers out in cyberspace, there are those who get a little caught up in the game, attacking writers who they feel "misrepresent" the dharma, challenging those who cross them, and, in general, exhibiting behavior startlingly inappropriate for those who supposedly are pursuing enlightenment.
I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise that this is occurring. In Haederle's article, he quotes psychology professor John Suler, who refers to the "online disinhibition effect," saying, "People experience their computers and online environments as an extension of their selves - even as an extension of their minds - therefore feel free to project their inner dialogues, transferences, and conflicts into their exchanges with others in cyberspace."
When chat rooms were first becoming popular, I spent some time checking them out, popping into various spaces to meet online friends. I lucked out, and hooked up with a couple of "real" people, who I had ongoing conversations with over a period of several months. But I quickly learned that the general fare in chat rooms was superficial at best, and juvenile and malicious at worst. I tired of the open room exchanges, and limited myself to one-on-one cyber relationships.
As a journalist, I was equally interested when newspapers began creating online formats, with room for readers to weigh in on the latest news stories. But I was appalled at what I found in the comments section. It seemed to be a forum specifically for the venting of bigoted, hateful, insensitive rants, which soon escalated into back-and-forth name calling. I still read news online - but I don't go near the comments. I have no desire to invite that kind of behavior into my home.
So far, my own blogging experience has been free of the posturing and bullying that Haederle talks about, but that's probably because I have only a handful of readers, most of whom have some actual connection to me through sangha or other friendships.
I suppose the day that I get my first nasty comment will be a coup of sorts, a sign that my readership has grown to the point that I am garnering more attention.
But I can't say I'm looking forward to it.
Monday, November 23, 2009
It's a beautifully simple way to express a Buddhist truth - each one of us is a manifestation of Buddha nature. Yes, there are things we should work on: being more open hearted, practicing generosity, avoiding slanderous talk, calming the mind, taming aggressive thought. But don't lose track of the grandeur of the forest while focusing on all the life-scarred trees.
In Pema Chodron's lecture series, Practicing Peace in Times of War, she mentions this quote from Suzuki. Taking it further, in a conversation with her own Tibetan Buddhist teacher, Chodron asks, What is the one thing you would recommend to Westerners pursuing this path? Her teacher's reply: Guiltlessness.
Chodron's teacher said Westerners get caught up in the shame cycle, which serves no one. He said we all act badly, repeatedly - but that is ephemeral, fleeting, impermanent. What is constant and true lies underneath all of that. Our innocent original nature.
It's the old question: Is the glass half empty or half full? Does it matter how we frame the way we look at ourselves? From the pessimist's lens, seeing a flawed human being with occasional moments of goodness? Or from the optimist's lens, seeing a good person with moments of less-than-stellar behavior?
I think it does matter. I wish I had had a Shunryu Suzuki in my childhood, telling me I was perfect, while at the same time encouraging me to keep growing. It might have saved me many, many years of debilitating self-hatred and guilt.
However, that was not my path. I have learned, over the years, to appreciate the rough road, because of where it has brought me. The journey hasn't been easy, but I am very grateful that I have ended up here. Because here, in this Zen community, hearing the dharma talks of my teachers, reading the works of other Buddhists, I am finally finding the comfort I had been seeking all of my life. Not the comfort of "no problems" - there is still plenty of room for improvement. Instead, what I have found is a place of refuge in sangha and dharma, an increasing willingness to sit still with what is painful, and an ever-expanding sense of connection and possibilities.
I am beginning to see my own Buddha nature. And as for the rest of my imperfect self, I am learning to live in the realm of vows:
Beings are numberless; I vow to save them.
Delusions are inexhaustible; I vow to end them.
Dharma gates are boundless; I vow to enter them.
Buddha's way is unsurpassable; I vow to become it.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
For too many of us, those "line moments" are keeping us from the next thing on our list - the doctor's appointment, picking up the kids from school, getting to work on time, meeting a date. It is an enforced time of surrender to powers greater than ourselves. Have you ever noticed? When we're in a hurry, no matter how good we think we are at choosing the fastest line, , invariably the line we're in turns out to be the slowest.
I try to avoid putting myself into the position where I only have five minutes to accomplish a task that involves a line. This means going to the bank at the end of the day, instead of trying to squeeze it in between three other errands on the way to work. Or making the big trip to the grocery store on my days off, when there's no where else I have to be any time soon.
When I don't have that time crunch, it is much easier to be a good line person. I can wait patiently while the elderly woman in front of me empties her entire purse looking for her check book. I can feel sympathy instead of annoyance for the young mother with three kids who's holding up a queue of people because the clerk is processing her WIC certificates. I can strike up a conversation with the person behind me, when I notice that we both picked up Ben & Jerry's, instead of tapping my foot while the cashier replaces the register tape. I can connect with people, instead of separating myself into my own little world of building fury.
As a general rule, I am courteous and friendly with tellers and cashiers, servers and clerks. Part of it is my upbringing; part of it is intentional practice. While a piece of this is, of course, wanting to respect the other people that I come into contact with throughout the day, I must also admit that it serves me well. Most of the time, I get better service when I treat the person on the other side of the counter as a human being instead of a functionary.
I also truly enjoy getting to know the many people in my life. It feels good when the bank teller knows my name and gives me a smile. I am pleasantly amused when a server remembers that I don't like mushrooms on my salad. I like the small talk, and the commiserations over the rainy weather, and the eye contact. It is a way of building community.
But, like everyone else, I have my moments of impatience. Especially when I'm caught up in myself, some crisis or stress or worry, I can become one of the "bad" line people, one of those surly, curt, unpleasant people that makes whoever's waiting on me grimace when I step up for my turn. When it happens, it isn't pretty.
Usually I catch myself in the middle, sometimes soon enough to save myself. I'm able to apologize, start fresh. But occasionally, the whole thing goes from bad to worse, and then it's only when I'm home alone with some space to think that I realize I've completely misbehaved.
Many years ago, I heard a comedian do a routine on waiting in line. He was talking about waiting and waiting, forever. And then that magic moment, when you're "next." He spoke of it with giddiness, excitement. When he was "next," he said, he became magnanimous. The impatience was gone. In fact, he would even turn to the person behind him and say, "No, please, go ahead." It was not only about being gracious - it was about prolonging that anticipatory feeling, that sense of everything almost coming to fruition. The beauty of being "next."
Frequently, when I am standing in line, and feeling a bit impatient, I remember that comedian. Every time, it makes me smile. And often, it opens me up just enough to practice generosity instead of stinginess. It reminds me how good giving can feel.
Tuesday, Nov. 24 - CLOSED (for Thanksgiving)
Tuesday, Dec. 29 (the week between Christmas and New Year's)
On Tuesday, Dec. 22, a special Bodhisattva Ceremony will be held.
Russian River Zendo:
Saturday, Nov. 28 - CLOSED (for Thanksgiving)
Saturday, Dec. 12 (for sesshin at Black Mountain Center)
Saturday, Dec. 26 (for Christmas)
Held in a large exhibition hall at the Napa County Fairgrounds in Calistoga, Bingo Night is an annual event that has been going on for 71 years. Hundreds of people show up to play bingo, try their luck at the dozens of raffle prizes, support the fire department, and simply have a good time.
The firefighters are all on hand, verifying bingo winners and distributing raffle prizes - good looking young people in uniform is definitely part of the draw. There is food for sale, ball park fare - hotdogs, hamburgers, nachos, beer. Plus, of course, lots of wine - this is the Napa Valley, after all.
My grandmother Gladys and I joined my four co-workers. My boss unexpectedly treated the six of us for the night, purchasing our bingo cards. That left us free to pool our money into the raffle baskets. My hope was to win at least one prize, since my grandmother is a gamer at heart, and winning makes her very happy. We lucked out, and won a $75 gift certificate to a women's clothng store in Calistoga. That counts for double fun, since it means an afternoon outing sometime in the coming weeks, when I can pick Gladys up in Santa Rosa, and bring her to Calistoga to shop and have lunch. None of us won any bingo prizes, but we certainly had fun trying.
It was a raucous crowd. I'm not sure if it was the wine and beer, or the nature of the evening, but people were laughing and talking loudly, feigning bingo wins, and wadding up their used game sheets and hurling them through the air from table to table. I was bonked on the head twice by flying paper missiles. There were children in the room, but it was the adults who were keeping things stirred up.
But, it was so small town, so Americana, so infectiously fun - who could resist?
I was able to attend the festivities because I managed to find a "babysitter" for Houla and the rest of the gang. It was pretty comical, actually. She was an older woman, who doesn't drive, so I had to pick her up and drive her home. I left her with written instructions on feeding, emergency phone numbers, microwave popcorn and a frozen pizza in the freezer. I felt just like a mom leaving her kids with the sitter! (A new experience for me, since I've never had "human" children.)
And I have no idea how to relate all of this to a Zen concept. Any ideas? (I promise to be more focused tomorrow....)
Friday, November 20, 2009
CNNmoney.com came out with an article called Stressful Jobs that Pay Badly, and my job, news reporter, was right up there in the top fifteen. Other lucky winners included probation officers, social workers, marriage and family therapists, substance abuse counselors, ministers, and high school teachers.
I happened to find out about this dubious honor earlier this week, arguably one of the most stressful that I have had to date at the newspaper office. Last week, I wrote a story about a survey two high school students conducted, asking junior high schoolers how they felt about cafeteria food. As you can probably guess, the food got a big thumbs down - when was the last time you met a kid who raved about school lunches? But, I was impressed with the project. The two students had ciruclated a petition, gathered 250 signatures, written up a survey, distributed it, tabulated the results, prepared a Power Point presentation, and given a report to the school board on their findings. I thought of the whole thing as a rather light piece about student initiative, giving a well-earned voice to local kids.
Late in the game, my editor read over the finished piece and said since the results were so negative, I should probably call the head of the school's food service, and offer her a chance to weigh in. I disagreed, thinking that the piece stood on its own. But, at her request, I made the phone call on deadline night. The food service director said she knew of the survey, was familiar with its results, and she chose not to comment. We went ahead and ran the story, and I went home with a clear conscience.
The day the paper came out, the food service director's husband came into the office furious with all of us, cancelling their subscription, saying we had ruined sixteen years of hard work that his wife had done in the community. I learned of the reaction over the weekend. When I got into the office on Tuesday, as much as I dreaded it, I went to the school to find the woman and apologize, for it certainly had not been my intent to harm her.
The apology was an unmitigated disaster. She did not want to talk to me, and although she listened to my explanation of how the story came about, she was completely unmoved. She said the damage was irreparable, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. Towards the end, tears came to my eyes, and mumbling a final "I'm sorry," I left.
By the time I got back to the office, the stress of the entire week came crashing down - my dog was still in surgery when all of this happened, and I was waiting for a call from the vet. While attempting to make a cup of coffee, I was suddenly overcome with sobs, and cried for a good fifteen minutes, for everything - my dog, the newspaper article, the botched apology, all of it.
The irony, of course, is that the school lunch story was one of five news stories I had written the previous week. On my way to work, stopping at the local grocery store, the director of Calistoga Beverage Company sought me out to thank me for the nice job I had done on the story about the bottling plant's impending closure. And when I got to my desk, there was a plate of home-made brownies waiting for me with a thank you card on top, from the couple who had received a U.S. flag flown in Afghanistan from their son, another piece that I had done, that one in honor of Veterans Day.
When covering contentious issues that come up before the Planning Commission, I am routinely criticized by people on both extreme sides of the issue who say I was unfairly favorable to their opponents. Obviously, I can't be giving biased weight to both the "pros" and the "cons" at the same time, but that's what travels down the grapevine. It simply comes with the job: when people are angry, when they feel their security or position is threatened in some way, it is easy to vent that frustration on the news reporter who is quoting the "bad guys."
And, of course, there's the measly paycheck.
So stress management is definitely one of the reasons I sit. But, as much as I would like it to be a direct-link fix, zazen provides a much more nebulous solution than that.
In Turning Suffering Inside Out, Darlene Cohen says, We see our stress as a problem to be overcome and eliminated, like hemorrhoids. We want to reduce stress, plain and simple, not merge with it, not study it, not hold it in meditative equipoise. We think that whatever we're going to learn to conquer our stress, it should be definite, graspable. It's difficult for us to live in the realm of not knowing, just giving everything in front of us our whole attention and suspending our worry about what comes next until it arrives. We need to cultivate a lot of faith to live that way. But this attitude may be the most intimate and satisfying connection we could ever have with our lives. Not to know exactly what's going to happen but to do, to feel, anyway.
No matter how much time I spend sitting zazen, there will still be disgruntled readers. The only thing I can hope to change is how I respond to that anger. And even when I do my best, come forward with the most direct, open heart that I have, my goodwill gestures may be spurned. And then I will try to experience that hurt completely and fully, before taking another breath and moving forward, heart open once again.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Things are pretty much back to normal at my house, which is a very good thing. It's not until everything gets turned upside down that I realize how remarkably smooth life is the rest of the time.
My dog, Houla, is sleeping peacefully on my bed, wearing the annoying "cone of shame," with a bruised and swollen left side of her face, but, all in all, safe and sound. The dog door is impossible to negotiate with the cone, so I must let her in and out for bathroom breaks. I am having to remember to administer three different types of pills throughout the day, plus eye drops. (Thank goodness for the allure of wet cat food...makes pill dosing a snap!) And I am still making phone calls and writing email messages to juggle my schedule, to make sure that I can be with her most of the time, either at the house or taking her along for the ride. And yet, even with all of that, we are so much closer to the usual routine than we were three days ago. It is a huge relief.
My mind, which has been running at hyper speed with worry, planning, strategizing and future-tripping "what ifs?" has finally slowed down to a more reasonable pace. In fact, at this very moment, I think I'm actually closer to comatose than alert....but it is a welcome change to have that luxury, the luxury of turning off the alarm signals and relaxing into a rejuvenating lethargy. You may think that sounds oxymoronic. But I feel like a mouse who has just successfully out-maneuvered a ravenous tiger, and am now in the safety of my little hole for a nice, long, well-deserved nap.
Tomorrow I will return to the blogging page with renewed vigor and stamina, and fresh thoughts. For now - a restful sleep, with my dog cradled up against my belly. Wishing all of you sweet dreams of your own.