Beginner's Mind

Writing That Makes a Difference

2011-10-01T20:30:00.001-07:00

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month (DVAM), a time to bring attention to a problem that far too often remains hidden and unacknowledged.

Domestic violence is threatening behavior by an intimate partner attempting to seek control over another. It can include emotional abuse, psychological abuse, sexual abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, financial abuse, and threats of abuse or violence to children or pets.

One in four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. Eighty-five percent of domestic violence victims are women, and an estimated 1.3 million women are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year. However, domestic violence crosses all lines: It affects people regardless of gender, age, economic status, race, religion, nationality, educational background, or sexual orientation.

It is not just the adult victims who are affected. Thirty to sixty percent of the perpetrators of domestic violence also abuse the children in their homes. Boys who witness domestic violence are twice as likely to abuse their own partners and children when they become adults.

And the society, too, is affected. The cost of intimate partner violence exceeds $5.8 billion each year, $4.1 billion of which is for direct medical and mental health services. Victims of domestic violence lost almost 8 million days of paid work because of the violence they suffered at the hands of their partners last year.

Sonoma County is not immune. Last year, law enforcement responded to over 3,000 domestic violence calls. It is the leading cause of injury to local women.

I work as a volunteer with the Sonoma County YWCA, which provides the only safe house in the county for women fleeing their abusers. They also provide counseling services, a 24-hour hotline, support groups, long-term housing assistance, outreach and education to the community, and a therapeutic preschool for children who are affected by violence.

As part of DVAM, I have helped to coordinate for the second year "Changing Hurt to Hope: Writers Speak Out Against Domestic Violence." For three Fridays in October, women and men will share their stories in poetry, memoir and fiction about the impact of domestic violence. We did this for the first time last year, and it was extremely powerful, both for the writers, and for the members of the audience.

The readings are scheduled for:

Oct. 7 at 7 p.m. at the Sebastopol Center for the Arts

6780 Depot St. in Sebastopol

Oct. 21 at 7 p.m. at the Cloverdale Arts Alliance First Street Gallery

105 East First Street, Cloverdale

Oct. 28 at 6 p.m. at Copperfield's Books

Montgomery Village, in their new location, 775 Village Court, Santa Rosa

I invite you to come to one of these nights and hear the brave words of these writers for yourselves. They will challenge you, and inspire you.

For more information about other events going on for DVAM throughout the county, visit theYWCA website.

But Is It My Place?

2011-08-03T18:53:00.000-07:00

Last winter, I attended a silent Zen retreat up in the mountains. At one point in our tightly regulated schedule, the retreat staff didn’t have our noon meal ready on time. Generally, when we walked in, our two teachers, Tony and Darlene, went to the head of the line and served themselves first, and we all followed after. But now, we found ourselves milling about in the dining room, momentarily purposeless.

At last, the meal was ready. I turned, and gestured towards Tony, who stood at the back of the room. He shook his head, and waved me forward. So I went on, got in line, and helped myself.

Moments later, one of the other priests approached me. Taking me aside, she said in no uncertain terms that we never serve ourselves before the teachers. Point taken. As a relatively new student, I am used to being corrected on this path. I nodded, and sat down.

At the conclusion of the retreat, this same priest approached me again. She said, “I need to apologize to you.” She told me she uses three guidelines to govern her behavior, taken from the Four Foundations of Mindfulness. They are: Is it beneficial? (Will it be helpful?) Is it skillful? (Will my words be kind, and cause no harm?) Is it my domain? (Is it my place?)

She said after speaking to me, she realized she could answer yes to the first two questions, but not to the third. It was not her place. She was not in a position of authority at the retreat. It was not her duty to instruct me. And so, she apologized.

That last lesson, “Is it my place?” stuck with me. So often I have found myself in situations where I wanted to weigh in, to get involved.

A friend’s mother said something cruel and inappropriate. I was sorely tempted to phone her and explain what was really going on. Someone petitioning for an application with the planning commission is taking an approach that might be damaging to his case, and I have an opinion about that. Just yesterday, I chatted with a young man with a dog, and saw that the dog had a foxtail embedded in his foot. I mentioned it, yes. But to go further?

In each of these cases, that line comes up in my mind: Is it my place? It reminds me that if people want my advice, they will ask for it.

Of course, there are times when it is our place. When it is time to act. And then, I will act. I am not afraid to take the right step when it is time.

It is also interesting to me that what this priest taught me came from her mistake. That in itself is something for me to hold onto as an example.

Yes, I did learn not to cut in line in front of the teachers. But the lasting lesson I received, the true teaching, came when she made a minor correction regarding my behavior, then came back and apologized to me.

It was her willingness to be vulnerable in front of me, her willingness to look at her own actions. I was holding no grudges. I had already let it go, and would have forgotten it. But she did not. And because of that, I received this teaching.

Every day, I thank her for it.

Fiction Writing: Caught Between Reality & Make-Believe

2011-07-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

There are hazards to being a writer of fiction. Sometimes one gets trapped between reality and make-believe, entirely unawares.

About a year ago, I spotted a St. Bernard rambling loose along River Road, right near my house. I grabbed a leash and dashed down to get him before he fell victim to one of the cars which race along the winding curves.

He and I headed up into the large subdivision nearby, stopped at a house to inquire, and I got the dog’s name and directions to his stomping grounds.

The long driveway led to a white home. I knocked, and a man and woman answered, opening a sliding door. We spoke only briefly, I returned the dog, and trudged on back to my place.

However, it had all left an impression. There was more there. I sat down and wrote a short story about it, and all the details started to change.

I became a young guy named Dave. He was coming home from work. The dog’s name was Bear. The people at the house were odd – their stuff in piles in the kitchen, both heavy smokers, everything dingy. They didn’t seem to care that Dave brought Bear home, and when he asked them for a treat for the dog, the man (Henry) handed Dave part of a sticky donut out of a half-empty pink box on the coffee table.

I had been working with the idea of “the inside story.” The story within the story, which in this case was that Dave had a younger brother who worked at the donut shop, a brother with Downs Syndrome. That is revealed in the final scene. Eventually, the story was titled “Donuts.”

On Friday, I was revising that story for a fiction contest. I was tweaking and twisting and turning. So I was getting pretty intimate with it. It was in my marrow, the way stories get when you’re close with them.

Then on Monday, I was at work at the Tribune, and my partner Sabrina called at about 5 p.m. and said, “Hey, Michelle. There’s a woman here with a lost St. Bernard. Do you remember where he lives?”

And I said, “Oh, his name is Bear!” Then I said, “Wait. No. That’s not his name. That’s the name I gave him. I made that name up. I can’t remember his real name anymore.”

Sabrina said, “It’s OK. We don’t need his name. Just his address.”

“Right. Well, his house is up past Tom and Dobie’s, I think. It’s a long, curvy driveway. I think. On the left.”

“Good.”

“The house is white, and all run-down, and peeling apart, and there are old cars everywhere. Like four or five or six of them. But maybe I made that up. I don’t remember.”

“OK.”

“And when you first walk towards the driveway, there’s one of those above-ground swimming pools, only it’s empty, and there’s trash all around it. I’m pretty sure.”

“Great. I think we got it.”

“He’s a really friendly dog.”

“Yes. That’s what the woman said, too. Love you. See you tonight.”

I hung up the phone, thinking hard. What did the people in the house look like? No idea. All I could remember were the people in my short story. What did I say when I brought back the dog? No idea. All I could remember was what Dave did, what Dave said.

My memory of finding the St. Bernard had been completely eclipsed by my fictionalized version of the incident. I had rewritten it. There was virtually nothing left of the original.

Whoa. I’m going to have to watch that one. I can just hear myself using that excuse at a family gathering – “Sorry, must have been a writer’s blackout.”

Taking Time

2011-06-30T22:44:00.001-07:00

To live with no regrets is something that sounds wonderful - but impossible. And yet I have found recently in small ways I have been able to do just that, by taking it a few days, a few weeks at a time.

Kay Wheeler is a spirited, strong-willed, 96-year-old former Army nurse who is a family friend. She and her husband attended the Presbyterian Church that my parents joined when they moved to St. Helena in Napa Valley over 20 years ago. A few years later, when a flood devastated the Wheelers' mobile home park, my parents gave the Wheelers an apartment in their home to live in until they had a new residence. I did not live in California at the time, but knew of the friendship, and especially I heard stories of Kay.

When I eventually moved to the Napa Valley, and started working at the Calistoga Tribune newspaper, Kay was widowed, and had relocated to a mobile home park in Calistoga. She was a Tribune subscriber, and read my stories. She also happened to get her hair done at The Ultimate Kerr, the small beauty salon next door to the Tribune. So every couple of weeks I would see her, say hello, catch up on her news, the volunteer work at the local hospital, church doings, health matters. She always gave my hand a warm squeeze, eyes twinkling.

Always, she paid attention to my life through my writing. When my partner Sabrina and I lost our African grey parrot Barney, who I had frequently written about, Kay sent a beautiful condolence card, remembering the special animals in her own life. I began sending cards regularly, too, for Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, any excuse to put a bright little reminder in her mail box.

As she aged, living alone at the mobile home park proved too difficult, and Kay decided to move back to St. Helena into a senior apartment complex. I offered to help her pack boxes. Because of scheduling conflicts, with friends and relatives in town, she ended up declining my help. Instead, we agreed to meet soon for ice cream - she admitted she loved rootbeer floats.

As promised, shortly after, I made a special trip over one afternoon and took her to the local A&W for rootbeer floats. We had a wonderful time. She asked about my animals, my partner Sabrina, who she had never met, and other details about my life. She chided me about smoking, and urged me to quit. She told me stories about her time as a nurse, things I had never known. And we shared memories about my dad, who passed away seven years ago from lymphoma. Kay adored him, and he adored her right back.

It's easy to get busy, and not find time for things. We intended to get together again soon, but a couple of months passed. Finally, though, I reminded myself that one must take time for 96 year olds. On the spur of the moment one afternoon last month when I was running errands in Santa Rosa, I called Kay and asked if she was free for dinner. She said yes. I made the trip over the hill, and picked her up. She said she wasn't really that hungry these days - all she wanted was a bowl of soup. We went to the most popular pizza/Italian joint in St. Helena, where she had minestrone and I had pasta. We again had a wonderful conversation. After the soup, she admitted she still had room for a scoop of ice cream.

Two weeks ago, by chance, I saw Kay again. My sister Catherine was in town from Connecticut with her husband Eric and 10-month-old son Kaden, to have Kaden baptized at my mom's church. Kay hadn't been feeling well, but had made it to church, decked out in a straw hat covered with pink and purple flowers. During community announcements, she said, "I've lost my pep and energy; so, if anybody's seen it, please let me know!"

I was thrilled to see her, because Sabrina was there, and I was finally able to introduce her. Kay smiled broadly, and reached up towards her. Sabrina, always wonderful with older people, held out her cupped hands and said, "I just wanted to let you know. I found some of that energy. Here it is." Kay thanked her, and grinned.

Kay fell last week. They ended up performing heart surgery on her at St. Helena Hospital. I was hoping to go visit her today. My mom called yesterday to say she had passed away. She had never really been conscious since the surgery.

I will miss this dear, sweet friend. I am grateful, though, for two things.

First of all, I know she was ready to go. She was tired, and in pain, and simply plain worn out. She remained cheerful and stoic and brave and generous to the end, but it was time.

Secondly, I have no regrets. I took time for my friend. I was not a close friend, really, just the daughter of fellow church members. But I showed up for her. I kept promises. We had rootbeer floats together. And I am not left with that raw ache of thinking, "Oh, I wish I had done it differently." Because she knew that I loved her.

Dealing with Rejection: A Writer's Fragile Ego

2011-04-23T23:50:00.000-07:00

Being a writer means confronting on a daily basis the demon of ego. I waver continually between "I am so bad that I shouldn't even be pretending," "I'm never going to be good enough," "Hey, I think I may be getting the hang of this," and "Wow, I'm quite talented!"

Much of the time, I am alone with my words, so this dialogue is completely internal, and depends entirely on the mood of the moment. My writing seems to flow some days, and then I feel confident. Other days, nothing works, and I think I should give it all up.

But the real ego test is when I dare to send my work out into the world. Choosing a poem or short story to submit to a literary magazine and sending it off is an incredible act of bravery for a writer. I'm still not very good at it. Pamela Painter, a writer I worked with at a conference recently, said we should expect to send a piece out 40 times before a response. I tend to send something out once or twice, and then feel so dejected when it is returned, that it takes months for me to recover. So, clearly, I'm not quite up to the game yet.

Calyx is the premiere women's literary journal. I believe passionately in Calyx, in what it represents, and the quality of its writing, and have donated money to them to help them continue their mission. I have been submitting poems to Calyx annually since 2006. Every year, I get a rejection letter.

This year, as usual, I submitted six poems by the Dec. 31 deadline. For the first time, I also submitted a short story. It usually takes three to four months for them to respond.

I walked out to the mail box today, and there in the stack of mail were two envelopes addressed in my hand: the dreaded SASE. Once again, a form letter thanking me for submitting, and offering me a reduced rate to continue my subscription.

It is hard to even describe what happens to my already fragile writer's ego each time one of those envelopes arrives in the mail. I feel crushed, disabled, silenced. I am unsure that I can ever write again. (Hyperbole is another one of the side effects.)

Ironically, two weeks ago I placed second in a local poetry contest, winning a $50 cash prize. It was the first time I had ever received money for one of my poems. There was a very nice reception, where the winners read their poems to an audience of about 100 people, and the Sonoma County Poet Laureate Gwynn O'Gara introduced me, giving a beautiful analysis of my poem that left me glowing.

You would think, wouldn't you, that I could hold onto that good moment for a bit longer, before once again plunging into the "Oh, my god, I'm never going to be a writer!" litany again? Why are the successes felt so fleetingly, and the failures held onto for so long?

My writers' group will be holding a public reading on Friday night. These are generally a boost to my ego, since I enjoy reading aloud, and gain energy from the interaction with an audience. So within a matter of days, I will be up again. Up, down, up, down.

The challenge, of course, is to write no matter how I am feeling about it. Just like practice. Sit on the cushion, good days, bad days. Sit down to write, with or without confidence. Write.

Challenging My Absolutes

2011-04-22T23:24:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday night, I was on the edge of town at 9 p.m. pumping gas at a station. I heard a voice from the street call out, "Hey, mister - I'll give you $5 if you give me a ride down town."

I am easily mistaken for a man with my shorn hair, hat and bulky coat. Perhaps he would not have even asked me if he knew I was a woman. But I was annoyed. I turned towards him with a semi-scowling face, not answering immediately.

My annoyance came not from the request, but because he was putting me in the position of having to say no. I don't like having to tell people no when they ask me for a favor. But this is an absolute for me. I never give a ride to a stranger. If I see someone stranded on the highway, I will call 911 for them. But I never stop. And even in my small town, that rule holds. It is nonnegotiable.

He stood, waiting for my answer. I finally said, "I can't give you a ride." He sighed, and began again to walk down the road. I watched him go. He was elderly, and carrying a cloth grocery bag. He shuffled when he moved, but I could tell it was from fatigue, not from drunkenness. I saw him try to hitchhike. No one stopped.

I stood there at the gas pump, finishing up. Something told me I needed to challenge this. What do they say in Zen? Nowhere standing? No fixed rules? I tried to think of how I could change my mind while still feeling safe.

Two years ago, my dog and I were attacked by two off-leash dogs on a walk. Since then, I have kept pepper spray in my car for our outings. I reached into the glovebox, took out the pepperspray, and put it into the cubbyhole on the driver's side. Then I unlocked the passenger-side door and unrolled the window, drove out into the street, and pulled up alongside of the man.

"Where do you need to go?"

"Bless you," he said.

His name was Michael. He had spent the entire day navigating the bus system in Sonoma County, and simply didn't have it in him to walk the last mile and a half home to his senior apartment complex. He didn't mention the $5. We both knew that had nothing to do with why I had stopped. I drove him all the way to his front door.

That one small act of kindness made it much easier for me to go to sleep that night.

Not Knowing

2011-04-12T22:45:00.001-07:00

Our teacher Tony Patchell shared with us tonight a famous koan or Zen teaching story.

Teacher Dizang asked the student Fayan, "What is your journey?"
Fayan said, "I'm going on pilgrimmage."
Dizang said, "What do you expect from pilgrimmage?"
Fayan said, "I don't know."
Dizang said, "Not knowing is most intimate."

Tony explained that words in these stories are always multi-layered. Here, "journey" is not only literal. It can also refer to Fayan's Zen practice. Or he could be asking, "What does life mean? Why is it a mystery?"

In Zen, "intimacy" is often used in place of the words "enlightenment" or "realization." Many of us come to practice originally hoping for a sudden shift, an awakening, a moment of clarity that will change everything - something more akin to the Japanese word "satori."

Tony said he prefers the word "intimacy" because it has less baggage. We slowly get closer to our Zen selves; it rarely happens like a stroke of lightening. Suzuki-roshi famously described it as walking in the fog - you eventually get wet without realizing it.

In the same way, we become intimate without fully understanding how that takes place. Tony said when we know something, we tend to lock ourselves into it. It's like the military axiom - we're always fighting the last war. When we don't know things, we are open to new experiences, and ready to see people and circumstances differently.

In my own life, I immediately thought of my experiences with trauma. As a child and young adult, I learned to respond to dangerous, unhealthy situations in a certain way. At that time, they were the only options I had, and although they did not keep me entirely safe, they at least allowed me to function at some level.

I am no longer in those situations. Yet, my first impulse is often to respond in the same old ways. Such is the nature of trauma. My mind and my body yell out: "I know!" and set themselves into rigid patterns of behavior and response. It requires great courage to say, "I don't know." And intimacy. Because the moment I say, "I don't know," I have to actually look at the person in front of me as a unique individual, instead of as a representative of a class or group. I have to open myself up, and look into his or her eyes. It is a very intimate act.

Perhaps that is not exactly what Dizang meant when he spoke those words. But they certainly resonate for me.

The Mystery of Vow

2011-04-08T23:30:00.000-07:00

I know many people who are experts at what they do. They're brilliant when it comes to investing, or they know all about gardening, or they can explain in detail exactly what makes a particular symphony such a pivotal turning point in the history of music. There are yet other people who simply have an opinion about many things, whether or not they have a strong knowledge base.

Between these two groups of people, up until a few years ago, I often found myself surrounded by friends, family and acquaintances who flooded me with words of advice - everything from what I should do with my money to what kind of coffee I should buy, from where I should live to what career I should pursue, from what spiritual path I should embark upon to what kind of music I should put in my CD player.

Much of the advice-giving happened, I believe, because the people in my life saw me as lost, as fragmented. It seemed that I needed guidance. And I was vulnerable to that impression, at times believing it myself.

But as time passed, I realized the long and rocky path I had traveled had given me a great deal of personal wisdom. I knew things. Yes, I have been a victim of molestation, sexual assault and domestic violence. Yes, I have struggled with mental illness, alcoholism and eating disorders. Yes, I have attempted suicide. Yes, I was even classified for a time as permanently disabled for post-traumatic stress disorder and depression.

Yet I survived. Slowly, slowly, I began to rebuild myself. I got clean and sober. I worked in therapy as if my life depended on it - because it did. I began to write, and there found the voice I needed to first express the pain, and eventually to begin writing about beauty.

About six years ago, for the first time, I began to feel as if I might have something to give. Perhaps I, too, would be able to find words of advice for someone. From my own experience in hell, I thought I might be able to lead another person out of the pit.

There was only one problem. I have never believed in giving unasked for advice. And no one in my life saw me any differently yet. I was still broken Michelle. So there were no seekers knocking on my door. No one thought to ask me for assistance.

Until now. Over the past four months, it seems as if almost weekly something has come up. People have been approaching me with all kinds of situations and problems, asking me to help them think things through. Not little things, either. Big things. Suicidality, substance abuse, schizophrenic episodes, fear of death, spirituality.

I am humbled by the trust these friends show in me. For each one of them, what I try to do is be fully present, listen, share what I can of my story that might have some relevance, help them look at their own resources for answers. Often listening is the most important act. I know that because that's what I needed. I remember all the times I wasn't listened to, all the times a doctor or a psychiatrist or a police officer didn't hear me.

Today I was feeling so grateful this is happening, that I am finally having this chance to give back in some small way, to transform all the hurt I experienced into something good. And I was trying to figure out how it came about. Why now? Why are people asking me for help?

Then it hit me. It is because I made a vow to follow the bodhisattva path. It is because I went through jukai (lay ordination). My intention is manifesting itself in the universe.

My Buddhist name is being realized: Ankyo Kikan, Dark Mirror (my past) Joyful Reflection (my future).

Kitsune - The Fox

2011-04-06T00:57:00.000-07:00

We have vultures that frequent the green belt to the rear of our property, swooping down into the trees with a whoosh, whoosh of their wings. The sound always sets off our Rhodesian Ridgeback/Rottweiler, Teo. He leaps into the air in a barking frenzy, somehow imagining that he can capture the dark shapes. The vultures, of course, perch nonchalantly sunning themselves, oblivious to the big red dog.

This weekend, though, when Sabrina walked out onto our deck, she was startled to find a vulture lurking a mere ten feet away, sitting on our deck railing. As she told me later, "I waved my arms around to assure it I wasn't dead." The vulture lazily roused itself, and took off.

An hour later, after Sabrina had left to run some errands, I walked out on the deck, bringing the dogs with me. Both Teo and my lab, Ripley, sped out to the far edge, hackles raised, yipping and growling. At first, I thought they were harassing one of the neighborhood's wandering cats. But their energy was too insistent, too focused.

I walked over towards them, and scanned the yard: tool shed, the compost pile, lots of leaves piled up near the base of nearby trees. Perhaps a raccoon? But our friends Rockie and Roquette weren't usually out during the day. I dropped my eyes lower.

And then I saw. Right below us lay the body of a grey fox. She did not look as if she was sleeping; no animal sleeps like that. She looked as if she had fallen to her side, grown stiff, and then gone still.

I herded the dogs back into the house. The first thing I thought of was a need to cover her, to protect her from the vultures. I grabbed one of the blankets off our porch that the cats had been nestling in on cold nights, and returned to her. I didn't look long. I simply brushed away as many flies as I could, and draped the cloth over her, then waited for Sabrina. I knew we needed to bury her, but I felt we should do it together.

When Sabrina arrived, I showed her why the vultures had been so close. Did you know that a group of vultures is called a wake? It was easier to imagine them as mourners come to pay respect, instead of scavengers. The fox was so beautiful; no predator wounds marked her body. Neither of us had ever had the chance to be so close, to spend such time looking at a fox. Death brings a strange intimacy.

We brought out a pickaxe and a shovel, and set to work digging a grave nearby. We glistened with sweat within moments, unused to that type of labor. It takes longer than one might think. I didn't notice at first that Sabrina had shaped not a rectangle, but a circle. When the depth was right, she went to our fox, and gently broke rigor mortis, bending her into a curve. Then she picked her up and placed her into the hole, wrapping her tail up towards her head. Now she looked as if she were sleeping. Sabrina stroked her several times, murmuring, then stepped back. We filled in the hole, and were done.

But not quite. Sabrina had done everything she does so well, that touching and bonding. I, however, felt something was left incomplete on my side. For the last two days, I have been wishing I had done a simple service, recited a chant. I kept pushing the thought aside.

Tonight, I gave in to the desire. I put on my rakusu, brought my bell, chant book, incense bowl, and candle out to the deck. All alone, at two in the morning, I conducted a transition ceremony for our kitsune, the fox who came to us.

And after the last bow, I knew it had been the right thing to do.

Opportunities

2011-04-04T23:16:00.000-07:00

Where has the time gone? I am chagrined to see the date of my last blog post, and my dismal record of the last two months. But rather than whip myself with the proverbial wet noodle, I offer up these snippets out of those days, which have not been spent (yay!) wallowing in depression or (hooray!) reorganizing my file folders. I have actually been doing some really cool stuff. (How's that for eloquent phrasing?)

My work with the YWCA Sonoma County has continued to expand. After the success of the writing events in October for Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I was asked to join a cadre of intrepid souls creating a new focus group for survivors of domestic violence, sexual assault and elder abuse, under the auspices of the nascent Family Justice Center of Sonoma County. The goal was to find a way to help survivors "tell their stories." The other members of the team bring the skills of law, therapy, social work, and advocacy. I was invited as a writer.

What we have come up with is a wonderful six-month group that we are calling "Expressions." The women will be creating a journal, using both the written word and art to tell their stories. I have enlisted the aid of several artist friends, who will be leading sessions on collage, photography, and block printing, among other things. Plus we'll do poetry, directed writing...And the end result will be a book, a journal, a life story, filled with color and beauty and pain and truth. After several months of planning, the group is set to begin on April 21 (meeting twice a month), and hopefully the prep time will lessen. All of us are so excited to see this actually come together.

I will also be giving my first "DV 101" talk (the basics of domestic violence) to a class at Santa Rosa Junior College, teamed with another volunteer from the YWCA, on April 19. I used to give such talks regularly when I did this work in the South Bay, but haven't done one in years, so that will be both familiar and a little tingly at the same time.

At my newspaper job, too, I have been presented with a number of interesting stories of late. Sometimes weekly newspapering is simply school board meetings and planning commission coverage. But other times, I am able to write about things that feel like they make a difference. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about a local woman who was a living organ donor, giving 57 percent of her liver to a family friend who was battling liver cancer. She consented to tell me the story only if I focused on the importance of organ donation. So I did my research, and provided statistics on donation, told people what steps to take to become a donor, and provided websites for more information, in addition to telling her own amazing story.

And another story is coming my way soon. Two local women were recognized by our Soroptimist club for their participation in a program called Get on the Bus. The program brings children to prison to visit their mothers who are incarcerated. I interviewed the women briefly for the awards story, and they invited me to accompany them on their trip this year. So on May 7 (the bus trip coincides with Mother's Day weekend), I will be on a bus to Chowchilla Women's Prison. The inmates must apply for permission to see their children, and the children must be accompanied by a caretaker (often a grandparent). Get on the Bus provides the bus, insurance, three meals for the child and caretaker that day, and teddy bears and blankets for the ride home. I have contacted the prison to request security clearance, and everything looks like it's good to go. I can only imagine that it is going to be a Saturday I won't soon forget.

The reason I bring these things up, here on this blog, is that there is a clear connection for me between these actions I have been taking and my Buddhist vows. Initially, I was simply holding onto the ledge with my fingernails, sitting on the cushion for myself. But as I moved into the year preceding my jukai (lay ordination), I began to think more and more often: What do I have to give? In what way can I follow the bodhisattva path?

One of the first ways was taking on this blog - which is why I must now promise to come back to it. The blog is what made me realize that the path for me was to use my writing, my art, to help. To take this facility that I have, this urgency I feel to put words down, and use it to connect people, to tell stories, to create bridges, to seek justice.

So here is my opportunity. What is yours?

From Kobe, Jan. 17, 1995 to Tohoku, March 11, 2011

2011-03-22T22:34:00.000-07:00

The news in Japan has catapulted me back to my time in that country, my memories of that place.

I lived in Osaka and Kyoto from 1990 to 1993. I have a master’s degree in Japanese Studies, and initially went there on a Japanese Ministry of Education fellowship to study at Doshisha University for a year and a half. I extended my stay for another 18 months, because I fell in love with the culture and the people.

Eventually, in September 1993, it was time to return to the U.S., It was a hard decision to make. I was deeply conflicted about leaving Japan and upon arriving in California, I experienced severe counter-culture shock, mourning the streets, smells, and sounds of Japan, as well as the loss of my friends and connections.

So on Jan. 17, 1995, when a 7.2 magnitude earthquake struck Kobe, also severely damaging nearby Osaka and Kyoto, I was devastated. The pictures in the newspaper, and those flashing across the television screens, were places I knew – collapsed highways I had driven across, flattened neighborhoods familiar to me, all the sights of “home.”

The brother of one of my closest friends lived in Kobe. His wife was pregnant, and near her due date. As was the custom, she had gone to her mother’s home in the country to wait for the birth. Her son was born that morning, the morning of the earthquake. Thankfully, he and his mother were not in a Kobe hospital. His father was among the commuters in the city, dealing with the chaos.

The Kobe earthquake was the biggest to hit Japan in 47 years. Nearly 6,500 died, and 27,000 were injured. More than 45,000 homes were destroyed.

And now we have the Tohoku earthquake of March 11, 2011, named after the region most affected in northern Honshu. The quake was of 9.0 magnitude, and geoscientists are saying it is the most massive event to have occurred in the last 1,200 years. With the compounding factor of the tsunami, at this point, there are an estimated 10,000 people dead or missing. Another 440,000 have been evacuated, and 88,000 buildings have been damaged. The most frightening unknown, of course, is the nuclear reactor plants, threatening meltdown.

Japan is one of the world’s most earthquake-prone countries, and experiences thousands of minor tremors each year. Nothing, however, can prepare a country for a disaster of this scale.

After 18 years, I have lost touch with all of my friends in Japan. I see their faces now – Yukari, Nariko, Machiko, Tomio, Nakamura-san, Sonoda-san, Sayaka-chan, Kenji-kun, and many more. I am praying they are each in a safe place, with food, electricity, water, and heat. I am holding them in my thoughts when I meditate, hoping that can somehow help keep invisible radiation from finding them, wherever they are.

Simon Winchester’s book, “A Crack in the Edge of the World: America and the Great California Earthquake of 1906,” tells the tale of that historic San Francisco quake. Winchester’s book delves into the science of seismology, and speaks specifically about the San Andreas fault. It is a fascinating read for those who want to learn more about this awe-inspiring movement of the earth.

That is the scientific part of the brain working. The heart/mind, though, is split open with grief over this event - and it will take some time before all of this human suffering can be absorbed into our world consciousness. A lot of time on the cushion.

(The Japanese kanji at the top is jishin - it means "earthquake.")

Ceremonies

2011-03-06T11:33:00.000-08:00

Our sanghas have, in the last weeks, completed the final ceremonies in farewell to our teacher Darlene Cohen. On Feb. 25, her funeral was held at Green Gulch, and on March 1, we conducted her 49th day service at the Healdsburg sangha, the day signaling her spirit's departure from this world to the next.

I had never been to Green Gulch Zen Center before. The zendo is a beautiful, spacious, high-ceilinged building, with a large Buddha at the center altar. The room was packed with people. I learned later that nearly 300 people were in attendance. Tony told me he had only seen the zendo that crowded on one other occasion - when the Dalai Lama came to speak. That gives you some idea of the far-reaching appeal of Darlene, the number of lives she has touched.

The service was surprisingly simple, despite the 20 or more people involved in the opening procession, and the large number of priests in black robes. We ended it with a group shout for Darlene - of joy and of grief - which felt entirely appropriate.

I was surprised to find myself unemotional. I think it was too big a group, with too much going on. I tend to shut down in those kinds of situations.

On March 1, we had a more private service, for the 49th day recognition. I acted as kokyo (chant leader), and we offered chocolate, tea, and incense, as I then chanted these words:

Through the power of your wisdom and compassion,
aid Darlene at this time of transition. She has taken
a great leap. The light of this world has faded for her.
She has entered the vast presence, borne
by her karma into the ocean of all existence.

Compassionate ones, care for your daughter, Darlene,
with the endless merit of your great vows. May she
together with all beings be completely enlightened.

It was at this service I felt tears in my eyes. Because this is my home sangha, the one where I imagine Darlene sitting next to Tony, giving a dharma talk. It is here I was looking directly at Tony, seeing his pain and loneliness. Here, I was feeling our mutual loss.

May we all find strength and comfort with each other.

Street Corner Challenges

2011-02-22T22:25:00.000-08:00

Today in Calistoga, two young men set up a table at the corner near the post office with political propaganda. They were there to speak on behalf of perennial presidential candidate Lyndon LaRouche. All well and good. But their main signs were two large face shots of President Barack Obama, with a drawn-in Hitler moustache.

The post office is just next door to the Tribune office. All day, people stopped in to vent, speaking in outrage about their reaction to the use of Hitler as an image. We explained that we were aware of the men, that they had been present in Calistoga the previous year and we had run a story on them, and we were choosing not to cover it this year - because that's precisely what they want, more press coverage.

Still, it was making my own blood boil. I hated the fact that they were out there. At lunch, my boss Pat and I decided to hop in the car and drive out to Home Plate cafe for grilled cheese sandwiches (me) and fish and chips (her). The stop sign out of the parking lot put us directly alongside the men at their table. One young man stepped clear of the sign, gestured towards it with his hand, and looked up at me with an inviting expression.

And I calmly flipped him off.

He wagged his finger at me, equally calmly, with a "Tsk, tsk" look, and then we drove away. As soon as we left, I regretted my reaction. What made it even more ironic, even comical, was that on that very morning, on the way in to work, I had been listening to a book on CD by Thich Nhat Hahn called "True Love" about the practice of awakening the heart. He spoke extensively about calming the mind before action, so that one can reach out with love. I don't think he meant to be calm while giving someone the finger!

It gnawed at me for a couple of hours. Finally, I walked over to the corner, and apologized. I said, "Earlier, I flipped you off, and I wanted to say I'm sorry." The young man said, "Oh, I don't remember you. There have been a lot of people who have flipped me off." I then said, "What I have a problem with is..." And he said, "It's the moustache, right?" And I said yes. He then proceeded to go into a nonsensical political diatribe equating Obama (and every other president since Kennedy) to Hitler because they are "budget cutters," saying their policies of "depopulation" are the same as genocide. I listened for a few moments, attempted to explain how Hitler should never be used in any comparision, then realized it was fruitless. I wished him luck with his free speech, and turned to go.

In the end, then, I accomplished little in the way of communication. No minds were changed on either side. But I did, at least, clean up my mess by acknowledging my bad behavior. And that left me feeling much more at peace than I had after the moment in the car.

Hard News

2011-02-20T23:44:00.000-08:00

As a small-town community journalist, much of the time I cover events and happenings which range from the tedious (school board proceedings and planning commission deliberations) to the repetitious (annual fundraisers, parades, benefits and other activities). There are also many feel-good stories: new businesses opening, personal profiles of remarkable citizens, tales of unusual pets or hobbies.

The Calistoga Tribune is a serious, dedicated little newspaper, and we take our job to heart. We do not flinch from the real news. So we also deal with the tensions that do arise, when conflict breaks out in the city council, or economic woes plague local businesses, or budget crisis threatens to bankrupt the city coffers.

For me, though, as a journalist, the toughest stories are the accident and crime stories. When two teen-agers driving drunk are killed on the Silverado Trial when they veer in front of another driver, and they are all local residents, or when, like last year, a young man is gunned down in his car, the first murder in Calistoga in decades. Or when a local school board trustee's daughter is stabbed to death in a nearby city, or a Calistoga mother accidentally runs down an elderly pedestrian in a crosswalk, killing her instantly.

These are the painful stories. My job as a reporter is to call the people involved, to find out the facts, to get the news. But the last thing I want to do is to interfere in any way in these moments of shock and grief. I feel like a horrid parasite, an intruder. What I have to do, to get myself through it, is remind myself if I can do it well, I will be doing the person a favor, letting them tell their story with as much grace and honesty and dignity as possible - always respecting any request for a comment that is "off the record" during the conversation.

A few weeks ago, three elderly women were housesitting for an artist in town. Returning to the house after dinner at a local restaurant, they interrupted a burglar. The man indicated he had a gun under his shirt, and said if they didn't cooperate, he would shoot them. One managed to escape to the back yard and call 911. After some time, the other two were able to get away and lock themselves in a bathroom. The burglar (now kidnapper) fled, stealing a pickup from a neighboring property. A SWAT team, sheriffs and police arrived, but were unable to locate him. It turned out later he had left his cell phone plugged into an outlet near the studio. With that information, they identified him, and put out a bulletin. The next week, the man called police and turned himself in.

It turns out that the brother never did have a gun - it was only pretend. So this terrible burglary gone bad has now turned into something very serious because of an imaginary gun - three counts of kidnapping, two counts of elder abuse, one count of abuse, plus the count of burglary.

Initial reports described him as itinerant, but I heard he had at some point lived in Calistoga. He was a Latino man, and his name was unusual. I asked our former city councilmember, a sort of Latino ambassador, if he knew who his relations were. He said he was pretty sure he was kin to a local restaurant owner. I know this restaurant owner, so I went over to speak to him. I asked the hard question: Is this man your brother? The answer was yes. The weight and heaviness showed in his body. This man, this good man, has carried so much. He lost his teen-age son to cancer when I first started writing for the Tribune. He has another young son who has been in a lot of trouble lately. He has been struggling with the restaurant, trying desperately to keep going, putting in long hours, never taking a day off. And now this.

He told me the brother had been in an accident 18 months ago, run over by a car. Since then, the brother had "not been right in the head." He had been making poor decisions, unable to determine right from wrong. Still, this restaurant owner, my friend, was making no excuses for him. He said, "He must pay for his mistakes."

When my friend told me all of this, I knew as a journalist I should be writing it down, preparing to put his words into my next follow-up story. But in that moment, I could only see his eyes, his sadness, the terrible burdens he carried. I walked up to him, and said, "I'm so sorry." And I gave him a hug.

He needed that hug much more than the community needed the facts.

Walking with a Busy Mind

2011-02-13T23:40:00.001-08:00

Our teacher Tony sent us an e-mail last week saying he noticed that our kinhin (walking meditation) could use some work. He asked us to watch a nine-minute video on YouTube to pick up some pointers.

The video is by a priest living in Japan. He has numerous instructional clips online, covering a wide range of topics. The format is very simple - just a priest in his robes, alone, standing in a tatami mat zendo next to a scroll, in front of a video camera.

His offerings about kinhin are very basic. He says to walk following the rhythm of the breathing, feet slightly apart gently in alignment with the hips, talking small steps roughly equivalent to half a step forward at a time. When reaching a place where you must turn, make the corner sharp, not curved. The gaze is to be focused one meter ahead, just as in zazen. He says, "There is no need to look anywhere, because in kinhin, we don't go anywhere."

He says to make the walk very simple, almost casual. "The feeling of dignity is not achieved through great self-awareness."

But it is the comment right at the end of the video that really spoke to me. He said kinhin is tricky, because as soon as the body moves, the mind moves. "That's why kinhin is very, very stormy." He said to simply be aware of it, come back to this presence, and go on.

I was so relieved when I heard him speak those words. All along, I thought it was just me. From early on, kinhin has been the most challenging part of my sitting practice, because my mind goes romping through the room, creating all kinds of chaos. I struggle to keep my gaze focused. I do things like count the number of people in the room, look at everyone's socks, plan the upcoming service.

At one of my first all-day sits, kinhin nearly did me in. Each time we went for walking meditation, I found myself embroiled in the most relentless criticism of everyone I was sitting with. I was critiquing everyone's haircuts, their clothing, the way they walked, the sounds they made when they breathed in the zendo. My head was filled with seething negativity. It was horrid. During dokusan, I spoke to Tony about it, and he said, "Wow. You're the first person who's ever told me something like that." I looked at him in shock and embarrassment. Then I realized he was kidding. Obviously, I was not the first.

Over time, now that I have been practicing a few years, I have managed to calm my kinhin, and make it more of an extension of my zazen. It is still a little edgy, but no longer filled with criticism. Sometimes it is even meditative.

What a relief, though, to hear these words by this priest. That kinhin creates a stormy mind. Now I know there is a biological connection - when the body moves, the mind moves. Knowledge is power. Insight can be a balm to a troubled spirit.

Now when I walk with a chattering mind, I can catch myself, come back to the present, and take another step. Just like zazen. Return to the breath.

A Single Bow

2011-01-30T23:52:00.000-08:00

A single bow can change a life.

The story goes that our teachers, Tony and Darlene, forty years ago, entered San Francisco Zen Center. On a staircase, they passed a Japanese monk. He stopped, and bowed to them. There was a presence, a fullness, an embodiment in the movement, a "now." In that simple gesture, all of Zen tradition, all of the dharma was carried. Tony and Darlene knew this is what they wanted to learn, and to pass on.

The Japanese monk was Suzuki-roshi, and the bow is what began the path leading to the eventual establishment of my own lineage at Russian River Zendo.

Now, in this time of loss, priest Cynthia Kear reminds us we must trust our own Buddha-nature, our own bodhichitta, knowing our practice will continue. She said, "We are the recipients of Darlene's dharma transmission; but now we are also the transmitters."

Everyone has been living up to that expectation. It is not just newly dharma-transmitted priests Cynthia and Sarita Tamayo Moraga who have taken on the duties of our several sanghas. To give Tony time and space to grieve, senior students have stepped in, giving dharma talks and leading services for the past two months. People have been reaching out to each other with special zazen sessions, offerings of dokusan (private interviews), and plans of one-day sits.

Mostly, though, we have simply been available to each other. There have been many warm, heartfelt hugs, kind words, expressions of care. I have never once felt alone in this.

Darlene herself, the last time I saw her, said to those of us gathered there, that we could all be dharma transmitted. I have thought of that often. How do I, in my everyday life, in my words and my movements, carry the message of Zen? How do I pass on kindness?

If I were to bow, what would someone see?

Give Your Cow a Large Pasture

2011-01-28T20:40:00.000-08:00

I have worked at the same job for the past nine years, and my boss has watched me along my Zen journey, from the initial steps, eventually to choosing Tony Patchell as my teacher, up through lay ordination this past August, and now through this period of loss as our sanghas deal with the death of Darlene.

She is a Presbyterian. Our other officemate is Catholic. One day, in the midst of a casual discussion about dealing with an interpersonal issue, my boss surprised me by saying, "You know, you are the most spiritual person I know." I was dumbfounded. All my life, I had felt I was completely lacking in the spirituality department. When I asked what she meant, she said she didn't know anyone else who incorporated a spiritual practice into their daily life as much as I did. This is what she had determined from hearing me speak about sesshins, sewing practice, meditating, and dharma discussions, all as they came up in the normal course of conversation in our very small office.

That was about six months ago. In early January, my boss was going through a lot of personal family stress. She came to me and said, "I think I need to start meditating. Can you tell me how?"

I explained in very basic terms the fundamentals of zazen, such as posture, breathing, and hand position. I also removed possible hurdles immediately: I told her she could sit in a chair and I said ten minutes at a time was fine to start off. She asked, "Am I supposed to make my mind blank?" I laughed and said, "Oh, no! You'll never make it blank. Just try not to get attached to anything that comes up. When a thought arises, look at it, and let it go."

The next week at Russian River Zendo, someone brought up that problem of "busy mind" during zazen. Fellow practitioner Dick Bates had a wonderful analogy to demonstrate how crucial "busy mind" is. He said in biology, most mutations are useless, not helpful or beneficial in any way to the creature they occur in. But, if all mutations were to cease, the organism would be deprived of those rare times when a profound, wonderful change occurs. Dick said in the same way, most of the stuff floating through our minds is pure rubbish. But nestled inside of those racing thoughts are the kernels of creativity. If we could, as we sometimes wish, completely control our thoughts, nothing new would ever be born again.

So, to new practitioners like my boss, the best advice is that of Suzuki-roshi, when he said to view your mind as a cow. Then give your cow a large pasture, and watch it.

(By the way - actually being inside of a very active spiritual community, I most humbly decline the title of "most spiritual" - but it was a pleasant moment hearing someone else could see that part of me I had been seeking for so long.)

One Loss, All Loss

2011-01-21T22:27:00.000-08:00

The topic at each dharma talk I have attended in the last ten days has been grief. How could it be otherwise? It is staring all of us in the face. We are, every one of us, coping in our own way: numb or raw, crying or cried out, wanting only to sleep or insomniac, seeking the company of others or retreating into solitude.

Because losing someone we love rips open our world, turns everything upside down. And in this case, losing a teacher, it can have even greater ramifications. Because it begs the questions: Where do we go from here? What holds us together? How do we go on?

In a talk on Tuesday, priest Cynthia Kear spoke of Healing Into Life and Death by Stephen Levine, in which he referred to "one loss, all loss." He meant that when we experience one death, it brings up every loss we have ever encountered - other deaths of those dear to us, failed relationships, betrayals, lost hopes and dreams. It is as if the death is a black hole that expands into a pit of despair over everything that has ever brought us feelings of sadness and loss.

I certainly have been experiencing this phenomenon over the past weeks. Six years ago, I lost my father to lymphoma. Many things make this time all too familiar. He was 64 years old, born the same year as Tony. My mother was born the same year as Darlene. When my dad passed away, my parents had just celebrated their 42nd wedding anniversary - Tony and Darlene had been together 40 years. My father underwent treatment at the same hospital in San Franciso where Darlene was a patient. And he was gracious, brave and spiritual throughout his illness, making sure that all of us in the family would be taken care of in his absence.

Cynthia spoke of the death of her sister, and how it felt so crazy to have to do things like go to work and pay bills and take care of daily chores, when none of that felt important. I remember walking from the hospital down to a nearby coffee shop to get a latte for my mom. I was passing people on the street, and I thought, "Do you live here? Are you going to a job, or shopping? Or are you grabbing something to eat before you go back to the hospital, where your sister is dying, or your mother is having a liver transplant, or your daughter is battling cancer?" It felt so odd to see all these people walking around as if it was a normal day, when it was not normal. There was nothing normal about it.

Cynthia said gone are the days when we could wear a black arm band to let everyone know we are grieving, to let them know to treat us tenderly. She's right - we have no way to indicate to the world, "I am suffering. I am in pain. Please, do not expect too much from me."

I have been thinking about my father every day. Some of it is good - there are good memories, nostalgia and sweetness. But there is also much hurt, and loss, and a tightness in my chest, even though six years have passed. He died on a night with a full moon. Tonight there is a full moon. That always triggers a response, a deep longing in my heart.

And each thought of him circles back to Darlene. My first meeting with her, the words we shared, the journey we took together over the past four years. I want to write it all down, put it into a record. Don't lose it, don't lose it - there is an urgency to the feeling. In the same way that I struggled to hold onto my father, wanted to retain every memory of him.

"One loss, all loss" sounds like too much; it sounds painful. And, in truth, it does hurt. But, as the Leonard Cohen song says, having a crack is good - that's how the light gets in. It is only broken hearts that can open to the compassion of the world.

Darlene Cohen,Oct. 31, 1942 - Jan. 12, 2011

2011-01-13T23:35:00.000-08:00

Darlene Cohen, Su Rei Ken Po, Great Spirit Manifesting Dharma, passed away at 1:15 a.m. on Wednesday morning.

I received word via email just as I was about to leave the house for work. The extended sangha planned to sit vigil with her body for the next day and a half.

I was heartbroken, because it was deadline day at the newspaper, and I knew I could not leave to go and be with her.

But after I arrived at the office, I received a second email, saying the vigil went through the night and until noon on Thursday, and people were particularly needed and wanted during the wee hours of the morning. So when I finally wrapped up the paper at 3 a.m., I drove to Guerneville.

I arrived at 4 a.m., to see the zendo softly lit up with candles. There were four of my sangha members there, sitting. Darlene's body was laid out on a covered table. She was dressed in her priest's robes, wearing her lavender rakusu that we recently sewed for her. Her body was covered with flower petals people had bestowed as offerings.

I came into the hushed room, bowed before her, and offered a few petals of my own. I touched her sleeve. It was as if her spirit was still in the room, as if any moment she would open her eyes and smile at me. It was only then I felt the rush of grief.

Moving towards the back wall, I selected a zabuton and zafu, and began to sit. A few more people came, and a few people left. My sangha members approached, and gave me hugs. It was beautifully silent, and the candles cast flickering light on the altar. A gentle rain began to fall.

After sitting for two hours with Darlene, I felt it was time to go. I had been up for nearly 24 hours straight, and still had an hour to drive home. The coffee shop at the base of the hill had just opened up , so a latte helped with that last stretch.

There is sorrow, but also a deep joy in my body right now, a profound gratitude. Darlene is no longer suffering in the body. She was able to pass on her lineage, and her sangha is pulling together in a wonderful way. We will get through this. And I feel privileged to have had her in my life, even for this brief time.

Farewell, Su Rei Ken Po. And thank you.

And Also Laughter...

2011-01-11T23:36:00.000-08:00

Emotions are odd things. They flit about like butterflies. Even something that seems as heavy as grief cannot be held down long - before you realize it, a buoyancy appears out of nowhere, a lightness, and you find yourself laughing.

Haven't you experienced this? When my father was ill with lymphoma, I remember well the times in the hospital, when I was so worried, so scared, and felt helpless. But my father was a man with a wonderfully glowing spirit, someone who paid attention to people, who listened and cared. I watched him interact with the nurses and phlebotomists and aides, as each came into his hospital room. He knew all of their names. He asked them about their families, their dreams and goals. His particular talent in life was in the area of financial planning. So during his weeks in the hospital, he helped one nurse figure out how to go back to school. He helped an aide find financing for a new home. He gave of himself, and because of that, his room was a place of hope and smiles instead of despair.

Our teacher Darlene is a sprightly, impish woman, with a spark of mischief in her eyes much of the time. Beata Chapman said when she visited her in the hospital, Darlene set about trying to "hook her up" with one of her nurses. She whispered with glee, "I think she has lesbian tendencies." And then pushed the call button to bring the nurse into the room. Instead of lying in bed, thinking about death, she was playing matchmaker.

When a person is sick, they don't cease to be themselves. They are still who they were before: funny, mischievous, intelligent, generous. Or cranky and obstinate. Being sick may occasionally exacerbate those qualities. But the basic person remains the same underneath. I think it is the people on the outside who change, the people who are grappling with grief, fearful of loss. We are sometimes so afraid that we treat the ones we love as if they are already gone. We act as if we must begin our mourning now, to prove that our love is true.

But no. There is both sadness and joy in grief. It is perfectly acceptable to sit next to the one you love and laugh long and hard, even if they are dying. There is room for everything. Allow each emotion to come as it will. Laugh when you can. There will be time enough for tears.

Metta for the World

2011-01-10T23:56:00.000-08:00

A friend tonight thanked me for my recent blog posts, saying they were helping her to deal with the shootings over the weekend in Arizona. I, too, have been reading the headlines, and struggling to find sense in the random violence. Part of me has pushed it away, kept it apart, because there is already enough personal tragedy nearer at hand. Can I hold more pain? Do I need to embrace this, too?

Priest Beata Chapman, speaking on grief, encouraged us to "build the inclusion muscle." She asked us to add to our experiences of the subtleties and nuances of grief as they arise, because they won't always be what we expect. And I believe she would also tell us, in addition to mourning the losses and hurts in our own lives, to take in the deaths of Judge John Roll, Gabe Zimmerman and nine-year-old Christina Taylor Green, to absorb the assassination attempt on Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords.

Right now I feel I must simply say a Metta Sutta, a Loving Kindness Meditation, for the many people in my life who are in need of that extra support. And, perhaps as importantly, I am in need of giving it.

Metta for Darlene Cohen, my teacher. Her hospice nurse has told us her time of passing is only a few days away. She has completed her goal of giving dharma transmission to two of her students, and is spending her final days with her husand Tony Patchell. She told us on Saturday she is touched beyond words to see how her community of students is forming a dharma grid, even before her death.

Metta for Larry Kuzdenyi, the weather man for the Calistoga Tribune. An avid golfer and amateur rain watcher, Larry calls in the rainfall total for the newspaper every week. In the fall he was diagnosed with throat cancer, and underwent intensive radiation and chemotherapy. He is now recuperating. Tomorrow, he has a CAT scan to see if the treatment was successful. My thoughts are with him tonight.

Metta for Doris Muramatsu, a member of the band Girlyman. In her late 30s, two months ago Doris was diagnosed with CML, a rare form of leukemia. It is treatable, with a good prognosis. She is blogging about her journey of healing at Caring Bridge. The band will return to touring at the end of the month, with a modified schedule - including a gig in Sebastopol.

Metta for Mike Parsons. I just interviewed Mike a few weeks ago for an article I wrote on internet safety. He is a retired police officer, who worked on a special task force on internet crimes. In a note apologizing for not getting back to me with a photo, he explained that he'd been distracted last week, because he'd just been diagnosed with lymphoma. He was optimistic, saying the prognosis was good with treatment, but he still has four months of chemo followed by radiation ahead.

Metta for Pat, Ramona and Noah, who are dealing with their own personal pain and confusion. May you all stay safe, until everything can be worked out.

Metta for Gabrielle Giffords, and for the families of Judge John Roll, Gabe Zimmerman and Christina Taylor Green, and for all the citizens of Arizona who are reeling from this loss. May our political hate-mongering come to an end, before any more lives are sacrificed.

May all beings be happy.
May they be joyous and live in safety.

* * *
Even as a mother at the risk of her life
Watches over and protects her only child,
So with a boundless mind should one cherish all living things.
Suffusing love over the entire world,
Above, below, and all around, without limit,
So let one cultivate an infinite good will toward the whole world.

Going Into the Body

2011-01-09T22:33:00.000-08:00

The danger, as is so often the case, lies in our heads.

In a dharma talk earlier this week, priest Beata Chapman spoke to us about experiencing grief as a body experience. Far too often, we disconnect, go into our heads, spin off into emotions that float unattached, when what we really need is to center ourselves in our physicality. A very Zen directive, exactly what our sitting practice guides us towards each day.

Beata said when we learn to witness our own suffering, by being present with it, it develops our capacity to witness the suffering of others. She said staying with the body sensations gives us the empathy for all the implications of existing in the form world - aging, pain, hurt, death. She admitted that what she was asking us to do was a paradox - expansively reach out right when our inclination is to close up and shut down. She refers to it as "opening the heart in hell."

But paradox is exactly what Zen is all about. It is a practice of things which cannot be done, and yet, each day we vow to do them.

Beata said we speak of "taking refuge," but for her, that does not mean "taking shelter." Instead, it means going into the body, into the present moment. The "namu kie butsu" phrase we recite when doing our sewing practice of the rakusu, said with each stitch, translates as "I take refuge in Buddha." But another translation is "I release myself into the now."

Darlene is facing her death with grace and equanimity because she is staying in her body and in the now. I could see it in her face when I looked upon her yesterday morning, as it shone in her eyes. That is the latest teaching from her. I, too, must remember I have a body. I, too, must settle into the now, into this moment. As the grief comes, when it comes, I must allow it to sink down into this body of mine so I can experience it fully, and then release it, going on to the next moment, until it arises again.

Creatively Facing Death

2011-01-08T22:18:00.000-08:00

I would like to write over the next few days about the topic I have been pushing away - the reality that has been consuming our extended sangha for the last several months.

Our teacher Darlene Cohen is dying. There is no way any longer to sugar-coat it, or hold onto false hopes. We will be losing her very soon. Grief is such a tricky emotion. It comes at each of us differently. And with each one of us, differently on each day. Because I have not been one of the people who has been able to see Darlene over the past two months, I have responded by absenting myself, both physically and emotionally. I have found excuses to miss my regular sangha, some real, some created - extra burdens have arisen at my job; more demands have come up in my personal life. I have avoided writing in this blog, because here it seemed I might have to address the impending loss.

Over all, I have felt mostly a numbness, a lack of emotion. This has been aided by my distance, and perhaps that was my real impetus. On Tuesday, I went to my regular sangha, and sat. Beata Chapman was the visiting doshi for the night. Just before her dharma talk, she asked if there were any announcements. Susan Spencer, our wonderful resident ceramicist/jizo teacher animatedly said, "Darlene is going to have a cardboard coffin, and on Thursday, I will be holding a workshop at my studio for people to get together and decorate it."

I felt as if I had been socked in the stomach. All my careful avoidance tactics were stripped away in that one sentence. Decorate her coffin?

Intellectually, I understood this could be a healing act, a time of community gathering and mourning. But I was emotionally unprepared for the finality of visualizing a coffin, and everything that comes with that: death, funeral, cremation. I realized I was holding much more inside than I had thought.

Today, we held regular services at Russian River Zendo. We were told that Tony might be present, but Darlene would not see anyone. Cynthia Kear served as doshi, and I was the doan. Shortly after we arrived, Cynthia told me Darlene had said she would like to see all of us after the second sitting for about 10 minutes. By the time the second sitting ended, there were more than 30 people in the zendo. We all quietly went upstairs, unsure what we would find.

I had last seen Darlene at Frederika and Pete's wedding on Nov. 28. I almost cried when I walked into the living room - she looked so tiny and frail. But her face lit up and she said, "Michelle!" And then greeted each of us by name. She was propped up on the sofa, and had us all gather around her, sitting on the floor. Although it was clear it took some effort, she spoke to us for a few minutes, as a teacher speaking to her sangha. And she sparkled with wit and love, even in her weakened state.

Later, in Cynthia's dharma talk, she said that Darlene had shared with her about looking into Tibetan death practices, working on ways to face her own end. Darlene had said to her, "It's amazing how creative I'm having to be around all this!"

It is time for me, as well, to creatively face this death. So I will write over the coming days about grief, loss, sangha, support, and other imponderables.

Comfort Zones

2011-01-03T21:04:00.001-08:00

It is so easy to take things for granted, I find, when I move through the world. Without even realizing it, I establish comfort zones all around me, places where it is easy to be who I am.

A simple example. I have been a vegetarian for the last 20 years. My immediate family, and my closest circles of friends, all know this about me. So whenever I am in a social setting with them, they go out of their way to be accommodating. Even the book group that I have been a member of for the past eight years prepares vegetarian options for each dinner when we meet.

On Christmas, Sabrina and I were invited to have dinner with a dear aunt and uncle who had never before hosted us for that meal. My grandmother, another aunt and uncle, three cousins, two of their wives - all told, there were 13 of us, every one of who I had been with on many an occasion, but never exclusively, on their turf.

We sat down at the beautifully decorated table, and the food was brought out - and I realized suddenly that almost every dish had meat in it. The first course was soup and Caesar salad. Couldn't do the salad - anchovies. Thank goodness, Sabrina and I had made the potato leek soup. But then, it was ham, pasta with shrimp, a bean casserole with bacon, deviled eggs . . .

The worst part is feeling that I will embarrass my hostess by having an empty plate. Luckily, there was a fruit salad, and mashed potatoes. I put the fruit salad in a bowl, and centered that on my plate to take up space, then ladled up a big dollop of potatoes. Then I picked up a dinner roll and some black olives, and ate as slowly as possible.

What I realized, at the end of the meal, was how much I have come to take for granted the fact that so many people in my life make my vegetarianism a non-issue. I wanted to go right home and write thank you notes to everybody.

Similarly, I move within the comfort zones of established social networks, a job that I have held for eight years, a marriage that is secure and nourishing, a sangha I can call my home. Who knows what else I've grown blind to?

Staying in familiar places has not always been my modus operandi. During my first 35 years of life, I averaged almost one address change a year. Before this job, I had never worked anywhere longer than two years. My longest relationship was five years, but the average was closer to 18 months. Permanency wasn't even part of my vocabulary.

Back then, you may have been able to chide me for not having staying power, but you certainly couldn't have said I was afraid of new things. So it is interesting, now, to be in this place in my life where I find that perhaps I have settled in so comfortably that it is time to readjust.

Maybe it is time to step out of the comfort zone a little more regularly.

RItual in Daily Life

2011-01-02T23:57:00.001-08:00

In a dharma talk recently, Susan Spencer spoke about ritual in daily life.

She said the ritual we use in the zendo, from the roles of doan and kokyo, chanting and incense burning, stepping on our left foot as we enter the zendo, or bowing in front of the altar, are not mere rules. They create a container, a space within the community, so something else can happen. She emphasized it is not about being perfect, but about intention.

Outside of the zendo, ritual can be just as important. It is created, once again, by intention and consciousness. It can be formed by something as simple as pouring a cup of tea. If you pour the cup of tea with your full awareness, picking up each object with both hands in its turn, giving each step your complete attention, being absolutely in the moment - you will create a ritual. The person you pour tea for will feel the difference. It will become a spiritual act, a transformative moment.

Susan asked us to reflect on the rituals in our own lives in an exercise after the talk.

Frederika Haskell recalled watching a ritual her parents performed every day which informed her deepest beliefs about love and marriage. Each night, when her father returned home from work, he sought out her mother, wherever she was in the home. He went to her, took her in an embrace, said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and kissed her. The routine of it, the trust and stability, gave a foundation to the marriage, and gave Frederika expectations about what a true relationship should look like.

Phil McDonel spoke about his morning ritual with his wife Barbara around coffee, an elaborate, two-pot, caffeineted and decaffeinated preparation, exacting in its execution, but more importantly, a time each day they spent together, before heading off in separate directions.

Each of us had our own ideas of how to respond to the query. I love ritual, myself. I adore the aspects of Zen that build familiarity with their routine. Chanting is my favorite, so any services are high on my list. I like memorizing the chants, so I can intone them without a chantbook in hand. My week at Tassajara summer before last was truly wonderful because of the extensive ritual at the large zendo - there were more bells, clappers, incense, chants, services, and a greater number of people participating, so it all felt marvelously other-worldly.

But even in my daily life, I adore creating ritual. I have rituals with my dog - rituals are great with dogs, because they love them, too. They crave routines, and look forward to repeated behaviors. I do many things a certain way - I turn my Coke tab a quarter turn. I line up the seam of my to-go coffee cup with the lid. I fold laundry precisely. My desk and work space are always neat and tidy, with everything just so. This may sound silly - my friends sometimes joke about my OCD tendencies (obsessive/compulsive disorder, for those of you not in the psych-term world) - but it is more than that. Each time I do one of these things, I am being present and aware. I am coming out of the ether into the moment, to touch the object at hand.

What I would like is to make into ritual some of my other activities. Someone asked Somerset Maugham if he wrote regularly or only when inspired. "I write only when inspiration strikes," he said. "Fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o'clock sharp."

Something to keep in mind for 2011.

Winning Millions, Needing Little

2010-12-30T02:09:00.000-08:00

On Dec. 28 at Twin Pine Casino & Hotel, Dale Valentine hit the jackpot. He was on the slot machine for the state-wide California Megabucks – and he won $8.4 million.

Dale is a retired firefighter from San Leandro who owns a vacation home in Lake County, where he and his wife spend much of their time, and he’s been a regular customer at Twin Pine Casino over the past 15 years.

In the press release issued on Wednesday by the casino, Dale said he plans to put some money in the bank, make a large donation to Hospice, and to learn how to ride a Harley.

His wife said she would like a larger bathroom and a closet in their house.

When I read that last line, I laughed out loud. Mrs. Valentine didn’t say she wanted a fancy new house. She wasn’t looking for anything spectacular. Just a larger bathroom and a closet.

Oh, if we could all be satisfied by such simple desires!

The cynics out there are probably thinking that the Valentines will be changing their minds soon, finding more expansive ways to spend their millions. But I prefer to believe they are going to hold on to that home-spun goodness, that basic feeling of already having almost enough. If so, they may be among the lucky jackpot winners who actually have money in the bank 10 years down the road, instead of blowing it all on extravagant toys.

It’s New Year’s resolution time again, and I can never resist the urge to examine my life and set out goals, priorities, and aspirations for the coming calendar year. Even though I inevitably fail to live up to most of them, it is a deep-seeded tendency of mine – so much so that I do it throughout the year, not just on Jan. 1.

My main problem is that I make lists that are too long. I never choose just one thing. I want to exercise more, lose weight, stop smoking, practice the piano, brush up on my Japanese, write more regularly, meditate every morning, learn to be a better cook, send my work out to be published, put in more hours volunteering, spend more time with my grandmother, be a better listener, stop negative thinking . . . you can see where I might run into difficulties feeling successful.

But, regardless of past experience, year after year, I make these resolutions, and I draw up charts and diagrams and lists. I set up schedules, and try to follow them. For a few weeks, maybe even a month, I am as disciplined as a Marine. I cannot be swayed from the course. Inevitably, however, something jostles me, bumps me off track, and I gradually veer off into a staccato pattern of start-stop, start-stop, start – and then the final, gut-wrenching, slamming crash.

I am not, at heart, driven much by material goals. So the immediate analogy to the slot machine winner might not be apparent. Having $8.4 million would be nice – but only in that it would allow me 24 hours a day seven days a week to work on all of those other things I just mentioned.

The real connection, I think, is in the simplicity of the wishes given by Mrs. Valentine. She didn’t call out a laundry list of desires. She started with something small and attainable, something she knew would give her pleasure, but at the same time, was not grand in any way.

I have a quote from the Dalai Lama written on a large sheet of construction paper up on my home office wall. It says:

Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.

What if, in 2011, instead of making a list of “Fifty Things I Need to Improve About Myself,” I decided to read that quote every morning? Because if I could focus on that one thing, I would feel better about myself, better about other people, and better about the world – which would make for a pretty good year.

Always Tony

2010-12-13T22:07:00.001-08:00

A gentle nudge from one of my fellow sangha members sent me back to my last blog post, where I discovered that I had inadvertently misstated something.

In speaking of the dharma transmission process, I said that Sarita Tamayo-Moraga and Cynthia Kear will be carrying on Darlene Cohen's lineage, and leading Russian River Zendo. What I neglected to say is that Tony Patchell will continue to be the main priest at RRZ.

I can explain this egregious oversight quite simply: Tony is in my mind so continually, so constantly, that I sometimes forget I have to mention him. He is my dharma teacher, my "heart" teacher, the one I have connected to most strongly on this path. From the beginning, I knew he was the one who would guide me on this journey.

Over the past months, as we have all struggled with Darlene's progressive cancer, I have found myself grappling with how to provide support to Tony. He has given so much to me - now, it seems, it is time for me to give back to him. My basic urge is simply to be close to him. When our sangha meets, during dharma talks, I place my zafu next to his. It may sound silly - but that physical proximity seems one way of showing that I care. And since we are both e-mail junkies, we send messages back and forth regularly, just small notes of connection. Sometimes the notes are about what is going on. Sometimes they are about completely unrelated topics. Either way, they are a way to stay in touch.

Tony remains at the center of Russian River Zendo, with Darlene. And in Darlene's absence, it will be Tony who guides Sarita and Cynthia in their new roles.

And always, always, he remains my heart teacher. Even when I am not speaking his name.

Passing the Torch

2010-12-10T22:59:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow our teacher Darlene Cohen begins a week-long dharma transmission ceremony with priests Sarita Tamayo-Moraga and Cynthia Kear. For those of you unfamiliar with this, dharma transmission is the step which transforms a priest into a teacher, giving her the right to pass on the lineage, and to have her own students.

Darlene has been in the hospital for the past week with pneumonia, brought on by her weakened condition from chemo and blood transfusions. She has returned home knowing that her time is short, yet determined to go ahead with this last step in her own role as head teacher.

There is a large support team gathered at the house, to cook, give massages, provide comfort, and help with the ceremony. Tony, Darlene's husband and our teacher, is of course the main source of strength and stability. But there are many people from Darlene's past, old friends from her years of Zen practice, who have come now to be with her. The house is also filled with flowers and cards from all of us in sangha who are with her in spirit, even though we cannot be there in person.

When Darlene is gone, Sarita and Cynthia have the task of carrying on her work, of leading Russian River Zendo and the Healdsburg sangha and the other groups Darlene has formed, of continuing the ties of the family of practitioners she has created. Both are wonderful women, who will make wonderful teachers. I know that both wish that their dharma transmission was taking place under different circumstances...but life is what it is. And there is no more powerful example for all of us to follow than that of Darlene herself.

I wish I could be there, to watch the process. Instead, I must wait in the background, like many of my fellow sangha members, sending good thoughts, and continuing my own practice. Living upright - that is my task, the best way that I can help. I trust that my opportunity to do more will arise, and that I will recognize it when it comes.

Hurtful Words

2010-12-05T22:28:00.000-08:00

When we lost our parrot, Barney, I wrote about our grief here in this blog. And I also wrote about it in my column in the weekly newspaper where I work, the Calistoga Tribune.

I have a loyal readership with my column, and am used to positive feedback. My picture runs with the column, and people in town know who I am, and often, as I walk through the grocery store aisles, or wait in the post office, locals approach me and open dialogues about things I have written, sharing their own stories. People also write letters to the editor, on occasion, or send in e-mails through our website.

After Barney's death, I received many heart-felt condolences, including several beautiful sympathy cards. But one morning, I opened the general in-box on my computer and found this note: "Tell Michelle that the column about her dead bird was pathetic. Nobody in town wants to hear about her personal misery."

I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. My grief was still new and raw at that point, and the insensitivity of the statement was a shock. Even worse was the generalizing "nobody in town" line - as if the writer was speaking not just for herself, but for many.

All at once, the numerous positive words disappeared. I could only see and feel this one woman's rancor and animosity. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Luckily, as the days passed, I continued to receive wonderful support from animal lovers, people who wanted to hear stories of Barney, people who wanted to tell me about their own sweet animals, people who understood that I was going through a loss as real as if this were a child - Barney had been, after all, in the family for over 20 years.

But it made me wonder - why was I so easily unsettled by this woman's unkindness? Why was I so quickly thrown off-center by that one hostile voice, in the midst of so much support? Is there a human tendency to gravitate towards that which is most painful, instead of that which is most comforting? To expect the worst, instead of the best?

And I also wonder - what inspired her to lash out at me, a stranger, in that way? She had to have known that her words would be wounding. Is she just so angry and uncaring that she doesn't mind the damage she causes along the way?

The e-mail was signed. I did write back to her, when I had calmed myself, and simply said, "Tell me, was it just this column that bothered you, or have there been others?" My hope was to open a dialogue, to introduce myself to her as a human being, to give her a chance to say what was really going on.

She never replied.

Lives of Grace

2010-12-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

In Tuesday night's dharma talk, we discussed the koan of Haykujo and the Fox, Case No. 2 from "The Gateless Gate."

The story is that whenever Master Hyakujo delivered a sermon, an old man was always there listening. Finally, he approached him, and asked who he was. The old man said he used to be a priest on that same mountain, also known as Master Hyakujo. But when a monk asked him, "Does a perfectly enlightened person fall under the law of cause and effect?" this man answered, "No." And then he was condemned to live as a fox for 500 lives.

The man asked Hyakujo to "say a turning word" on his behalf and release him from the body of the fox. The man again asked the question, and Hyakujo said, "The law of cause and effect cannot be obscured." And the man was deeply enlightened. He asked Hyakujo to perform priest's burial rituals for him - and Hyakujo took his monks behind the mountain, where they found the body of a fox, and performed priest's rituals for it.

The sense here is that those lives as a fox were a curse, a punishment, something which the old man was very ready to be rid of. And yet, when you read on in the accompanying text, you find these words. (All of the "Gateless Gate" koans have a "Mumon's Commentary" section following the actual "case.")

Mumon's commentary:
Not falling under the law of cause and effect - for what reason had he fallen into the state of a fox? The law of cause and effect cannot be obscured - for what reason has he been released from a fox's body? If in regard to this you have the one eye, then you will understand that the former Hyakujo enjoyed 500 lives of grace as a fox.

So what I came away with, hearing and reading this koan and these words, was that we, all of us, at whatever degree of enlightenment we may find ourselves, are subject to the laws of karma, of cause and effect. There is no place of rest. I cannot hope to attain a level of equanimity in this realm that will put me beyond pain, fear, desire, hope, suffering. Some might throw up their hands in despair, and say that we are all condemned to live the lives of foxes.

But then I read that final line: If in regard to this you have the one eye, then you will understand that the former Hyakujo enjoyed 500 lives of grace as a fox.

Five hundred lives of grace. Despite the hardship, the worry, the challenges. If I choose, this day, each day, I can live in grace. Even as a fox.

Upcoming Closure Dates at RRZ

2010-11-24T23:07:00.000-08:00

Russian River Zendo will be closed the following dates:

Saturday, Nov. 27
Thanksgiving

Saturday, Dec. 11
Dharma Transmission

Saturday, Dec. 25
Christmas

Saturday, Jan. 1
New Year's Day

Missing in Action

2010-11-22T22:50:00.000-08:00

I have not attended my regular Tuesday night sangha for a month, and I feel lost at sea because of it.

It started because the first Tuesday of the month was election day, and I had duties at the newspaper. Then I caught a bad cold, and missed two weeks, both because I felt miserable, and because I couldn't risk being around our teacher Darlene Cohen, in her compromised state of health, with my nasty germs. And now, this week, when I was thinking I could finally go, I realized that once again I have to miss. Because of the Thanksgiving holiday, our press deadline has been bumped from Wednesday night to Tuesday night, so I will be at the newspaper until late - I generally don't get done until midnight, so there is no way that I can show up for a 7 p.m. sitting.

In the meantime, Russian River Zendo has already moved forward on the first steps towards dharma transmission for priests Cynthia Kear and Sarita Tamayo, and will complete that ceremony by mid-December. People are cooking food to support Darlene and Tony as they struggle to cope with her worsening illness, and all the tasks that lie ahead of them. I am on the food preparation list, but we are progressing in alphabetic order, and with the last name of "Wing," I have not yet been called upon. I have written cards, and kept in touch via e-mail; but I feel woefully disconnected right at a time when I wish I was close at hand offering support.

Being sick, of course, didn't help. It was just a cold, but it was a doozy. We have no back-up staff at work, so no one can call in sick. I had to work, even on my worst days, which meant that I came home and crashed afterwards, and needed to conserve my energy in order to show up again the next day. It's been a while since I've been this ill. Finally, though, I have stopped coughing, and have regained most of my strength.

My routine has been shaken up, though. My blogging was nonexistent. My sitting practice fell by the wayside. We had pet crises at home in addition to deal with, and a number of other anxieties, and it simply felt like all my energy was scattered, going no where in particular.

Ironically, I had signed up at the start of the month for something called "NaNoWriMo," which is National Novel Writers Month. The idea is to try to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. People all over the country (and the world) participate, logging their progress via a website. A friend talked me into giving it a try. I started off with a bang on Nov. 1 and 2, and then Barney got sick, the kitten got sick, I got sick... Sigh. So much for writing 1,600 words a day. I did, at least, come up with the premise for a novel, and make a start, and I am hoping to create my own private "NaNoWriMo" soon, maybe in December or January, when things have calmed down a bit.

Because that's something else that has dropped off. My writing has been neglected terribly. Somehow, the discipline of one thing reverberates through everything else. Sitting affects writing affects eating habits affects exercise. At least that's the way it works for me.

So I am in sore need of my sangha, of their support, their presence, their solidity. A month on my own is far too long.

Tenacity

2010-11-22T00:16:00.001-08:00

My aunt, my mom's younger sister, spent her career teaching English as a second language at Stanford University. When she retired, she and her husband moved to Cloverdale. She decided to learn to paint - and immediately threw herself into classes, studying the masters, and within a few years, was exhibiting her work at the local arts alliance gallery. She is also a very active volunteer, tutoring at the high school, working with the Friends of the Library, and seemily involved in everything community-minded.

She has battled cancer for more than a decade, and yet despite chemo and constant health issues, she continues forward, moving her frail body always into new ventures, and always into the service of others.

Last month, she had a stroke, and was partially paralyzed on her right side. Fairly quickly, she began to regain mobility, but of course, it was still a tremendous and unexpected blow for someone only 66 years old. She had little movement of her right hand, and I kept thinking, "How unfair! Just when she has found such joy in her art!" She spent a week in the hospital, then came home to work on physical and occupational therapy.

This past week, I called her to see how she was doing. Although her speech is slower, and somewhat slurred, this is what she had to report. On election day, she had walked the eight blocks to the polls, and the eight blocks home again, unassisted. She may have to use a cane on rainy days for stability, but other than than, no more walker. The day before my phone call, she had completed her final days of physical and occupational therapy - and returned to her job tutoring at the high school.

She said her handwriting wasn't quite what she would like. She can print, but cannot write cursive. She doesn't have the fine motor skills she needs to paint. "But," she said cheerily, "I was thinking I'd try some printmaking anyway."

I am so struck by her incredible tenacity and strength of spirit. There is not an ounce of self-pity in her. She tackles each day as it comes, and moves as quickly as she cans towards healing and normalcy, refusing to be stopped by her limited body.

What an amazing example of will! May I prove as graceful if and when I face similar health challenges.

Losing a Friend

2010-11-09T20:11:00.000-08:00

Our house is quieter today than it has been in a long time. There is no chirping, sweet voice in the background, calling out, "Hello?" whenever the phone rings. There is no scolding "No!" when the dogs misbehave. There are no happy little tunes, fragments of songs, accompanied by impromptu dance solos.

We lost our parrot, Barney, today. He was twenty-two years old, young in parrot years. Just Sunday, he was his cheerful, wonderful, mischievous self. And now, suddenly, he is gone.

Sunday afternoon, we noticed an odd little sac underneath his beak, that looked like it was filled with fluid. There are no avian vets available on nights and weekends. He seemed OK, so we waited until the next day. At our regular vet's on Monday, they checked him out and put him on antibiotics. Yes, there was some bacterial infection there. They didn't know what had caused it. An injury, perhaps? They sent us home with medicine, and we hoped for the best.

On Tuesday morning, Sabrina left early for work, at 4 a.m. When I was getting ready to leave at 9 a.m., I checked on him. He was clearly very weak. Our regular vet was not available. We arranged to meet another vet in Santa Rosa, and the two of us met up there at 11:30 a.m. By that point, Barney was dehydrated, frail, barely moving, unable to hold onto the perch. The vet guessed maybe a cat scratch was the culprit, since the bacteria from a cat's claw can be lethal to birds. They put him in an incubator, rehydrated him, started tube feeding and antibiotics, and told us it would be a couple of days before we would know anything.

At 4:30 p.m., we got the phone call that he was gone. Just like that. The worst part for both of us, I think, is that we weren't there with him. You have to understand. Barney is like a small human, a little person. He mimics the way we walk, apes our language, says, "Ahhhh," when we kiss each other. He loves to cuddle. He has a huge, Barney personality that has framed our whole household.

And now, we have an empty cage sitting in the corner of the living room. Every time I walk by it, I turn to look at him, to say something to him, out of habit, only to remember once again that he is not there.

He would have wanted to be held. He would have wanted to lie against Sabrina's chest, feeling the beat of her heart. He would have wanted to coo softly to us one last time.

Ah, the hurt of loss! The price of love.

The Cheerfully Solemn Jiko

2010-11-04T23:05:00.000-07:00

Susan's tenure as shuso or head student has ended, as we concluded the fall practice period last weekend with our three-day sesshin at Black Mountain Center, and the shuso ceremony at Russian River Zendo.

Each time I participate in a sesshin, it seems I am faced with new challenges and experiences. This one was filled with a confusing mess of conflicting emotions. There were a large number of us, about 40 students. Many who came were grappling with their grief over our teacher Darlene Cohen's worsening health. As the reality of her weakness, and the specter of cancer, hung over the weekend, all of us were brought face to face with our own fears: What does this mean for our sangha? What does it mean for me, and my practice? How can we support each other through this difficult time?

In other sesshins, I have been buoyed by incredible lightness and energy. This time, I was exhausted. I found myself nodding during zazen periods. Twice I took advantage of the optional rest periods offered, choosing to walk in the woods rather than sit. My legs were aching; my body was heavy.

I was saved by my work assignment. On Saturday, I acted as jiko to Sarita Tamayo and Cynthia Kear, two priests who will soon receive dharma transmission from Darlene. They offered dokusan (private student interviews) throughout much of the day. As jiko, it was my job to quietly approach the student in the zendo who was next on the list, bowing, indicating that it was their time for dokusan. I then waited for them to come to the door, and led them to the separate building where Sarita and Cynthia were waiting.

I had never been jiko before. At first I felt vaguely guilty, as if I were cheating, because for most of the day on Saturday, I was unable to sit zazen with the rest of the students. I was too busy shepherding people back and forth to the dokusan rooms. But then I realized that this, too, is zazen - everything we do is zazen, if we can focus our attention properly. So I gave myself over to the task, and completed it as diligently as I could. I was going to say, just now, that I did it as cheerfully and as solemnly as I could. Then that sounded oxymoronic. How could it be both? But that is what it felt like - a practice with both cheerfulness and solemnity.

When it is time to receive a work assignment from one of my teachers, I have a tendency to want to keep doing the same job over and over again, because I like mastery. I am most comfortable knowing that I can do something without error, without hesitation. At first, I was annoyed that my teachers gave me new roles at each opportunity. It seemed inefficient, even haphazard. It has taken me some time to appreciate the teaching in this practice. For me, at least, the constant change is a push, a nudging. It means that each role remains fresh and new as I take it up, and I approach each one with a seriousness, an intensity, as I try to learn. But, at the same time, it has forced me to be light - because I make mistakes. I bobble, and take missteps. The best I can do is simply be cheerfully present, ready for a gentle correction from someone nearby. All of which is a wonderful lesson for a perfectionist with performance anxiety.

Ah, the wisdom of our teachers!

Thank you very much to Susan for being a guest on the blog for these past six weeks. It has been a pleasure reading your words.

Susan's Shuso Blog: A Chance Encounter

2010-10-26T15:19:00.000-07:00

I sit in a cafe working on a presentation for our Wednesday night class on foggy mind. On the table is a copy of Reb Anderson's book, Being Upright. A woman enters the cafe. She is silver haired, like me. She wears a t-shirt that advertises the Fiddlehead Cafe in Hancock, NH. The t-shirt is often-washed green. She sits at the next table with her back to me. When she gets up to leave, she turns my way. She looks at the book. It is clear to me that she is curious about it. I say, "This book is about the Zen precepts. It is about how to find freedom and liberation in practicing them. "Yes," she says shaking her finger. "They are not about commandments."

I ask her about the t-shirt. "My cousin gave it to me." she says. "I love wearing it because it reminds me of her. My cousin lives in New Hampshire." I say, "My son lives in Concord. I have spent a lot of time in that beautiful state over the years." We speak of leaves turning color and falling, yesterday's rain.

She turns to leave. Her silver hair streams down her back almost covering the Fiddlehead Cafe sign.

She points to the book again. "That bodhisattva vow is so difficult - vowing to bring others across." As she opens the cafe door, she turns and says, "Kindred spirits."

I smile.

Finding Compassion for Those Who Hate

2010-10-25T23:29:00.000-07:00

I have always allowed myself to feel justified anger for unforgiveable acts - things like blatant acts of racism, or homophobia, or sexual violence. It has been a hard, bitter place in my heart, where there is no room for opening.

Talking with my teacher Tony about this, he gave me a challenge one day. He invited me to try to extend metta or compassion to the homophobe and the skinhead. I mulled it over for quite a while. I was willing to try, but I wasn't very convinced that I could be successful.

As long as I can remember, I have been plagued by nightmares. There are many recurring themes, lots of things that I have examined and probed. And sometimes the dreams cycle towards healing, taking me to new places. Then they go back into deep hurt and terror, like that proverbial onion, always peeling one more new layer of fear and pain.

Recently, though, I had a dream that gave me an experience that I had never had before: a moment of grace.

Here is the dream:

*****
I am a teenager, sitting with another teen on top of a car near the entrance to an alley, which leads to a path that heads to a park of some sort. We are sitting and talking, when we hear a sound. We look up, and see a man walking down the main street. He is kicking rocks, ping, ping, ping, slamming them up against people’s cars. I call out, “Hey, that’s not too bright!”

He ignores me. He turns in at the alley. I know there are dogs that live at the house at the corner, and I have a bad feeling. I see him continue to kick rocks. He hits one of the dogs with a small rock, then gives a half-assed kick to one of the dogs, then a stronger kick to the other dog. I yell at him to stop, but he ignores me.

I jump off the car, and grab my cell phone. I am going to call the police and report him, so they can pick him up somewhere in the park, and arrest him for animal abuse. Then I see him approach a stray dog. He grabs it, and starts to beat the hell out of it, kicking it and hitting it, just going and going and going. The dog is cowering, not trying to fight back at all. I start screaming as loud as I can. I wake myself up screaming, “No! No! No!”

I am sitting straight up in bed with my arms stretched out in front of me. I get out of bed, and I am sick to my stomach with the feeling of that man, beating the dog. I am standing up, but lay my head down on the bed. Sabrina woke up when I screamed, and she reaches out to me.

For some reason, I remember a Pema Chodron CD I just listened to, about putting yourself in the shoes of a person doing a horrible act, and I think of what Tony asked me to do, loving the skinhead or homophobe. And right in that moment, standing upright, with my forehead touching the mattress, I allow myself to feel what that man must feel like inside, to want to beat the dog. I am filled with an incredible sadness. It sweeps through my entire body.

*****
It is not forgiveness, exactly, that I found. The experience has not erased that hardness I have. But it did give me one tiny glimpse into the possibility of compassion, in a place where I least expected it.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Halloween Costume

2010-10-25T19:29:00.000-07:00

Sometimes things just come together. How could it be that the right person, the right thing, the right place come together in a synchronicity that can't be explained or understood?

I need a costume for Halloween. I will be on retreat at Black Mountain Retreat Center in Cazadero. (padmapeace.org). On Halloween Eve we will have a traditional segaki ceremony. This is the time when Buddhists unmask themselves. They approach the altar and call in their demons. The demons are recognized, invited in for tea, and asked to behave themselves until Halloween comes around again.

I want to be Kuan Yin. She is the archetype who hears the cries of the world. She is known for her boundless compassion. She has 10,000 arms and eyes to help her.

I know it is impossible to be literal but still, I can't imagine how I will create a costume that represents Kuan Yin.

I go to the Legacy. This is a shop near my home that sells recycled craft and sewing supplies. Proceeds from sales benefit the Sebastopol Senior Center.

I enter not knowing what I am looking for. I see a bolt of gold fabric. I don't know what I will do with it but I know it is exactly what I need. I give the volunteer sales person $3.00 for the fabric and I return home with it . I call my friend Peggy. “Help,” I say. “Can you help me be Kuan Yin for Halloween?”

She comes right over. She brings her sewing machine and a kimono pattern. She sews and I paint.

The back of the costume shows Kuan Yin riding a dragon. I paint eyes and hands on her sleeves and sash. My friend Corlene drops by. She shows me how to make a turban out of a piece of the gold fabric.

It takes many hands and eyes to make Kuan Yin come alive.

Upcoming Schedule, Oct. 26-31

2010-10-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

Healdsburg Sangha:

Tuesday, Oct. 26
7 p.m. sit and kinhin
7:45 p.m. service and dharma talk by Phil McDonel

Russian River Zendo:

Friday, Oct. 29 - Sunday, Oct. 31
Sesshin at Black Mountain Center to end Fall Practice Period

Saturday, Oct. 30
RRZ Closed for sesshin

Sunday, Oct. 31
Practice Period participants reconvene at RRZ:
1 p.m. Work period
1 :30 p.m. Ceremony Rehearsal
3 p.m. Shuso Ceremony

Susan's Shusho Blog: Be Kind to Animals

2010-10-22T15:19:00.000-07:00

A girl scout is kind to animals. This vow springs to my mind as I hear Beata, a Buddhist priest and a good friend of mine, speak about her experience with animals on the roadway.

One time she stopped for a duck who was stranded on the median strip of a freeway. She managed to shepherd the duck to the side of the road amidst speeding cars and angry drivers.

“I probably wouldn't do that again,” she tells me. “It was truly dangerous, but there is something about cars and animals, dead or alive, that evokes a need in me to stop and care for them.” In Buddhist practice we speak of this need as an awakening of bodhichitta, the desire to love and be present for all beings.

This morning on the way to Russian River Zendo in Guerneville, Beata sees a dead deer in the middle of the road. Because she is driving with a friend she doesn't want to inconvenience, she chooses not to stop and move the animal to the side of the road.

She says she is in a lot of pain. She wishes she could go back and move the deer out of the way of oncoming traffic. For years she has always stopped to help animals in distress. This time she didn't' stop. But she did renew her vow.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Anger

2010-10-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

Last night our precepts class was about anger or not harboring ill will. There are those in the Buddhist community who believe it is possible to abolish anger and all the other defilements.

In Mahayana Buddhism we believe that growth lies in getting into the thick of things. Let the branches of the thicket cut and scratch until you are willing to let go.

Even with awakening, there is always more to do.

I told a story about being part of a practice period at Green Gulch Farm in 1998. I was in kindergarten Zen. I felt overwhelmed by the schedule. I was confused about where to be when. I had difficulty keeping track of chants and vows. I did know, however, when my toes were stepped on. I could recognize anger in myself, but I didn't know what to do with it.

I have volunteered to do a job. It was something mundane and seemingly unimportant, like passing out questionnaires. When I notice a young man passing them out without consulting me I am furious. “That is my job,” my inner voice yells. What do you do with fury when you are on a silent retreat?

I go to the practice leader, Reb Anderson. He tells me to go sit on my cushion until the anger burns up. Last night I tell this story. I also tell people about the ring of fire Reb describes in the book Being Upright. “There is pain around every Buddhist's meditaton seat,” he tells us . . . “It forms a ring of fire."

Around the inner ring is an outer ring of fire composed of anger . . . aggression . . . hate . . . ill will and violence. It is the outer ring of defenses that needs to be broken through in order to see the pain within.

Susan's Shuso Blog: I Meet a Neighbor

2010-10-20T11:46:00.000-07:00

I am on my way down the path to my car. A woman comes toward me. “I am your neighbor,” she says. “Oh,” I say, “I wonder why we haven't met before.”

She tells me she lives in the trailer park behind our property. My home is separated from hers by a field and a fence that is covered by blackberry bushes. Robert Frost said: “Good fences make good neighbors.” Fences also shield us from one another. They keep us apart.

The woman's name is Marilyn. She is on a mission. She has been adopted by a Persian cat and she wants to find the owner. She tells me she learned to move a photo of the cat from IPhoto to document to email. She is a woman of late middle age (or early old age, depending upon how you look at it). She is my age, an aging woman. She is alive, vibrant, and engaged with the world.

Marilyn loves animals. She is also a master gardener. We talk about plants. She wants to divide her phlox and her penstemen and she wants to give me some of them.

Her neighbor is an elderly man who is often depressed. She tells me he would love to have some of my canna lilies, should I be willing to divide them.

I say, “Of course, I will give him some.” I will divide the cannas, walk up my street to the highway, go a block or so south, go east through a construction zone to the trailer park road. I will continue on the road until I find her place.

Susan's Shuso Blog: The Cider House Rules

2010-10-19T12:06:00.001-07:00

I like to pick up films at the video store that are adaptations of books I have been meaning to read. Last night I chose The Cider House Rules which was made from a novel by John Irving. I think it was written in the '50s. I say that because I am curious about the values it presents. . . Where do these values come from and were they acceptable at the time? It raises questions about lying. Is it acceptable to lie when the lie can lead to a greater good? Do we lie to protect the feelings of self and other and do we get to decide when another person needs protection from the truth?

I am reflecting back to the 1950's when I was a young adult, married with young children. I remember being a part of a “don't tell” culture. Often people were not told, even by their doctors, that they had cancer or that they had only a few months to live. I had a friend who became ill with Huntington's Chorea. She didn't want anyone to visit her. She didn't want to discuss it. This was a more painful time than it might have been if her illness could have been out in the open.

I think of this history while I watch The Cider House Rules. Rules are pasted on the door of the cider house where the workers live. They decide the rules are not for them because someone else made them. They tear them down. Who makes the rules and who gets to decide whether they are followed or not?

The story begins in an orphanage in Maine where the doctor/administrator performs illegal abortions for the health and well being of the mother. The morality of his actions are not considered.

The same administrator falsifies documents so that a protegee of his can succeed him after he retires.

One of the orphans dies because of breathing complications. The children are told he has been adopted by a good family.

One of the precepts we are studying in our Russian River Zendo practice period is Not Lying. The cider house rules are an entry point for further discussion.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Grief

2010-10-18T14:02:00.001-07:00

Today I will blog about the grief I feel. This grief bubbled out of the depths somewhere hiding but felt. Today it wanted out and I began the morning by working in my small sketchbook collaging images and painting watery figures bent over like willow branches weighted down by days of rain.

I experience layers of grief. Grief is never about one thing, one person, one path of suffering. It is many layered. There are layers I can't know. Layers that will never be uncovered. Layers that want attention and layers that want to lie low .

Sometimes, in the midst of joy, grief lies in wait. It knows that we are about to lose something precious and beautiful. It anticipates the change we know is coming. Grief invites us to feel and face our losses. It can bring us fully into the moment if we let it.

Yesterday there was a celebration at Russian River Zendo. Our teachers, Darlene Cohen and Tony Patchell were presented with ceremonial robes that had been hand sewn by many people from several different groups. After a brief and beautiful ceremony about fifty of us saw Tony and Darlene wrapped in shades of lavender and maroon.

During a pause in the rain we enjoy layers of chocolate layer cake on the patio. The cake has been decorated with two monks wrapped in robes of lavender and maroon.

All is as it should be. We know that soon we will lose Darlene to cancer. This is part of what is. This is what brings grief up for me this morning. Soon I will lose Darlene. I will lose all I hold dear. It is the human condition. This knowing is basic to Buddhist practice.

There is suffering in life and there is a way through and out of suffering. I move, I cry, I sit, I laugh, I breathe, I play in my sketchbook. I try to be present with all of it; moment by moment.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Coffee

2010-10-15T15:22:00.000-07:00

Between 6 a.m. and 7 a.m. coffee is offered for $1.00 a cup at the roaster's shop at the top of my street. The price is enough incentive for me to throw on my clothes, stride up the street, and take my chances on the 116 crosswalk.

This shop opened a day before Starbucks came to town. It is located in the next clump of shops. It is sandwiched in between a dry cleaner and a laundromat.

The young people who own it have created an outdoor sitting area out of wine barrels and ropes. I admire their spunk. How many people would have the temerity to open a coffee shop next to Starbucks?

I am a coffee hound. I admit it. During the day I have a hard time going by a coffee shop without going in and ordering a latte. I say give in because I am truly trying not to drink so much coffee. I know that one cup a day should be enough.

Yesterday I was brought up short. I go to Whole Foods to pick up flowers for Russian River Zendo. I think I will order my favorite coffee drink. “We don't make Jamoca's anymore,” the young woman tells me. “The ingredients in them are not consistent with our policy of offering only healthy, nutritious drinks.”

I take this news personally. Clearly this woman thinks I do not eat properly. She sees through me into my fridge and my pantry. She must know that I don't always buy organic food.

I drive away feeling shamed, angry and deprived.

I think I will figure out how to make the coffee drink in my home blender. Then I realize that the allure of the 4 p.m. Jamoca is that even though I pay for it, it feels as if someone else is treating.

Checking In

2010-10-14T23:27:00.000-07:00

Hello, readers.

I've been a bit absent for a while, and just wanted to check in. I must admit, with Susan's regular posts, I've grown a little lazy...every morning, she has an entry sitting in my inbox, ready to go, and all I have to do is put it up on the blog. I have been rationalizing that at least there is plenty of activity....but the truth is, I've simply been caught up in my own whirlwind, and slacking.

I have been enjoying Susan's posts, and hope you have been, too. They are refreshingly simple, and often heartbreakingly honest. I encourage you to make comments, if and when you have the time. She'd love to hear from you.

It has been nearly a month, and our three-day sesshin, which marks the end of Susan's practice period as shuso (head student) is only two weeks away. We will be journeying to Black Mountain Center near Cazadero, a quiet, redwood retreat high above it all, to sit and settle into the stillness.

It will be a huge departure after my crazy October. My YWCA events, the series of author readings for Domestic Violence Awareness Month, are in full swing. We had our first event last Friday in Sebastopol, and it was a perfect evening - about 30 people in attendance, the writers all read well, the audience was appreciative, the words were powerful. It was even more than I had hoped for. Tomorrow night our second event takes place in Santa Rosa, and our third and final event happens next Friday in Cloverdale. I am still frantically composing my own pieces for that event - I have written one poem, but hope to pen two more.

I have never done event planning before, so the whole thing has been a huge learning experience for me. There have been so many little details: readers with special requests, event venues with quirky rules, etc., etc. But all in all, it has been truly a wonderful team effort, and very satisfying to feel part of something that matters.

My work schedule has continued unabated, with the last two weeks having deadline nights lasting until almost 3 a.m., and no end in sight for that, due to our reduced staff. I have vacation hours on the books, but no one to fill in should I actually take a day off. Still, once again, I am grateful to have a job, enjoying the work, and feel part of a team.

That team thing - kind of a theme, isn't it? It's amazing how much one can withstand when one doesn't feel like one is doing everything all alone.

Which brings me to perhaps the hardest part of my week - all of us in the Russian River Sangha are reeling with the news that our beloved teacher, Darlene Cohen, has recently been told that her cancer is worsening, and that she now only has a few months left to live.

When I read the email from Darlene late Tuesday night sharing this information, I could not even respond. It is only now, two days later, that I am even beginning to find a space to open up and let in the hurt.

What sustains me is knowing that I am not alone. I have my teachers, Darlene and Tony. I have my sangha. I have my partner Sabrina. And somehow, together, we will comfort each other through this, and manage to infuse the pain with love.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Vision Quest

2010-10-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

The sky is vast and wide. Life and Death are vast and wide. Am I vast and wide? I don't think so. . . too much navel gazing . . . turning inward and taking things personally.

“It's not all about you Susan.” I make this statement while throwing a piece of paper into the fire. I am on a vision quest with nine other older women 8600 feet up in the eastern Sierras.

We have been camping here for three days. Tomorrow we will say goodbye to one another. We will form a circle. We will be smudged by our wonderful compassionate leaders and we will trek to the power spot each one of us chose the day before.

I set up a tarp. This will be my home for the next three days. I have a gallon of water a day but no food. This is to be a solo fasting retreat.

On the evening of the first day I create a circle with twigs and stones and piles of pin oak leaves. I walk the circle chanting and singing and asking the universe to help me.

I see a mountain mahogany tree. She is very old. Her trunk and branches are gnarled and wizened. I see green shoots springing from dead branches and I see how deep her roots go. She is stable. She is open to what is. In that moment I am the tree.

I return to the circle. I honor the four directions. I move in and out and around. I am the tree moving. I call in my ancestors. I tell them how much they mean to me. I call them in.

I sleep under the stars. Every few hours I waken and notice how the stars have moved, how the path of the moon has changed. I waken and I marvel.

On the fourth day I return to camp . I feel vast and wide. I embrace the others . We are each given a gallon of water to bathe with. We enjoy delicious food and we settle into three days of story telling.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Applesauce

2010-10-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

My friend and I have a plan. We will get together to make a delicious, nutritious sauce to give away to our friends and neighbors. I buy $20 worth of apples from two guys in a truck off of Bodega Highway. I am sure these apples will be good. They have been hand-picked from a local orchard. I don't think to ask if they are organic.

My friend has several bags of apples. We decide to combine hers with mine. We core, peel, chop and cook. We sterilize jars. My friend says: “These are organic apples. Are yours organic”? I say “I don't know.” There is a awkward pause.

She tells me she doesn't want to make applesauce with any apples that are not 100% certified organic.

I think she is being rigid. I rush to the defense of my apples. I will drive to Bodega to ask the two guys in a truck if their apples are 100% organic. I will ask if they have been sprayed.

I don't want to give up on my apples. I am entrenched in my position. I don't like this feeling. I want to move in and through. Like the apples on the stove I simmer down and become soft. I make a date with my friend to be together and make sauce.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Back-up Book

2010-10-12T10:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I am in the checkout line at Costco. I have gone there to get a back-up Elite external hard drive book for my computer. “You must have this,” my computer companion tells me . . . in a crash it would be like losing all your photos and family records in a fire!”

So I go to Costco feeling under duress. I always lose my car there. So I try to mark where I have left it. I enter with card in hand, find the hard drive, wander about allowing organic quinoa, toilet paper and a package of tank tops to fly into my basket. I begin to feel woozy and disoriented. I head for the checkout.

A woman is holding a cake in a large plastic casing. She has a few other things. She stands to the side of the line. If I have a question I usually ask the person if she or he is ahead of me. This time I allow my almost numb self to wheel the wagon to the counter. A nice young man helps me unload, another smiles and takes my card. I am awake again. I am feeling connected.

Then out of the blue the cake woman appears. She says: “Are you with that man”? She points to a man in a motorized wheel chair. “No,” I say. She says: “You cut in front of him in line.” Then she says, “You cut in front of me, too.” I say, “I am sorry, I didn't see you.” The "I didn't see you" was a little white lie. The "I am sorry" was the truth.

The man in the wheel chair glided through ahead of me, so I don't know what that was about.

My eyes fill with tears. Ancient stuff is triggered by the present moment. It takes me a long time to find my car.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Birdseed

2010-10-11T13:35:00.000-07:00

This morning I learn why it is important for me to follow my daily ritual of honoring the altars and sitting zazen before daybreak. Darkness gives cover to things that call for my attention. Today I rise at 6:30, light incense at the garden altar and then, before sitting, my eye travels to the bird feeder.

I have been away, the feeder is empty, the birdbath needs water, the plants are dry. I don't have the discipline to sit with these demands. Instead of sitting, I walk to the back of the house where I keep the birdseed. I am startled by a raccoon. He looks up at me with a look of total unconcern. The look says, “Who are you to interrupt my breakfast?” I yell: “Get out of here!” I throw a shoe at him and miss. He saunters off behind the woodshed and I am left with the task of picking up scattered birdseed and minding the seed bag.

For the past month I have been drawing in a small sketchbook for a project sponsored by the Brooklyn Art Library. The theme for my sketchbook is “HELP.” I draw a woman screeching "HELP! HELP!" I draw a raccoon with paws tearing open a seed bag. I brush on glue and scatter birdseed over the page.

Last Saturday I attended a workshop on brush painting given by Michael Wenger at San Francisco Zen Center. I heard him say: “Painters don't have to sit as much as people who don't paint.”

Did I draw in the sketchbook as a way of avoiding zazen or was it zazen itself?

Susan's Shusho Blog: The Tell-Tale Radio

2010-10-09T23:40:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl I loved to listen to the radio. So many characters came to life as I listened to The Shadow, Fibber McGee and Molly, The Lone Ranger, and many others.

I remember what The Shadow's voice sounded like: “The Shadow knows . . . heh, heh, heh ...” Fibber goes to get something out of the closet and bang, crash, boom . . . all the stuff in the over-packed closet keeps falling and crashing into the room.

One night, when I was about 10 years old, my mother put me to bed, kissed me good night, and tiptoed to the door. “Now get right to sleep,” she said.

As soon as I hear her footsteps descend the stairs I turn on the little white radio on my bedside table. The Lone Ranger is on. “Hi ho Silver (ta dum ta dum ta dum ) away!" This call to the sound of hoof beats makes my heart beat faster.

I listen as Lone Ranger and Tonto go through various escapades. The radio volume is turned low. Suddenly, above the sound of muffled hoof beats I hear my mother's steps on the stairs. I turn the radio off. I turn my body toward the wall . I am in fetal position with my eyes tightly closed.

My mother enters the room She comes toward my bed. She puts her hand on the radio. The radio is still hot due to the tell-tale tubes inside. “You have been listening to the radio”, she says in a stern voice. “Oh no, I have been asleep”, I say in my little white lie whining voice. “This radio was just turned off,” she says. “You are lying to me. Don't you ever lie to me again.”

This was a clear case of lying and being found out. It was a lesson in morality I have never forgotton. Not lying is a deep value for me.

In practicing the 4th precept, not lying, students of Buddhism struggle with questions about what is a lie. Are there times when you need to tell a lie to protect someone else? How and when do you lie to yourself?

Where is the warm little white radio when you need it?

Susan's Shusho Blog: Dinner With a Friend

2010-10-08T11:12:00.000-07:00

Shared history with a friend is a precious gift. Last night I had dinner in Guerneville with my former sister in law. We grew up in Holyoke, Massachusetts. In the early '50s we married brothers. Each of us had five children. Our parents were friends. We ran with the same pack.

Through one of life's amazing synchronicities we both ended up in California, she in Monte Rio and me in Sebastopol. She travels a lot with her business, Gerontological Services Inc., but when she is here we always get together. When she speaks, my mind travels on old roads and byways. I see her parents and my parents and our parents' friends. It is bitttersweet. I feel nostalgic and wish I could be in those times again. I am Emily in Our Town . . . could I please go back if only for a day . . . would I really like time travel if I could actually do it?

Our conversation moves to present time . . . what our children are doing . . . where we are in our late seventies' lives. Maria recently returned from an elder hostel trip to Cuba. "They have health care there," she tells me. There is something to learn from repressive regimes. On the way home I hear Carl Rove on the radio. He boasts about the billions of dollars Republicans are raising to defeat Democrats.

Health care? if you want it, move to Cuba.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Order and Chaos

2010-10-07T09:51:00.000-07:00

“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.”

this quote is the beginning of a discussion of the 2nd precept, not stealing, by Ngakpa Chogyam Rinpoche. Samsara means doing the same thing over and over again thinking that happiness or some kind of peace will come from it. When happiness or peace don't descend upon us we pretend we don't notice because we can't think of anything else to do.

I allow myself to get buried in the detritus of my own making. Instead of following a routine, I allow my dishes, my laundry, my art materials and various items to take over tables, chairs, beds and floor space. Even my computer feels overloaded.

This is partly personality, and judging myself will make matters worse. I love creating order out of chaos. It is the way I make art. So I have a way of rationalizing the chaos and not choosing to look at other options.

Every day for the past two weeks I have had a wonderful routine. I rise at 5 a.m., I light and offer incense at four altars. I sit for 35 minutes. Then I recite the heart sutra and say a prayer for the good health of my teacher, Darlene Cohen. Then it is time to blog. I feel satisfied and accomplished . I am ready to take on whatever the rest of the day wants to give me.

This morning I choose to break my routine. My benji Carol paul will be here at noon. We will bow and sit then. When I look deeply at my choice to break my routine I don't see it as a conscious choice at all. I see it as running away from feelings of deep grief I woke up with. I see myself trying to wash away these feelings in the hot tub. I see myself trying to connect by answering emails and wrapping presents for my grand niece and my granddaughter. Reaching out alleviates grief but going within heals it.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Not Lying

2010-10-06T13:12:00.000-07:00

It is early morning. I have the overhead light on. The light causes my head to cast a shadow on the page.

What causes a shadow to fall on my uprightness? Often, I think it is the little white lie. Sometimes it is the inability to speak up for myself or for others when intervention might be helpful.

I am reading The Mind of Clover by Robert Aitken. In the chapter on lying, Aitken gives an example of how a child might learn honesty, or dishonesty, from a parent. If the parent tells the bus driver the child is five, instead of his real age of six, in order to pay less, the child learns it is okay to lie.

I was in my fifties when my hair turned grey. This gave me license, I thought, to get into the movies at the senior rate. I thought nothing of it. In fact I boasted about it. Now I would love it if someone carded me. "Are you sure you are a senior?" is a question I don't get anymore.

In the early '90s I tried to get into Bandelier State Park as a senior. I was 62. The cut-off age was 65. The ticket taker asked me to prove my age. How humiliating!

My little girl is ten years old. We are at the the Worlds Fair. She sees a make-up booth. She desperately wants to have her face made up. A beautiful young woman will put make-up on her face for free, but she must be 12 years old. I tell the woman my daughter is 12. She sees through my story. She tells my daughter she will make up her face but she must never, ever tell a lie again.

The woman is speaking to the mother who continues to get into the movies at the senior rate.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Lost and Found

2010-10-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

What is a blog? A blog for me is putting down what is happening right now. Is that possible? The moment found is a moment lost. The moment I got out of bed . . . the moment I made coffee . . . the moment I bowed to the altar . . . the moment now writing.

Natalie Goldberg, writer, teacher and author of Writing Down the Bones, says that Zen mind and writing mind are the same thing. In zazen we watch our thoughts as they arrive, move through and out. We watch them without attaching to them. We give them a lot of space.

In free writing, we allow the pen to move across the page. We write without judgment. We don't question what appears.

This morning , while writing, I see my sketchbook. I so want to work on it. I am aware of a dot of orange light on my glasses frame. The sun is rising above the trees. There is a stock pot on the stove. I will put the stock through a sieve. I will get manure for the garden. I will turn the compost.

I am seeing how I want to jump into the future. . . how I want to rise from my seat . . . open to the moment. What's next? What's next? What's next?

Susan's Shuso Blog: Not Killing

2010-10-04T15:30:00.000-07:00

Last week in our practice period class we discussed the precept “not killing.” Committed Buddhists don't kill intentionally, but nonetheless they kill every moment of every day in order to nourish themselves and stay alive.

Killing is unavoidable. Little ants and millipedes are squished when we walk down the garden path. We try to be humane when we kill rats and mice and little furry things but kill them we must. We can't tell them to leave the attic insulation and the boxes of memorabilia alone. They eat what they will.

Small animals like gophers and squirrels and possums can be trapped and released in the next county. Few of us have the will and the patience and the time to do this. Anyway, do we think about where they will go next? Will it be someone else's garden?

At Zen Center's Green Gulch Farm there are ceremonies to acknowledge the intentional and unintentional killing that is part of the gardening and farming activity there. (Reb Anderson; Being Upright p. 92).

Receiving this precept our hearts are opened to the painful dilemmas involved in supporting our lives.

Recent studies have shown that plants feel pain. A carrot pulled out of the ground is a dead carrot.

Soon the six chickens we have raised on our property will go to the soup pot. They are getting too old to lay well and caring for them is stretching our human resources to the limit. The thought of killing these animals brings pain.

I remember seeing a scene from a film about a farm in Tajikistan. In it, the farmer bows low before a sheep before he slaughters it. He asks the animal's forgiveness. Kill it he must, but he will do it with love.

Before our chickens leave on their final journey we will have a ritual of gratitude for delicious eggs they have given us. I will remember the sweet times when they were tiny chicks and my granddaughter would enjoy cuddling them on her bed. Then we will let them go and move on.

Forty Hours of Intense

2010-10-02T00:50:00.000-07:00

Today I completed 40 hours of volunteer training with the Sonoma County YWCA, a requirement before being able to do direct client work such as advocacy, hot line answering, court accompaniment, etc.

Over the past three weeks, we have learned about a wide range of topics: the cycle of violence, child abuse, human trafficking, elder abuse, sexual assault, abuse against the developmentally disabled, victims' assistance programs, the legal system, , batterers' treatment, cultural competency, communication skills, therapy, county and city resources through Health & Human Services, and YWCA services such as their safe house, therapeutic preschool, counseling, crisis line and advocacy.

This is not my first time to got through such a training. I completed one as a volunteer in 1993 in Sunnyvale, where I volunteered at the Support Network for Battered Women, and then went on to co-teach two trainings as a volunteer. I also completed a similar training with the Mid-Peninsula YWCA in Palo Alto. So most of the information was not new - but it had been a while, and it was good to brush up on things, and also to learn about the resources and agencies in Sonoma County, since I've never done volunteer work up here.

What was taxing about the training, for me, was how much all of it brought up things from my past. It was down-right alarming how many topics were broached that touched upon areas of my own life. And when I say "areas," I mean the tender spots. Just to name a few: 12 step programs, self-harm/cutting, eating disorders, mental health issues, various and sundry insensitive comments about DV (domestic violence) survivors, rape, molestation, gay/lesbian issues, being on disability....

As each item came up, I was alert and vigilant, wanting to make sure that no misconceptions came across. I wanted to protect whatever group was being spoken about, acting as its representative, since generally it was fairly clear that no one else in the room identified themselves as a member. I was able to speak out. But then I would go home, and doubt myself, and worry that I had spoken too much, overexposed myself, taken up too much space. It was a constant dance, throughout the training. Very taxing, very confusing.

Mostly, though, it made me feel stuck in the quagmire of all of those old pains. Until I brought it up with Sabrina. She said, "But Michelle, all of those things for you, most of them, anyway, were years ago." And she's right. I need to remember that I have moved past them. Much like a favorite coffee mug dropped to the ground, then glued back together, the scars are still visible, but I am whole. I am not irreparably broken; I can be of service - I can help.

And helping is exactly what I plan to do.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Confusion

2010-09-30T10:10:00.000-07:00

Confusion/Delusion: it's all the same to me.

The schedule is off and I can't find it. I wake up after 6 a.m. I reverence the altars and, instead of sitting, I begin to do this and that. It all needs doing, so it is easy to rationalize. Feed the birds – water the bird bath – water the plants – do the dishes – vacuum the floor – make a list – somewhere in all this frenzy I catch my delusion. I think that after I do this or after I do that I will feel peaceful. I will be in a frame of mind that will embrace doing worthwhile things like writing this blog.

Then I begin to reward myself. “Have another cup of coffee,” I say, “You need it. The coffee will help you settle down.” Of course the caffeine has the opposite effect. Now I am really jazzed and my mind is busy making future plans. Will I go to my grand niece's wedding in Baltimore in June? Where will I stay? How will I get there? If I decide this now I will feel better.

I have forgotton the importance of doing each thing for its own sake. I stop this writing and I take three deep breaths. I take refuge in Buddha. I take refuge in Dharma. I take refuge in Sangha.

Every day is a good day.

Susan's Shuso Blog: My Turtle Dies

2010-09-28T12:46:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, the maid who cared for me often said: “We are born to die, Susie, we are born to die.” My mother did not like hearing that. My mother said the maid was being morbid. She said it was something to do with being Catholic. Eva, the maid, was Catholic, but we were not.

One day when I was in the third grade I came home for lunch to find my pet turtle stiff and rigid in the round della robbia ceramic dish from Italy I kept him in. I picked him up. I wanted him to move across my hand. I wanted to feel his tiny feet tickle me the way they usually did. But that was not to be.

I think this was my first experience of grief. I was inconsolable. I cried and I cried and I cried. I refused to go back to school. I was afraid I had done something wrong. Perhaps I had fed him too much, not enough, or perhaps I had not played with him enough.

I don't remember what happened after that. I don't remember burying the turtle or having any kind of ritual around his passing.

Ritual was something Catholics did. I wonder where Eva was. She would have understood. We might have said the rosary together the way we did when I went to church with her.

I think that all those years ago Eva was saying something about acceptance of death as a part of life. Buddhists say: I am of a nature to be ill; I am of a nature to grow old; I am of a nature to die. Acceptance of this deep truth is a gateway to liberation.

Susan's Shuso Blog: What I Want

2010-09-27T11:39:00.000-07:00

This morning I awaken at 6 a.m., a bit late for me. I so enjoy getting up at 5 a.m. and making the rounds of my four altars before day break. There is something soft and soothing about being held in the transition between night and day. Often I sit outside in the Buddha garden before going inside and sitting zazen in front of the altar I call the heart of the house.

After sitting I recite the heart sutra, say a prayer for my teacher Darlene Cohen, and do three bows. Then I am ready to begin my day.

On Wednesday I will teach a practice period class on the first precept: Not killing. I want to prepare to teach this class. I want to know everything there is to know about this precept. I want the words to flow out of me in a way that will touch others and inspire them to study the precept further. I want I want I want. The words I have written jump out at me. They are in capital letters . . . boldface . . . highlighted in red.

Wanting will not work here. Try being, Susan, try being with the efflorescence (unfolding) of your own enlightened nature.

What is trying to unfold here? How can I get out of the way? I love the word effloresence. I find it in an explanation of the five precepts by Ngakpa Chogyam Rinpoche.

“I commit myself to refrain from killing the efflorescence of my own enlightened nature as it sparkles through the fabric of duality.”

In preparing for class my mind desperately wants to know which quotes to choose, what order to put them in. I want to know how to present the material in a way that will be helpful to others.

I want. I want. I want. Let this go, Susan. Let the efflorescence sparkle through. Remember your dharma name.

Ki shu Gyoku jun – bright effort jewel, shining benefit.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Fear of the GPS

2010-09-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

I have a new GPS. I bought it because I have fear of getting lost in the city, going the wrong way on freeways, having an accident because I can't read a map and drive at the same time.

The GPS has been on the back seat of my car for two weeks. I have been afraid to open the box. I am afraid I won't understand the directions.

Some fears are primal. Others are gleaned over time. In a crisis fear can be a motivator: "The house is on fire . . ..Get everyone out now!"

Sometimes fear, for me, is paralytic. It can deny me expression of deep feelings. It can deny me the experience of doing things I know I would love to do. It can deny me the satisfaction of jobs well done. I don't want to volunteer to do the hard jobs for fear I won't do them well. Sometimes fear says "better not" when "go for it " would have been the better response."

My parents were cautious beings. Trips to New York City were circumscribed by rules that made them feel secure. They stayed in the same hotel, went to the same restaurants and shopped in stores where my mother made friends with department managers. Straying off the beaten path was a dangerous thing. They tried to make me a part of their safe and secure world. At 18 I was packed up and sent to Europe under the tutelage of a chaperone.

There is still a chaperone inside of me that says: "No, no, not yet. Don't do that; it's not safe." Sometimes I listen to her . . . At other times I remember getting lost in Kathmandu and finding a motorcycle taxi to take me home. I remember being on the top of Machu Picchu at night. I remember not knowing where I was in Xian, China and finding a monastery and an English speaking monk who invited me in for tea.

I remember these times and I wonder about all the adventures that await me in the future, now that I have a GPS and a computer companion to show me the way.

Happy Ending

2010-09-25T20:54:00.000-07:00

Little Bit is home!

I am feeling grateful to the universe that in this one instance, just this one time, there is a happy ending to the story. I know, it could have been otherwise. Life is pretty iffy. But today, things turned out OK.

Yesterday Little Bit was removed from the oxygenated atmosphere, and although she's still breathing somewhat rapidly, and has pneumonia, she can and should recover. We were able to pick her up from the vet hospital this evening, and can administer her medications at home over the next two weeks. She is playful, happy, thrilled to be out of her "glass box" home that she's been in since Tuesday.

The fear we had was that, at some point, that damn piece of nipple that started this whole thing would still end up in her bowels and cause a blockage. Happily, yesterday afternoon, Little Bit threw up the offending piece, intact. It had been in her stomach the entire time.

The nurses and doctors at the vet clinic were all smiles as well. They, too, were pleased to have a happy ending - all too often at an emergency clinic, that's not the way things turn out.

Thank you to all who offered metta, good thoughts, prayers, kind words. Your support was and is greatly appreciated.

Susan's Shusho Blog: The Vacant House

2010-09-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

I walk by an empty house on the street where I live. I know the house is empty because my friend moved out two weeks ago. I walk by and I am curious. I see some things resting on the window sill. I wonder if my friend left some things behind. I try the door and it is unlocked. I walk in. I see that the things on the window sill are model trains. I surmise that the landlord has found a place for his collection, now that the house is vacant.

I feel drawn to walk through the other rooms in the house. I see a new phone book on the kitchen table. I need a new phone book. I am a yellow pages junkie. Going on line is not nearly as compelling for me as "letting my fingers do the shopping." I pick up the phone book and I think I will take it with me. Then something happens. I am physically uncomfortable. The space is pressing in on me. I do not belong here. I walk out the door and down the street to my home. I leave the phone book behind.

Phone books, of course, are not considered valuable. What if there had been cash on the kitchen table, or a diamond ring? I would have gasped and I would have told the landlord. Of course I would not take something of value, but what is the principle here? I was tempted to take something that was not given . It is as simple as that. The value or lack of value of the phone book begs the question.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Killing

2010-09-24T08:53:00.000-07:00

What is killing? I read so much about killing in the newspaper. I hear about it on the news. I see it on my tv screen and in the movies. I was brought up on the ten commandments. "Thou shalt not kill" was the big one. War, of course, was rationalized away as being a necessary evil. In graduate school I read a book by Michael Walzer called Just and Unjust Wars. His thesis was that we no longer have just wars. Vietnam changed all that. One of the rules of a just war was that it didn't involve civilians. In Vietnam and now in Iraq and Afghanistan we don't know who the enemy is. Innocent people are hurt and killed; wedding parties interrupted by violence.

Projection is a psychological process whereby we project powerful feelings inside ourselves onto the body of another. This can happen between two people. I see you and I have a story about you. I am hungry so I think you must be hungry too. I am sad and I feel sadness coming from you. When negative feelings of anger, rage and fear are projected out onto a group of people they become "the other" and a dangerous situation is created.

I remember trying to understand how I was a part of what happened in Nazi Germany before the Second World War. Jew hatred and fear of Jews and jealousy of Jews was projected out onto millions of people. Millions of Jews became "the other". It was easy then to see the other as enemy and see the need for their annihilation.

How can we live in the peace and harmony we say we desperately want and seek? In my 12 or so years of Buddhist practice I have come to believe that the answer to that question lies within. If we can't recognize and own our deepest feelings, we are all in danger of projecting them out. Buddhist confession is reality based. It says look within for the darkness that lies there. Zazen creates the space and the stability for this process to take place.

All my ancient twisted karma
from beginingless greed, hate and delusion
born through body speech and mind
I now fully avow

After saying the confession we say the refuges:

I take refuge in Buddha
I take refuge in dharma
I take refuge in sangha

We are held by the perfect teacher, we have a path and others are there to help. This works. Take it from me.

She's a Fighter

2010-09-23T11:03:00.000-07:00

The last 36 hours have been gut-wrenching. Little Bit is still at the vet hospital. My partner Sabrina and I have ridden a rollercoaster of emotions, with each phone call from the vet sending us up to hope, or down to despair.

The very good news: Little Bit has recovered her spunk, is eating heartily, and is very responsive. She is fighting this. And it doesn't appear that there is any blockage, so that fear is gone.

The not so good news: Her lungs are still very compromised, because there is mineral oil aspiration. Earlier today, we were told that she would never be able to live outside of an oxygen tank, and knew that the decision to put her down was imminent. But moments later, the vet called again to say they had taken a new x-ray, and much to their surprise, the lungs showed improvement - against all of their expectations. So there is still hope.

When I called Tony in tears yesterday, he said, well, Buddhists don't really pray....but, heck, people pray. Pray!

So I'm praying. And some good friends who are Catholics have called in the saints. Do what you can. Send out a good thought for Little Bit.

Susan's Shusho Blog: Being Upright

2010-09-23T10:55:00.000-07:00

Last night was our first Russian River Zendo practice period class. We are studying shila paramita: the peace and coolness of being upright.

There are 35 people in the class. At the beginning of class I offered everyone ten minutes of authentic movement. Half of us moved in the center of a circle with our eyes closed while the other half witnessed them . Then we switched places: the movers became witnesses and the witnesses got to move. In allowing our bodies to move freely where they will, we experience a letting go of and a transition from the work world to the spaciousness needed for studying the precepts.

Darlene spoke about shila as the opportunity to be truly present to our experience right now. She recommended we read Reb Anderson's book: Being Upright.

After Darlene's presentation we did a free write on the prompt: "I feel upright when . . . " People were asked to write for five minutes without judging, questioning, changing or crossing out. "Just let your pen take you where it will", I told them. The idea for doing free writes comes from Natalie Goldberg's book: Writing Down the Bones. Along with being a writer and a teacher of writing, Natalie is a Zen priest. She believes that writing mind and Zen mind come from the same place.

After writing practice people shared what they had written with a neighbor. The room was alive with chatter. Everyone had so much to say. We then shared what we had written with the larger group.

My writing took me to a time last winter when I needed to be honest with a friend about something he had done that I didn't like. My friend called me and asked if he could stay in our guest room. The easy thing would have been to lie and say the room wasn't available. The honest thing was to say I didn't like the way he had left the room the last time he stayed there. I was resentful of all the work I had to do to clean up after him. I chose to tell the truth and in so doing I realized I was breaking a long habit of slipping and slithering through life by telling half truths, little white lies, or remaining silent because I was afraid I would hurt someone's feelings.

This time my friend did not stay with me but he did come for dinner. We talked a long time. Our conversation went way beyond the messy guest room. At the end of the evening we had a better understanding of one another.

How did it feel to be upright? It felt like it was me being me. It felt wonderful. It felt cool and it felt peaceful.

"The condition of you being you is the source of peace and the source of love". (Being Upright, pg. 43.)

A Tiny Life

2010-09-22T07:36:00.000-07:00

We are in the midst of weaning our kitten, Little Bit. She has been resistant, often still wanting the bottle and refusing to eat the various foods we have tried: second-step weaning mixture, like a gruel; kitten food; moist kibble; baby food. We have been at our wits' end, trying to make sure she gets enough nourishment.

Yesterday I had her at work with me, and was trying to feed her. She hadn't eaten much at all so far that day. I was using the baby bottle to pour the gruel into a small dish. She had previously gnawed through the tip, so it was open at the top. She was acting frantic for food, but wouldn't lap out of the bowl. She was grabbing for the bottle. I finally decided to see if I could use the bottle to let her chug some liquid down, even though the nipple wasn't all there. But - in the middle of that, she took a big bite, and ripped off most of the rest of the nipple and swallowed it.

We called our vet, and he was worried that it might cause problems, blockage in the intestines. He recommended trying to get her to vomit. She only weighs 1 lb. 7 oz. I didn't feel confident doing it on my own. Our regular vet is in Santa Rosa, but I was in Calistoga, so I brought her to the vet there. We induced vomiting, but no nipple piece came up. The vet then gave her some mineral oil, hoping that at least it could help her pass the piece from the other end.

But she was miserable. By that night, it was clear that it was not just trauma from the day's event. Something was wrong. We ended up making an emergency trip to PetCare in Santa Rosa. She had aspirated either vomit or mineral oil, and was struggling to breathe, in danger of developing pnemonia. We were told that the diagnosis was "guarded" - less than fair. We left her in their care, driving home in tears.

This kitten, who we have bottle-fed and nurtured for the past five weeks, has become like a baby for us. We are both feeling devastated. My feelings are compounded by guilt: I shouldn't have let her use the bottle. I should have brought her to the vet more quickly. I should have brought her to our regular vet. Etc. Etc. Etc.

I called just a few moments ago, and the doctor said she is doing slightly better, breathing without quite as much effort. I am just praying she is strong enough to make it through.

Susan's Shusho Blog: What Has Aging Got to Do With It

2010-09-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

My doctor calls. " I don't like the look of your bone scan", she tells me. "I think you should go back on fosamax. Over the next ten years you are at a high risk of breaking a bone or a hip."

The phone rings. It is my dentist's office reminding me of an appointment tomorrow.

What next? Some days it seems an endless making and keeping of appointments to keep this body on the road. Already this fall I have had a bone scan, an ultra sound, and a mammogram. Soon I will see the skin doctor.

This morning I have a realization. This 78 years old body is a gift. I may not like it, but I have the privilege of being able to take care of it. I am blessed with doctors I love. I have a yoga and a pilates practice. today I will call a woman who has studied bone health for years. She knows of alternatives to drugs. I have another friend who knows about ways to stimulate the brain by playing games on the computer.

The longer I can keep this skin bag going, the longer I will be able to help others.

The first line of a vow Buddhists take when they accept the precepts goes like this:

Beings are numberless, I vow to save them.

We take this vow with full knowledge of its impossibility.

It is a matter of deep intention. It gets into your bones.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Lobsters and Clams and Little Furry Things

2010-09-21T08:28:00.000-07:00

Last summer I spent a week at Tassajara Zen Center in Carmel Valley, California. My granddaughter Grace was with me. We were attending a five day yoga and meditation retreat. Grace is 16. She is afraid of spiders. Every day it was my job to remove daddy-long-legs from the white curtains that covered the windows of our yurt room.

I told Grace they were harmless, but this did not reassure her. At some point in my practice of Zen I found myself taking bugs and unwelcome intruders outside instead of automatically killing them. Saving small creatures from death can bring a sense of self righteousness. "Oh look at me now, I am practicing the first grave precept: "A disciple of Buddha does not kill."

Self righteousness dissolves when I remember the mouse poison I leave in the storage shed. . . a week later I discover two little furry things stiff and dead. Better them, I think, than the memorabilia and photos they use as nesting material.

I have been advised to trap gophers . " This is the only way to get rid of them," my gardening buddy tells me. You trap them and then you whack them over the head. This I cannot do.

I used to think nothing of dropping a green lobster into boiling water. I didn't connect with the pain of being boiled alive. I thought only of succulent lobster meat dipped in lemon and butter.

When I lived on Cape Cod I loved walking the clam flats at low tide. An air bubble meant there was a clam underneath. . . a quick dig brought forth a creature in a hard shell. . . a clam knife opened it. I topped it with lemon and cocktail sauce . . . yum . . . it doesn't get any better or fresher than that!

I no longer dig clams or boil lobsters. I do, however, enjoy clam chowder and lobster rolls prepared for me by others.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Taking Refuge

2010-09-20T06:20:00.000-07:00

I say the refuges to myself often. I say them before I go to bed. I say them when I wake up in the middle of the night. I say them when I am stalled in traffic. I say them when I am having a sticky problem with a friend .

I take refuge in buddha
I take refuge in dharma
I take refuge in sangha

The refuges are also known as "the triple treasure." They are said to be the base upon which all the other precepts rest. They are home base. They are where you go when there is nowhere else to be.

Yesterday I said something to my daughter I shouldn't have said. It was early morning and I wasn't quite awake. I wrestled with excuses until mid-afternoon when I knew something had to be done. I realized my words had more to do with my inability to let go of some things than it had to do with what she had said to me. I knew I needed to let go but there was a part of me that was still hanging on.

I went to Ragle Park. I lay on the copper covered bench in the peace garden. At 6 p .m. it still held warm from the sun. I lay there and I said the refuges over and over and over again. I invited the refuges to help me let go.

What does in mean to take refuge? For me it means taking refuge from old patterns and ways of being that no longer work. It means the possibility of moving toward freedom.

I come home and I say I am sorry. I have come home to my true home.

Susan's Shuso Blog: Forms & Ceremonies

2010-09-19T00:07:00.000-07:00

I love forms and ceremonies: the more bells the better. I love offering incense. I love seeing the purply grey smoke rise and, in my imagination and deep feeling, I see it embrace all beings.

There are four altars in my home. As part of shuso (head student) training, I visit these altars every morning before dawn. I light candles, offer incense, say the refuges and bow to each one three times.

After sitting zazen I say the heart sutra and I offer a prayer for the continuing good health of my teacher, Darlene Cohen.

Last week she came to my home to help me set up the altars. My friends and sangha mates Sarita and Sara came with her.

Each altar was given offerings of candles, flowers, and incense. The main altar, the one I call the heart of the house, was also given an offering of sweet tea and fruit.

We walked slowly from one altar to the next lighting candles and offering incense. In doing this we were setting up the ritual I will follow for the six weeks I am shuso.

Behind me as I write is the creativity altar. It stands at the entrance to my studio where I work in clay. Sometimes other people join me in making clay figures.

When I offer incense at the studio altar I celebrate creativity in all beings. I see the Jizo Bodhisattva figure my friend Peggy made.

Jizo is a buddhist archetype known for helping people in times of transition and change. It is said that Jizo will fearlessly go into the Hell realm with you. This jizo has a smile on its face. It carries a staff of prayer flags. It holds a shining jewel in its left hand. It is able and willing to shine light on all situations.

Today I invite jizo to go with me to Berkeley Zen Center where I will be installed as shuso for a six week practice period. During this time I will be asked to teach, host practice teas, do work practice in the zendo. I so look forward to this time . I look forward to becoming more embedded in my practice and more connected to people in the sangha. I know there will be times of fear and trepidation. I will take Jizo with me. I will hold his smile in my heart.

A Minor Glitch

2010-09-18T14:40:00.001-07:00

There's always a bug to work out the first time, isn't there? While trying to ready Susan's first blog post, I thought I could get it all set up and save it, then just hit "publish" later on, on Sept. 19, and the post would carry the date stamp of Sept. 19. Nope. Not true. The post carried the date stamp of the date/time when I saved it as a draft. Hmmm. Learn something new every day in the blogosphere....

So -- I did some reverse engineering, and fixed it. (Don't ask for details. It wasn't very pretty.) But now Susan's first blog post does appear, as it should, on Sept. 19, the first day of her official start as shuso, and I was left with the task of filling up this silly little space here. With my ramblings. Lucky you.

I promise to have something more profound to share tomorrow.

An Introduction -- Blog Guest

2010-09-18T14:04:00.000-07:00

For the next six weeks, I will be sharing this blog with sangha member Susan Spencer. Susan will be installed as the shuso (head student) at the fall practice period led by teacher Darlene Cohen. The practice period begins tomorrow with a one-day sit at the Berkeley Zen Center, and her induction, and ends with the final shuso ceremony at Russian River Zendo on Oct. 31, following a three-day sesshin at the Black Mountain Retreat Center. In between, Susan will teach two classes on the precepts, host practice teas with everyone signed up for the practice period, do weekly work practice at the zendo, and make daily entries here in the Russian River Zendo blog.

The theme of the fall practice period will be Shila Paramita, or "Uprightness" and its importance to the practice of considering our state of mind as primary. The focus will be looking on the precepts as a way of cultivating a calm and steady mind.

Susan moved to California from Minneapolis in 1998. She met her teacher, Darlene Cohen, at San Francisco Zen Center where she practiced until moving to Sebastopol in 2001. She presently practices at Russian River Zendo, where she participates in the life of the sangha in many ways, including acting as head gardener.

My own introduction to Susan was through her work as an artist. Susan is the marvelously talented and whimsically playful ceramicist that invited all of us into her studio last year to plunge our hands into clay, to make jizo figures for the zendo garden.

Here's how it will work: Susan's posts will appear each day with a main headline that says "Susan's Shuso Blog:...." with a secondary headline for the day. Each of her posts will also be accompanied by her photograph. I will still be acting as "blog master" - she plans to send me the text each morning by 10 a.m., and I'll post as soon after that time as I am able.

My own posts will continue as usual, about three times a week, interspersed between Susan's blogs. You'll know they're mine, because they WON'T have her photograph, or the "Susan's Shuso Blog" header.

Comments welcome, remember. I know that Susan would love feedback. This is her first time doing something like this.

Clear as mud? OK, let's go!

Changing Hurt to Hope

2010-09-12T21:47:00.000-07:00

One of the things that fell to the wayside when I was struggling with my own depression was reaching out and helping others. It took all I had, day to day, just to deal with my own life. But when things began to lighten, one of the first resolutions I made was to get re-involved in some way, because I missed that sense of giving back in a tangible way.

When I lived in the Bay Area, I worked as a volunteer in the field of domestic violence prevention, and also did rape crisis hot line work. I did a number of things: wrote letters, accompanied women to court, trained other volunteers. But what I enjoyed most was giving talks to groups in the community about domestic violence, educating people and raising awareness.

A couple of months ago, I contacted the YWCA in Sonoma County to ask about volunteering. The outreach team was newly formed, and while brainstorming ideas for the upcoming Domestic Violence Awareness Month in October, I came up with the notion of combining my passion for social justice with my passion for words - the result is "Changing Hurt to Hope: Writers Speak Out Against Domestic Violence."

We have solicited poetry, "flash" fiction (1000 words or less) and memoir from writers in the county on domestic violence. On three nights in October, the writers will read their words at public events, and a representative from the YWCA will give a brief talk on domestic violence, and the services provided by the Y. The events are set for Oct. 8 in Sebastopol at the Center for the Arts, on Oct. 15 at the Arts Council of Sonoma County in Santa Rosa, and on Oct. 22 at the Cloverdale Arts Alliance First Street Gallery.

It has been a challenging and fun project. A team of three volunteers, working with the YWCA's volunteer coordinator Donata Bohanec, has been meeting at least every other week since mid-July, writing up press releases, setting writing guidelines, securing locations for the events, making plans. I have also been coordinating submissions, and so have been in contact with writers. It feels wonderful to be doing something that matters, even though it is a little terrifying, because there's always the chance that it will flop - we didn't have much planning time, because we got a late start, so we've been playing catch up.

In the meantime, I am working on my own submission. Because I am a writer, for one. And secondly, I am a survivor of domestic violence, which is one of the reasons that this issue resonates for me at my very core.

For more information, go to the YWCA's website at this address. (FYI - if any of you are considering writing an entry, I have extended the deadline to Oct. 1. Just send me an email and let me know that an entry is on its way. wingpoet@gmail.com)

A New Name

2010-09-06T20:46:00.000-07:00

The part of jukai which I was most anticipating, both with eagerness and with trepidation, was the receipt of my new Buddhist name. Traditionally, a student turns in her completed rakusu with blank white silk on the back side. And on the day of jukai, for the first time, she receives the rakusu back, inked with her new Buddhist name, and hears it spoken aloud.

My trepidation arose from the usual places - what if my name didn't make sense to me? What if it didn't fit? What if I was named "she who worries too much"? Or "she who is the biggest procrastinator"? Of course, I imagined all of my worst traits being highlighted and brought to the forefront.

The eagerness, though, was also there. This was a chance to start fresh, to see myself new. To allow myself, perhaps, to grow into a name.

When the time came during the jukai ceremony for us to receive our rakusu and names, I was sixth of the seven. So first, I was able to watch what happened to those who went before me. And it was amazing. As Cheri, my first sangha mate, heard her name, and held her rakusu in her hands, the aptness of "Dragon Soaring, Vast Mind/Heart" filled her chest and rose up into her face. The name moved into her as if it were an inhalation that she had been waiting to make for years. On down the row, it was the same. Each person seemed to fit the name; the name fit the person.

When it was my turn, I stood in front of Tony and bowed. He pronounced my new name: Ankyō Kikan. "Dark Mirror, Joyful Reflection/Insight." We bowed again, and I sat down.

I was overwhelmed with emotion. There was some initial fear, about that image of a dark mirror. The naming, we had been told, is such that the first part indicates where your practice is now, and the second part shows where you are headed. So I was grateful that Tony and Darlene foresaw joyful reflection ahead. But did they see me as dark and brooding now? Quickly, though, a trusting voice rose up from inside of me. No, it said. These are your teachers. They are giving you a gift, not something negative. I realized that it was simply a name with depth, a metaphor of complexity - and, as Tony pointed out later on, a fine name for a poet.

A week later, Darlene told me that they had used the "dark mirror" image in part to reference the deep pain in my past. But the image she had was of a mirror in the darkness, that looked frightening, because you can't see into it. Then, as you step close, suddenly a beautiful moonbeam is reflected out into the night - joyful reflection. Ah.

I am Ankyō Kikan.

Joining Phobia

2010-09-05T22:32:00.000-07:00

My jukai ceremony on Aug. 21 was not the first time that I spoke Buddhist vows - I actually said them once before in a public ceremony when I married Sabrina on June 29, 2008, with Tony and Darlene officiating.

But the ceremony this past August highlighted a critical difference between those two experiences: a true sense of sangha.

I began coming to the Healdsburg sangha about three and a half years ago. I attended sporadically, dipping my toe in, then running away. I wanted it so badly, but I was also wary. I was alternately aloof and removed, or too intimate, followed by a sense of being exposed and getting my feelings hurt. Finally I stopped going altogether. At home, alone, I established a regular sitting practice, which I maintained for six months, giving myself a sense of security.

In June of 2008, when the courts ruled that gays and lesbians could legally marry, I immediately knew that I wanted Tony and Darlene to conduct our wedding. I called and asked them, and they said yes. As we talked over the ceremony in the coming days, we discussed the precepts, and whether I was able to say yes to the three refuges: I take refuge in Buddha, dharma and sangha. I had no problem with the first two. But at the third, I balked. I didn't really feel like I was part of the Healdsburg sangha. I asked Tony and Darlene if I could use my community of friends as my sangha, and they said yes, of course. So that is how we went forward.

On that wedding day, I not only married the woman I love, I also at last made a commitment to my Buddhist practice. I took that first step towards belonging.

I have never been a joiner. I'm not sure why, exactly, if it's because I'm afraid people won't like me if they get too close, or if it will just get too complicated. Or maybe because joining would mean truly making a commitment, when I have always wanted a quick exit. That is probably a big part of it, since for so many years, I had at least some notion of a suicide plan on the horizon. I didn't like getting too attached. I thought I could protect people from me, from my pain, from my suffering. Even after I decided to stick around, the behavior had become a habit. I didn't know how to become part of the group. I was timid, uncertain, never clear on my role, and so I tended to avoid the scene completely.

But after those wedding vows, I began to attend the Healdsburg sangha every week. I contributed in small ways. I started setting up the altar before the sit. I took on the role of kokyo (chant leader). When asked to give a student talk, I said yes. Eventually, I was invited to prepare for jukai, and then I sewed my rakusu with six other sangha members, as well as attending precepts classes for a year. I also attended a study group for a number of months. I took turns at Russian River Zendo serving as doan, and stepped forward at one-day practice periods to serve as needed: tea server, kokyo, doan, altar attendant.

On the day of my jukai ceremony, we sat in meditation in the morning for two sessions, on cushions facing the wall. As others came in, they occupied chairs facing the opposite wall. When we turned around to start the morning service, I was surprised to see all the people in the room. And throughout the day, later on, the people who attended the service. And the stack of cards and small gifts left for those of us who went through jukai. I found myself looking around and saying, "Oh, there's Beata! And Joan! And look, Cynthia and Lisa are here. And Malcolm, Judith, Suzanne, Susan...." The list just kept going on.

Suddenly I realized - "I have sangha." Here they were. People from the Healdsburg sangha, from the Russian River Zendo sangha, from San Francisco Zen Center, from the Santa Cruz Zen Center. All of them gathered to support me and my fellow sangha members in our ordination ceremony.

Perhaps the biggest gift of the day, then, was this: I realized that I have joined, and it did not frighten me one bit. In fact, it made me glad.

Taking the Precepts

2010-09-04T22:50:00.000-07:00

I take refuge in Buddha.
I take refuge in dharma.
I take refuge in sangha.

On Aug. 21, with six members of my sangha, I underwent lay ordination, jukai, and took Buddhist precepts. We entered the zendo, where 50 of our friends, family members and sangha members sat as audience, in a procession with the music of inkans, clappers and drum.The ceremony was one of great formality and theater, as we seven sat on our cushions in front of the altar. In addition to our teachers, Tony Patchell and Darlene Cohen, there were about six other Zen priests in attendance, in full robes. We chanted, bowed, moved carefully and with awareness.

But underneath all of the ceremony was a bubbling joy, an effervescent excitement. It was irrepressible. Early on, Darlene blessed the room with holy water. She bent over a cup of water, murmuring very soft incantations. The entire room hushed, straining to hear her. Then she dipped a pine sprig into the water, and walked over to the altar, spraying droplets on the altar. She then came in front of those of us going through jukai, and sent water in our direction. As she flung water from the pine bough towards me, it caught me full in the face. She smiled impishly and said, "Ah, direct hit!" The entire room broke into laughter.

As we moved from that point into our vows, taking the 16 precepts, the energy of the room, of our practice together, of that afternoon, carried us. First we recited the three treasures, named above, each one three times. Then we went through the three pure precepts: Do good. Avoid doing evil. Work for the benefit of others.

Finally, there are the 10 grave precepts: 1) Do not kill. 2) Do not steal. 3) Do not misuse sexuality. 4) Do not lie. 5) Do not cloud the mind. 6) Do not speak of other's errors or faults. 7) Do not elevate the self above others. 8) Do not be withholding. 9) Do not be angry. 10) Do not defile the Three Treasures.

Our teachers asked us question after question, querying us, will you uphold these principles? And we would respond: "Yes, I will." Always, always, three times for each concept.

The repetition, the vocalization of vow in front of those we love, had a profound and deep affect on all of us that day, I think. I know it did on me.

I have been living a life committed to the path of Zen Buddhism for some time now. But on that Saturday in August, when I spoke my vows aloud, I affirmed my belief in a new way, with a renewed vigor. And I now feel more centered within my practice than ever before. It is easy to discount ceremony as pomp and frill - but there is something to the magic that happens when a group of people gathers together and performs a ritual act. Lives can and do change.

Pint-Sized Bodhi

2010-08-30T23:48:00.000-07:00

I have been absorbed for the last two weeks with attending to the first call to compassion that the universe gave to me to accompany my jukai: the nursing of a tiny kitten, who we now know was only five days old when we got her.

Dubbed Little Bit, she has completely taken over our lives. With a three-hour round-the-clock feeding schedule, Sabrina and I have been rotating our alarm clocks, sleeping when we can, taking turns getting up to bottle feed the baby. About three days ago, we were able to stretch it out to four hours, and it felt like heaven.

Not that we're complaining. Every day is a revelation. We are as smitten as any parents. Her tiny feet, grasping the bottle, draw oohs and aahs. We marvel at her increasing strength and dexterity, and laugh when her full belly throws her off balance, causing her to tumble head over heels. We carry her around for hours, snuggled up against our chests, giving that "skin-ship" warmth that nothing else can replace. We are slowly and carefully introducing her to the rest of the brood. Teo, the 100-pound Ridgeback/Rottweiler, loves babies, and clamors for her attention. But of course, just his tongue is bigger than she is, so only supervised play is appropriate. We mix formula, wash blankets, fret about feeding sessions where she doesn't seem to eat as much, gloat over those times when she pigs out. We are completely obsessed.

I found myself today marveling at her very existence, the fragility of her little life, her absolute trust of us. And also the very simple "is"-ness of it all. She eats; she pees; she plays until she's droopy; then she snuggles; then she crashes hard, and it's time to nap for three hours again. No plans, no stress, no judgment, no fear, no wanting except for the most basic needs. A little bodhi in the making.

(I promise I will write about the jukai. I'm still working up to it.....)

Still Searching for the Words

2010-08-26T22:58:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday I went through jukai, and am now a lay ordained Zen Buddhist.

There is so much to say. And yet I cannot for the life of me begin to put it into words. The days leading up to the ceremony were full of anticipation, so much so that I was unable to sit down at the keyboard. And then after the day itself, I was so full, so complete, that I was exhausted. The Sunday following, I hibernated, doing little more than read the congratulatory cards from the members of my sangha.

The full import hit me on Tuesday, when I attended my regular Zen sangha group in Healdsburg. The seven of us who had been through jukai showed up with our newly received rakusu. Before the sit, we did the robe chant for the first time at that zendo, and donned our rakusu, wearing them for the rest of the evening. It felt like we had all grown up in a way, entered a new phase of our practice.

I hope, over the next week, to talk about the ceremony, and what it meant to me. About my new name, and receiving my lineage papers, and becoming part of a sangha in a richer way. For now, I must leave it at this: I feel changed. I feel renewed. And I am very, very grateful to Tony and Darlene for giving me this chance to deepen my practice.

Upcoming Schedule, Aug. 28 - Sept. 7

2010-08-26T22:41:00.000-07:00

Healdsburg Sangha:

Tuesday, Aug. 31
7 p.m. sit and kinhin
7:45 p.m. service and dharma talk by Dennis Samson

Tuesday, Sept. 7
7 p.m. sit and kinhin
7:45 p.m. service and outing to Bear Republic

Russian River Zendo:

Saturday, Aug. 28
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:30 a.m. dharma talk by Tony Patchell and tea

Saturday, Sept. 4
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:30 a.m. dharma talk and tea

I Always Say Yes

2010-08-16T22:13:00.000-07:00

When Jon Carroll of the San Francisco Chronicle writes about his cats, he warns his readers: This is a cat column. So those that aren't cat people can just skip it, and avoid their annoyance. It's one of the things I love about him.

I can relate to Carroll. Surrounded as I am with animals, it is hard not to bring them up as a topic of conversation. Animal people don't mind; non-animal people roll their eyes, and look for the nearest exit. I frequently find myself wanting to sit down at the keyboard with a story or analogy or life lesson learned from dogs or cats or parrots, and then I think, "Wait. Have I been talking too much about the menagerie lately? Am I going to drive everyone crazy?"

So, let the reader be forewarned. This is a cat post. Proceed at your own risk.

Sabrina called me at work at 11 a.m. to tell me that the guys at the plant had found a litter of six kittens in a loader. They are only two weeks old, eyes still closed. They need to be hand-bottle-fed, every two or three hours. Everybody was pitching in. Could she bring one home?

I said yes. I always say yes. Never mind the fact that only last month we brought Blizzard, our latest adoptee, the white stray, to the vet for the full treatment - neuter, de-flea, de-worm, nail clip, ear mites, vaccines - and he has now taken up permanent residence on our front deck, thrilled to be part of the family, bringing our official cat count to six. And that about two weeks ago, an orange tom cat started showing up hungry, and I am now feeding him, too, and I know it's a slippery slope, because I've already named him Laser.

The kitten is the tawny rascal second from the top of the pile. We're not sure yet of the gender - hard to tell. And no name has been decided upon. It's only been about eight hours. But this baby is so small, it's a little terrifying. I have tied a scarf around my neck to form a hammock, and have been carrying the baby around that way, nestled up against my chest. We feed it formula from a tiny bottle, and have to massage its abdomen to make it urinate, because it is so young. I've never taken care of one this small. Part of me is holding back, afraid - what if something goes wrong, and it doesn't get enough nourishment, sickens, dies? I won't be able to stand the pain of losing it, once I've become attached.

Oh - but I just breathe, and pull my heart out of my throat, and do the best I can. The next feeding is at midnight. Send us good thoughts.

Portrait of a Marriage

2010-08-15T20:51:00.000-07:00

I just finished listening to the BBC's The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage by Daniel Mark Epstein. Seventeen CDs long, it has left me immersed in the world of the 1800s and the Civil War for nearly three weeks. And now, having heard the final chapter, I am filled with a quiet ache of grief - for Abraham and Mary, for their children, and for the nation.

We all, I think, grew up with the myth of Lincoln the hero, the man who freed the slaves. And heard those stories of log cabins, reading by candlelight, splitting wood, telling humorous stories. The image of him in his stove pipe hat, his unruly hair, his gangly frame - he is an American icon. I remember vividly my first trip to Washington D.C., when I saw the Lincoln Monument, lit up in the night.

But now, having listened to this story of his life, I imagine that same statue in a different pose - leaning forward instead of sitting upright, with his head lowered, the weariness and pain etched deep into his face.

The Lincolns had four sons. They lost their second son Eddie just before his fourth birthday to consumption. Willie died at the age of 11, while Lincoln was in the White House, of typhoid fever. Lincoln himself did not have to suffer the final loss, but his wife Mary did - their youngest son, Tad, died at the age of 18 of pneumonia or complications from tuberculosis, six years after his father was assassinated. So Mary lost not only her husband, but three of her four children.

The relationship between Abraham and Mary was intense and complicated. Mary was ambitious and driven, believing strongly early in the marriage that her husband could someday be president. She took her role as hostess seriously, and did her best to play that part well. But she was also mentally unbalanced. Today, she would probably be diagnosed as bipolar. She was periodically physically abusive to her husband. There are recorded cases of her striking him in the face with a fireplace log, of dousing him with a bucket of water from a second-story window, of chasing him around the yard with a knife in her hand. She was insanely jealous of attention from other women. By the time she got to the White House, her illness had reached a point that she was going on mad buying sprees, getting herself into terrible debt. She held grudges, and meddled in politics by trying to get appointments for friends and relatives. Often, she flew into angry rages, earning her the nickname "hellcat" from the White House staff.

Even when his wife was completely out of control, though, Abraham kept his cool. He seemed to have an unending compassion for her, understanding that it was a sickness and not malice. As much as the relationship had its strains and difficulties, he treated her with love and respect.

On top of all of this personal chaos, from the moment Lincoln took office, he was faced with assassination threats, and was leading a nation that was splitting in two and heading towards war. I did not realize that from the very beginning, his life was in danger. There was a bounty on his head, raised by Southerners, the day he won the election.

The hollow-cheeked Lincoln that I know so well from pictures is a man carrying the weight of a nation on his shoulders. This book gave me much greater insight into his life. But I think what moved me the most was his compassionate heart towards Mary, his wife. When everyone in the county wanted something from him, and he was at the point of exhaustion, even then - he was able to be gentle and kind to the woman he had married, whether she was acting rationally or not. That's another kind of hero.

We Need Our Own MASH Unit

2010-08-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, we went up to Sea Ranch to spend four days at a rental property with family, who had been visiting for my grandmother's birthday celebration. Sabrina and I were very much looking forward to a mini-vacation; we had hired a pet-sitter, cleaned the house, packed our bags, and headed for the coast, ready for some down time.

It was a little more than we bargained for. Throughout the weekend, there were people coming and going, with anywhere from two to six children, ranging in age from two to fourteen. At one point, there were four under the age of eight. Let's just say it was lively, especially for two people who are childless.

But still, we were having a good time. It was great visiting with my sister and brother-in-law from New York, who I had missed a great deal, with their little guy Ty, my special nephew, and spending time with my sister and her three boys from Tennessee. We ate good food, had a gorgeous view of the ocean from our dining room table, and when it got too crazy, I holed up in my room to read or take a nap.

The trip got cut short, though, on Saturday afternoon, when Sabrina stubbed her toe on a coffee table. What? I know, what's the big deal, right? Well, she broke that toe, and she did a doozy on it. It was sticking out at a very weird angle. We ended up helping her out to the truck, and I drove her to Kaiser in Santa Rosa, where x-rays confirmed what we suspected. Today, she had to go in to see a podiatrist, because the toe was not aligned properly, so they had to yank on it to try to get it lined up. She's now in bed, after being in terrible pain all day, barely able to walk with a cane.

Geez. This is getting ridiculous. In the past nine months, we have had a chipped beak (Barney the parrot), lens luxation/sudden onset glaucoma leading to loss of an eye (Houla the dog), thumb surgery to correct arthritis (Sabrina the human), two heart attacks (Barney the parrot), a scratched cornea (Michelle the human), a leg infection leading to hospitalization (Gladys the grandmother), and now a broken toe (Sabrina the human). Each incident above necessitated a trip to the emergency room, either at the veterinary hospital or the human hospital - some of them required more than one trip. (I think there were actually a couple of other incidents, but I can't recall them right at the moment.)

My teacher Tony, upon hearing about the broken toe, said we needed our own MASH unit. I think he's right. Remarkably, throughout all of this, everything has turned out OK. No loss of life, no debilitating damage. My whole family is still in good health, functioning, and doing the best we can to deal with each one of these challenges as they come our way.

Sometimes, in the midst of all this, I bemoan the fact that I have no time to practice Zen. I have had to miss my Tuesday night sitting a number of times, and will have to again tomorrow, as I want to be at home to help Sabrina prepare some dinner after being alone all day while I am at work. Even though I know this is what I must do, part of me chides myself for being a "bad" Zen student for being so caught up in these day-to-day crises. Then I ran across this story:

From "Zen Is Right Here" by Suzuki Roshi:

A woman told Suzuki Roshi she found it difficult to mix Zen practice with the demands of being a housewife. "I feel I am trying to climb a ladder. But for every step upward, I slip backward two steps."
"Forget the ladder," Suzuki told her. "In Zen, everything is right here on the ground."

One Hundred Years and Counting

2010-08-05T22:24:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, my grandmother Gladys Gwillim Wing reached the century mark. Born on Aug. 3, 1910 in Oakland, she has lived through two world wars, watched the transportation system move from crank cars to SST jets, and gone from the days when you told the operator where to place your call to this crazy age where a granddaughter passes you a tiny little cell phone and tells you it's a great-grandson calling from New York.

My entire family flew and drove in from across the country (Nebraska, New York, Oregon, Wyoming, Tennessee, Washington) to join a gathering of 135 people on Sunday to celebrate with her. Sabrina and I met Gladys at her apartment before the party, picking her up (a surprise) in a black stretch limousine. We cruised around Santa Rosa for half an hour, just so people could gaze in the windows, wondering who was inside, while we played the top hits of the 1940s on the CD player.

At the party, held at the Luther Burbank Art & Garden Center, there were tasty treats, wine and drinks, and cake, of course. Three cakes, actually - one for "Gladys," one for "Mom" and one for "Grandma." My aunt Alice, Gladys' only daughter, put together a beautiful slide show to music showing the years none of us knew about, with photographs of my grandmother from her birth to shortly after her marriage. I had never before seen photographs of her skiing, on horseback, in a bathing suit on the beach, or posing with boyfriends. My grandmother, seeing the pictures of her youth, and Mama Tucker, the woman who raised her, was moved to tears.

As expected, Gladys looked fabulous. She wore a shimmery red blouse over a rainbow-colored long skirt, and her infamous high-heeled shoes that have all the colors of the tail of a peacock - which looked perfect with the ensemble, of course.

After the party, the limo took us to my aunt and uncle's house for an after-party feast on the leftovers, where Grandma took a brief rest. Then she revived to open presents, eat ice cream, and look through the two scrapbooks that had been made for her.

All in all, the party was a rousing success. And it was only part of the celebration. Her friends at Welfare League closed their thrift shop (where she volunteers weekly) today, and held another party, and tomorrow morning, she will receive a birthday greeting on the Today Show from Willard Scott. She also received birthday greetings from Senator Barbara Boxer, President Barack Obama, and a proclamation from the mayor of Santa Rosa.

Gladys shows no signs of slowing down. As we rode in the limo after the party, she said to me, "You could do this for me every five years from here on out." Maybe we will.

Upcoming Schedule, Aug. 7-21

2010-08-03T20:52:00.000-07:00

Healdsburg Sangha:

Tuesday, Aug. 10
7 p.m. sit and kinhin
7:45 p.m. service and dharma talk

Tuesday, Aug. 17
7 p.m. sit and kinhin
7:45 p.m. service and dharma talk

Russian River Zendo:

Saturday, Aug. 7
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:30 a.m. dharma talk by Darlene Cohen and tea

Saturday, Aug. 14
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:30 a.m. dharma talk and tea

Sunday, Aug. 15
[The all-day sit has been cancelled.]

Saturday, Aug. 21
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:30 a.m. dharma talk by Darlene Cohen and tea
1 p.m. rehearsal for jukai
3 p.m. jukai ceremony

Fire Fish in the Night Sky

2010-07-31T00:44:00.000-07:00

Friends of ours are renting a beach house at Bodega Bay for the week, and a large group of us descended upon them for the day to socialize, eat good food, watch the beach from the big picture window, and generally enjoy each other's company.

The group included three teen-age boys (sons of our friends Annette and Kathryn), plus one of their friends, and a girlfriend. They are a nice group of kids, comfortable to be with, and unintimidated by a houseful of 45-year-old-plus lesbians.

After a lip-smacking dinner of homemade macaroni and cheese topped off by peach cobbler and blackberry pie, we all walked down to the camping area by the beach to watch 16-year-old Will perform "fire poi."

I had heard about his talent, but this was the first time I witnessed it. For those of you unfamiliar with it, fire poi are constructed from chain, with kevlar-blend wicks, that can be soaked in fuel (such as kerosene) and set on fire. The performer then holds one chain in each hand, with the flaming ends suspended, and twirls them through the air, creating patterns of spinning light in the dark.

Will started out using glow sticks. He has now become quite proficient with fire poi, completely self-taught. And, he jokingly states, he has only set himself on fire twice. We were in a large, open sandy area, so there was no danger of burning anything. There were twelve of us sitting on piles of stacked logs, waiting for him to begin.

It was a spectacular show. The fire whirled around Will's head, circling in slow arcs, then more and more quickly, the flames sometimes large with tails, then smaller again. He spun them over his head, under his legs, at his sides, turning about. Butterflies, weaves, magical loops. Within a few seconds, we heard voices. Other people walking through the campground had seen the lights, and were drawn to the show. They approached, watched until the end of the first act, and hooted and cheered. A young boy asked Will eager questions about how he had started. The group stayed while Will did a second act of performances, and then asked if he would be back the next night to do more. Will promised to return.

I had never heard of this type of performance art before. Kathryn, Will's mom, told me it was "koi" and that at the end of the chain were metal fish. I later discovered that this was a running joke, since the name is actually "poi," which sounds close enough to "koi" that the family has adopted the alternate name.

When I see a 16 year old boy on the street, I often feel a little distant and removed. That period of my life seems so long ago. And I am untrusting. I'm not sure I know where that teen is coming from. In other words, I close myself off. So having this experience tonight was good. Here's this 16 year old boy who not only is a nice kid, but he has this amazing, unexpected, wildly interesting talent. He does something I've never even heard of before, and he does it well. He performed graciously and gracefully, answering questions, putting on a show. It was a treat.

I have to keep myself open. I never know when I might run into fire fish in the night sky.

No Permanence, Joyful Open Eyes

2010-07-28T20:47:00.000-07:00

To quote Dainin Katagiri, in "Each Moment Is the Universe"

When you see in the proper way, what do you see? You see the true nature of time. In Japanese we say mujo. Mu is “nothing” and jo is “permanence,” so mujo means “no permanence” or “impermanence.” Seeing impermanence is not to face a kind of nihilism that leads to despair; it is to become yourself, as you really are, with joyful open eyes. Thinking in the proper way is not to understand life through your intellect; it is to contemplate deeply how to live every day based on wisdom. When you see the true nature of time and understand how impermanence works in your life, you can use time to cultivate your life and to keep up with the tempo of life without feeling despair. That is the basis of a complete way of human life.

The true nature of time. That is definitely something I am grappling with at the moment. One of my co-workers, in my small, four-person office, has announced that she is leaving on Aug. 11. We will be hiring a replacement, but probably not until mid-October. Three of us can put out the newspaper, but it means that no one can be out on vacation, or sick, or not carrying their weight. Since I had not taken any vacation time yet this year, and saw that my opportunities were fast disappearing, I rapidly requested a week off, just to stay at home and regroup.

My plan for this week was to catch up on sleep, do some reading, spend time on my own writing, move organically through the days. Too quickly, though, I found myself distracted by chores and "have to" items, with the sense that I was not getting the indulgence I deserved. I ended up harried and dissatisfied, instead of relaxed, exactly the opposite of what I was hoping for.

Reading this Katagiri quote, which my teacher Tony Patchell shared with me a few weeks ago, I was reminded that I was going about the whole thing in the wrong way. Well, wrong might be too strong a word. How about "misguided"? Instead of trying to create perfect days where nothing interrupts and everything goes my way, I can find much greater satisfaction in facing each moment of every day, no matter the challenges, with humor, wisdom, and presence.

Clinging to the idea of a perfect week off, or even an ideal afternoon, brings up those feelings of despair. Where is my life going? What am I doing with myself? Where do the days go? But when I focus instead on this moment, the task right in front of me, my breathing slows. My sense of harmony increases. I hear the Mozart playing in the background as I type. The brain quiets, and wisdom creeps in. It actually becomes possible to see with joyful, open eyes.

Seating for Five

2010-07-25T22:21:00.000-07:00

We have a hummingbird feeder hanging from the eave of our covered porch. It is red, of course, since that is the color supposed to draw hummingbirds. At its base, it is wide, with five yellow sunflowers, and at the center of each is the hole from which the birds can draw out the sugar water.

We have a great deal of hummingbird activity. They are always zooming by, zipping through the air, often just over our heads. What is highly amusing, though, is that only one is ever feeding at a time. A single hummingbird always ferociously guards the feeder, chasing away any other interlopers. So it is a game of tag, of seek and chase. One approaches, then the one at the feeder dives after, and they both soar away, one in mad pursuit of the other.

Sabrina tells me that at her last house, feeling sorry for one hummingbird who always was chased away, she hung a second feeder up, about 15 feet away. Then the dominant bird simply guarded both, hovering in the air at center point, flitting back and forth to make sure no one could get to either feeder on her watch.

So tell me - why does the hummingbird feeder have seating for five? Are there hummingbirds somewhere in the world who are better at sharing their food, allowing company to sit down at the dinner table? Do some other hummingbirds have an altruistic streak, that seems to be lacking in the ones in Alexander Valley? Or were the designers of this hummingbird feeder uninformed of hummingbird behavior? Or, perhaps, the designers were optimistic, thinking if they made the feeder for five, they could cajole the birds into learning how to share?

I watch them and think, "Silly birds! We always refill the feeder. There is plenty for everyone."

But - am I not guilty of that same behavior, in other circumstances? Holding on tight to what I have, afraid to give to others, afraid there won't be enough left over for me? In my case, the object I hold on tightest to is time. I am fearful to commit to things because I don't want to lose my alone time, my flexibility, my "freedom." So I hesitate. I am less than generous when it comes to offering a helping hand. Because I think there won't be enough left for me.

Silly bird.

Alone But Not Lonely

2010-07-22T23:48:00.000-07:00

I'm not a big fan of large gatherings, especially meet-and-greets where you have to make small talk with a lot of people. That kind of superficial contact tends to wear me out, and it simply doesn't give me much pleasure. But I like human contact. I enjoy immensely an evening with a few friends, and become quite animated with the energy of conversation. And I adore spending time one on one, where I can talk for hours about books, ideas, dreams, passions.

Anyone seeing me in these environments would probably classify me as an extrovert. I appear to be comfortable and at ease in these situations - and that is not untrue.

At the same time, however, I love spending time alone. I cherish the days when I am able to stay at home all day, puttering around the house, reading books, writing, having my only conversations with my dogs and cats. I find that in order to have those external energetic times, I need time alone to recharge - hours of quiet, uninterrupted space.

Sometimes, though, I manage to combine those two sides of myself, being both alone and with people at the same time, in a deeply satisfying way.

A couple of weeks ago, while researching calendar items for inclusion in my newspaper, I discovered that one of my favorite cellists, Nina Kotova, would be appearing in Napa Valley. Since the concert was set for a Tuesday, Sabrina would be unavailable to attend. I asked my co-workers if they were interested, but there were no takers. I was not about to miss this opportunity; I immediately booked a single ticket online for myself.

The concert was held at Castello di Amorosa, a recently-built replica of an Italian castle. The program included two piano/string quartet numbers, plus a cello sonata by Kotova. Knowing that the venue would draw Napa Valley's "in" crowd, I had dressed up for the occasion. I arrived early, and watched people. Being alone gives you the opportunity to be a "spy;" it's one of the reasons I enjoy it so much.

We were seated in the central courtyard of the castle, in the open air. When the musicians came out, and took their chairs, it became obvious that I would not have a clear view of them, especially because there was a very tall man seated in front of me. For the first piece, I relaxed with my eyes closed, and felt the breeze on my face, imagined the notes falling into my hair, and smiled when small birds flew overhead and gave answering trills to the high tones of the violins. But before Nina came out, I stood and walked to the side of the courtyard, finding a seat on a low brick wall. I now had an unobstructed view of the stage. I watched enrapt throughout her Debussy piece; it was over far too soon.

A woman approached me later and asked me whether I enjoyed the Debussy. I said I liked it very much. She said she could tell. Apparently, my pleasure was visible. I had brief conversations with a few others about the music. I noticed a man and woman with a young boy. The man was carrying a slender musical case. I couldn't tell what it contained, so I asked him what he played. He said he was a cellist. I said, "Oh, it's your bow." He told me he used to play with a member of the string quartet, but now he sold instruments, and members of the ensemble were trying out some of his instruments. He was up from Los Angeles. The young boy was studying piano.

All of this is simple, nothing earth shattering. Conversations, observations, reflections. But it happened because I was alone. I followed my desires, moving to get a better view of Nina, not worrying about whether or not that was appropriate. I was able to be fully present for the entire concert, not off in my head while the music was playing, not engaged in conversation with my partner during intermission, not closed into an inner circle of friends. I was alone but completely there.

I can close my eyes right now and hear Debussy, and feel the breeze on my cheek.

Loving A Rogue

2010-07-18T22:53:00.000-07:00

Two months ago, a scrappy white stray tom cat showed up at our house. It was a blustery, rainy day. That, combined with his color, led us to dub him Blizzard. At first, hungry and skittish, he was vocal about wanting food but would not come anywhere near us. We dutifully put out wet and dry food twice daily, and established a routine. He was always around near mealtime, but then disappeared.

Gradually, though, he began to stick closer and closer to the house, for more and more hours of the day. Within a couple of weeks, he surprised me by coming right up onto the floor of the shed where his food dish was as I was filling the bowl. A few days later, he rubbed up against my leg. I tentatively reached out a hand, and he allowed me to pet him. I was exultant. We had won him over.

But although now Blizzard spends all his time nearby, and loves to rub against me, and purrs loudly when I bring the food, he is filled with mixed messages. He frequently swats at my hand as I fill the bowl. Sometimes the claws are drawn in, and it's just a tap. Often, though, he draws blood. He has been in the middle of a caress, and suddenly turned and grabbed me around the leg with both front paws, sinking in deep. Two days ago, while happily greeting me, all at once he jumped up and bit me on my calf, again drawing blood.

I believe part of the problem is the fact he is unneutered, and we hope to trap him soon, and take care of that. But beyond that issue, it seems that Bliz has been living in the wild for some time, and has gotten a bit confused about how to appropriately express love and affection. Let's just say he sends lots of mixed messages.

And yet - every day, twice a day, I go out there to feed him. I stay centered in my body, trying to calm him as much as possible. I pay attention to his body language, and remain alert to what he may be trying to tell me. When he whacks me, I am startled, but I have never been mad or thought to myself, "Fine. No more food or love for you!" I simply regroup, refocus, and keep right on loving him.

Blizzard is very docile and sweet with the rest of our cats, never instigating any fights. A couple of toms from the neighborhood have begun showing up late at night to terrorize him, and I hear him in the wee hours, squalling. I jump up from my bed, and rush out, to chase away the intruders, and Blizzard saunters off once again to his post underneath the shed, where he spends the night. In other words, I have adopted him, for better or for worse, just as surely as if he were any of my other animals.

What amuses me, thinking about it today, is that I tolerate this erratic behavior from a cat without a second thought, when I am so sensitive when it comes to human beings. Blizzard may very well rub against me and purr one moment and bite me the next, but it doesn't in any way lessen the amount of love I have for him, or the amount of patience I bring to the relationship. I am not thinking about my needs and wants when I approach him. I am thinking about what he needs, what is going on for him.

Why, then, is it so hard to do that with humans? When my mother hurts my feelings, I question her love in the absolute. When a friend snaps at me, I retreat in silence and resentment, instead of extending a concerned hand of compassion. When my boss is in a bad mood at work, I am convinced that it is something I have done, and I fret all day about how to make it right, even though I don't know what "it" is.

Then I go home to this stray cat, Blizzard. I am patient and compassionate and loving. I willingly lose sleep to protect him. I offer myself up to him day after day, making myself vulnerable, because I know that he wants to love me - he's just not sure exactly how to do it yet.

Ah, loving a rogue. I need to learn to treat everyone in my life as if they were a scrappy stray cat that showed up at my door.

Everything Changes

2010-07-13T23:03:00.000-07:00

In a discussion this evening on the Three Marks of Existence, Tony Patchell focused on impermanence, the flux of life.

The Three Marks are (1) impermanence or inconstancy, (2) dukkha or suffering, and (3) non-self. A fourth mark is also frequently added, that of nirvana, or perfect composure, to round out the set.

Tony began with that most famous of quotes from Suzuki-roshi, when asked to summarize Zen: "Everything changes." A full acceptance of that fact, of the absolute fact of transciency, goes hand in hand with the concept of selflessness - because what are you, if you change every moment?

Tony said that we as Zen students must first hear those words from a teacher, or read them in Buddhist writings. Then we must contemplate them, and analyze them, studying them until we can bring them to our own understanding. But even that is not enough. The final step is to meditate, to turn to zazen. Because it is only through zazen that we fully comprehend in our bodies what it means to be impermanent, to be always changing.

Impermanency - it is both incredibly terrifying and comforting at the same time. Terrifying for the obvious reasons. All the "good" things will go. When I think about losing those I love (my wife, my friends, my family members, my animals), it makes my heart clamp up. I'm a little less frightened when it comes to objects. I believe that I could recover relatively unscathed from the loss of my car, or my home, or other such items. But even there, I have vulnerable spots. I get frantic thinking about house fires, not only because I worry about all of my dogs and cats, but because I panic at the thought of all of my writings and computer files going up in flames. It's my words that I'm attached to. Hah! Talk about impermanent!

So how, then, is the thought of impermanency comforting? When I am in a dark place, I know that it will not last. When my legs hurt while I sit zazen, I know that the pain is not endless. When I am frightened, or unsure of myself, or embarrassed, or lonely....everything changes. When I am exhausted, and hopeless, and burned out, pessimistic, angry, frustrated...these feelings pass. What an immense relief to know this is true.

Right now, I am wholly here. Now. And now again. Bam. Right here.

Pay attention. This is it.

Who Am I To Give Advice?

2010-07-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

I have found myself in the awkward position recently of having people ask me for advice. Not little advice, like, "Can you recommend a restaurant?" or, "Do you know of a good place to find organic produce?" Big advice. Questions like: "How can I live with having screwed something up really badly?" Or "Should I leave my job and move to another state, because I may have found a temporary escape from a bad situation I'm in right now?"

Wow. Me? You're asking me?

One of the friends has asked for advice over email. That's a little easier for me, because I can read the note, and then sit with it for a day or two, mulling it over. But the second friend asked me today in person, face to face, while she was crying. I found myself sitting there quietly, listening, and listening, and listening. It was so much to process. A third friend, also in the room, jokingly said, "Oh, you're just sitting there with your Buddha expression." If only!

It is not because I am feeling tranquil and calm and serene. It is because I am slowly sorting through things, trying to make sense of my feelings. Because what comes up first is: Who the hell am I to be giving advice to anyone? For goodness sake, look at my life! Look at all the wrong turns I have taken. Look at all the pain and suffering, the missed opportunities, the ridiculously convoluted path that I have followed to get me to where I am now. Me, offer a road map to someone else?

But I keep sitting, quietly. And the other voice surfaces. Yes, it says. You have experienced a great deal. But each pain, each loss, broke your heart open a little bit wider, and taught you a little bit more about compassion. Without all those twists and turns, you would not have this poet's soul. You would not have the desire to reach out to others. You would be closed off and broken, and you are not. You are whole. You survived.

So now I find myself in this place, where people I care about ask me for advice. What shall I say?

In a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, I penned these lines:

The phone rings. A friend struggles with her marriage’s end,
asking for answers. I make my words a mirror
of her own wisdom, know I cannot predict
what will grow in someone else’s garden.

That is what I learned during those long, hard years. No one had answers for me. Only I had the answers. What I needed was friends who would listen to me talk, friends who would compassionately hear me try to figure out exactly what it was I needed to do, searching through my own soul's truth.

Today I remind myself of that. After some thought, I offered a few tangible suggestions to these friends, strategies for planning. But the most important thing I could do, in the end, was listen, and remind them, in turn, to listen to themselves. The most important answers always lie within.

If Only All Theater Was This Good

2010-07-11T21:53:00.000-07:00

I saw some of the best drama I've seen in ages - and the actors were all kids.

The show was called "Prop 8 Love Stories," presented by Cinnabar Theater. The actors are between the ages of 10 and 17. They interviewed couples, gay and straight, about their relationships, and then presented a montage of the results.

One of the things that was fascinating is that the actors’ genders do not necessarily match the genders of those they interviewed, so a boy may portray a lesbian, a girl a gay man, a girl a straight rabbi father….

Although the couples are mixed, they all have a gay connection. The rabbi and his wife have a gay son. A young woman engaged to be married to a young man talks about the process she went through when her father came out as a gay man. And then there are lesbian moms, gay dads, everything else. It’s fascinating.

The project is the brain child of creator/director Brian Glenn Bryson, but it is co-written and directed by 14-year-old Dezi Gallegos (who also acts in it, wonderfully!), and there is original music, composed by 16-year-old Audrey Maye Tatum, with choreographed dancing, so there are some elements of music theater, as well.

The interviews examined the dynamics of couples, families, coming out stories, fear and discrimination, the Prop 8 battle, death and religion, weddings, and ended with a section on "hope."

These kids beautifully and tellingly explored what it is like to be in a relationship completely unlike their own life experiences - since they were portraying, in some cases, an 80 year old man, or a dad with three kids, or two moms talking about how they met. If only those in the cast were changed, this kind of theater would be worthwhile; those teens (and pre-teens) have learned something they will never forget.

But of course, their message is going much further, as they stand on stage with their words of compassion and fear, bewilderment and hope, yearning and dreams. This is the sort of drama that should get extended runs, playing to audiences around the country, with kids from Kansas and Louisiana and Alaska taking on these roles. This is about opening hearts, one audience member, one cast member, at a time.

We went with a group of friends to see it performed at the Glaser Center in Santa Rosa (the Unitarian Church). The kids also performed at Fort Mason in San Francisco.

It is showing again in Petaluma on the weekend of July 16 and 17 at Cinnabar Theater. If you happen to have either of those nights free, and live close enough by - get a ticket and go. You'll be glad you did.

The Latest Rendition of "The Dog Ate My Homework"

2010-07-09T08:46:00.001-07:00

I really have been trying to get back into a regular blogging routine. Where once I was posting five times a week, lately I have been lucky to get in two. It seems that there is always something that comes up. Each thing, in and of itself, sounds perfectly reasonable. But as a list, it begins to resemble the kid telling her teacher why her math assignment is late once again.

My list thus far has included: "I had to take my grandmother to the hospital." "My parrot had a heart attack." "I was up all night at the newspaper."

See what I mean? Well, this week, I was resolved to get back on track. Ah, but wait. Are you ready for the latest, greatest excuse?

"The dog scratched my eye."

On Wednesday night, for once I got home early on a deadline night from the newspaper. I was going to get a good night's sleep, and spend the next several days catching up on things, including blogging. It was 10:30 p.m. - Sabrina was already fast asleep; she wakes up at 3 a.m., starting work at 5 a.m. in Santa Rosa. I crawled into bed, and as I was lying down, my lab Ripley flopped down next to me in the dark, closer than I realized. Suddenly I had an excruciating pain in my left eye. She had unintentionally stuck one of her nails directly into my eyeball (not the lid, the eye). I capped my hand over the eye and drew my breath in sharply and audibly, loud enough to wake Sabrina up. "What's wrong?" I was barely able to talk. The pain was incredible. I wasn't sure at that point what I would find when I uncupped my eye.

After a few moments, time enough to get my breath back, I went to the bathroom to look. My eye was tearing, and very red. But what was alarming, was that I could actually see what looked like a rip in the white of the eye. We called Kaiser - and then what had been an early night turned into a late one.

I was lucky, and it ended up being only a few scratches to the cornea, with no damage to the eye itself. There were particles of dirt from Ripley's nails in the eye, so the nurses did a 20-minute saline/water rinse to clean out the eye, I was given antibiotic eye drops for the next five days, and painkillers to help me sleep for the next couple of nights - REM sleep is the hardest, because your eye moves rapidly, so the painkillers help alleviate that.

But here comes the excuse part. I was told to rest my eyes for at least a couple of days, not reading or spending time on the computer. I managed to get through all of Thursday, only cheating by checking my Blackberry. By the end of the day, my eye was tired.

It's feeling much better today, after a second night's rest, and so I am daring to sit down at the keyboard.

Really, though. Enough is enough. Could we get through just two weeks without a trip to a hospital or an emergency room? Barring any more unforeseen disasters, I truly will be blogging on a more regular basis!

How to Eat with All Your Senses

2010-07-05T21:55:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, Sabrina and I decided to celebrate the second anniversary of our wedding with a special dinner out. An acquaintance had raved about the food and atmosphere at the Madrona Manor, located just outside of Healdsburg on Guerneville Road. I drive past its front gate every time I go to Russian River Zendo. I knew it was pricey, and an extravagance. But it seemed the perfect choice, and we managed to get last-minute reservations for 8 p.m.

Oh - we had no idea what we were in store for! The food was beyond anything we could have imagined. It is French cuisine, with local produce, and a Sonoma twist, prepared by chef Jesse Mallgren, born in San Francisco and raised in Sonoma County, but trained at some of the finest restaurants around. We chose from the "compose your own menu" selection, which allowed Sabrina to have seafood and meat for almost every course, while I had a rich selection of vegetarian entrees.

For Sabrina: scallop sashimi with borage, Meyer lemon, uni and fresh wasabi; Lobster "cuit sous vide" with carrot, fennel, pea and coriander; abalone; northern halibut with corn, miso, dashi and porcini; lamb. For me: beets with gorgonzola; haricots verts with burata, hazelnuts and truffle; potato gnocchi with peas, mint, pistachios and creme fraiche; and the Madrona Manor Signature Cheese Course, around the world in cheese.

But that is just a small piece of it. In between each course, we received little "palate ticklers," tiny taste tests to ready ourselves for the next bite. A slice of hollowed-out radish filled with butter, or a yogurty-drink beside a single ravioli. A dish of strawberry sorbet to freshen our mouths before moving on to the next taste.

Part of the beauty of it all was the presentation. Every course was brought in a plate or bowl especially designed to showcase what it was serving: a large, broad-brimmed bowl with only a small dip in the center to hold the food; a long, angular plate divided into four sections, each containing one small bite; tiny glasses; perfect little spoons.

And with this, another part of the beauty was the portion size. We were given just enough to enjoy the flavor, enough to appreciate what we were eating, not enough to sate ourselves. We ate, we tasted, we relished each bite, but we did not stuff ourselves. We were on a journey of exploration.

The dinner stretched out over three hours. The service was impeccable, and constant, but not stiff. We felt pampered, without feeling that we were about to make a grave misstep by picking up the wrong fork. We were served each course, had time to eat leisurely, then a few moments to ourselves to talk, and enjoy the ambience. We sat outside, on a covered porch, in the summer evening, looking out over lush gardens.

It was an absolutely luxurious experience of being in the now. I cannot remember the last time I was so present with my food. The newness of the tastes, the surprises, kept us continually open. I was aware of every plate, every wait person that approached and laid down a new fork, every shift in the room.

To cap the evening, it turned out that we had met one of the servers before at a friend's Thanksgiving dinner. She remembered that it was shortly after our wedding and mentioned that. We said yes, and told her we were celebrating our anniversary. Moments later, she reappeared with two large plates with tiny cups of creme brulee at their centers, and the words "Happy Anniversary" written in gorgeous script with chocolate sauce on the edge of the platters.

(We still had dessert coming, of course: Chocolate to the Fourth for Sabrina, with devils food, soft Gianduja ganache, sorbet and mousse, and Strawberries & Cream for me, with orange financier, lemon verbena and brown butter sable. Plus they sent us home with clear plastic bags of caramel corn, tied with brown ribbon.)

Oh, what a dinner! After, at home, I found myself wishing I had taken pictures of the food, captured each course. But then I had to smile at myself. No, no. It's better this way. It was exactly as it was supposed to be. Perfect for those three hours.

Walking Around with No Skin

2010-07-02T21:51:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday night, I gave a student dharma talk at our Zen sitting group. The topic that I chose was anger, the precept that I have been studying, and struggling with, and turning inside out on a daily basis for the past few months.

I spent several days carefully planning what I would say, trying to balance my own story with a few insights culled from the pages of Buddhist teachers like Robert Aitken and Thich Nhat Hanh and Seung Sahn. It felt pretty reasonable and coherent, on paper.

But when I sat in front of my sangha members, fourteen of them, and began to talk, all sorts of doubts cropped up. As part of my dealings with anger, I chronicled instances from my past when I had lost my cool. In sharing them, speaking them out loud, it seemed they became shocking, startling. It felt as if I was portraying myself as a person who snapped easily and often, a walking time bomb. I grew uneasy as I looked around the circle, trying to read everyone's faces. Did they think I was a monster?

A piece of me wanted to backtrack, and rewrite the script, to begin making explanations. After a reference to anger with a girlfriend, I longed to say, "I have been in a relationship with Sabrina for six years, and not once in that time have I ever yelled at her, or even raised my voice."

I scrambled through my memories, thinking of all of the other reactions that come with far greater frequency than my own anger or outward violence: disassociation, depression, fear, self-doubt, nightmares. Those have been my main battle.

But, no. That is not the point. I also have anger. It is there. It is inside me, often buried, but inside me nonetheless. And at times, it does burst out, usually inappropriately. I need to face that in all honesty and courage.

After the talk, a couple of my sangha members thanked me for my honesty. This, too, is something that catches me a little off guard. I appreciate the comment, since I know it is offered genuinely enough. But, there is simply no other way I know how to be. Even when at times it might be better to keep some things more private, out of self protection, I've never been very good at drawing that line. Most of my life, I have walked around with no skin. All you need to do is ask. If I know the answer, I will tell you. It's all here, right on the surface.

The downside to that, of course, is that on the day following such a talk, I feel completely naked in front of the world. And it is only through sitting, and breathing, and writing it down, that I can begin once more to believe that I will be able to walk into that room and face those people without fear. It is a process, one that I undertake over and over again.

Frittering

2010-06-27T22:45:00.000-07:00

I am stuck in a frittering mode...frittering away time. I guess it's partially because I am recovering from three weeks of hyper-alertness, after all the emergencies and interrupted sleep. I finally had a weekend with no need for extra trips anywhere. Add to that the 90+ heat, and it was a recipe for extended naps.

I have a long list of things I want to do. The basics are to get back into my routines: of blogging, of sitting, of writing, of reading, of walks at the river with my dog. Then there's the piano I haven't touched in months now, the piles of magazines that remain unopened, the e-mail in my inbox that I want to respond to but haven't made the time.

On Thursday, I had a meeting at the YWCA, my first, to begin volunteer work. I used to work as a volunteer doing domestic violence prevention advocacy, mostly community outreach. What I like best is giving talks to various groups, educating people about domestic violence, and potentially getting the word to victims. I have wanted for the past year or so to reenter that world. I finally made the phone call a month ago, and a new team of outreach volunteers met this week to brainstorm on plans. It felt good to take that first step. But now I have to do a bunch of reading, to refresh my knowledge on the subject, and I need to actually start making time in my weeks to do the work. One more thing to add to the list.

What I know about myself, is that when I am busy, I can get an amazing amount done. When I am idle, I do it like a professional. Everything stops. It's hard for me to be in the middle. Moderation has never been my strong point. And going from inertia to movement is always tricky - I'm never sure exactly how to start the proverbial ball rolling again.

I try setting schedules. Apparently that works for many people, but it never has for me. Whenever I write up a week's plan, or even a day's plan, I completely veer off course almost immediately. And then I berate myself for being so unreliable. Patterns, patterns. Sometimes it is a curse to know yourself so well.

How do you deal with time management, and getting out of the drag of inertia? Any thoughts on setting goals without setting yourself up for failure?

Upcoming Schedule, June 26 - July3 and Beyond

2010-06-22T23:01:00.000-07:00

Healdsburg Sangha:

Tuesday, June 29
7 p.m. sit and kinhin
7:45 p.m. service and dharma talk by Michelle Wing

Russian River Zendo:

Saturday, June 26
9 a.m. informal sit and service
10 a.m. formal sit
10:30 a.m. dharma talk and tea

Saturday, July 3
Closed for Fourth of July Weekend

Sunday, Aug. 15
8:30 a.m.-5 p.m. all day sit

Special Event:
Sunday, July 25
Dharma Float: kayaking trip & discussion of Dogen
(contact Debi Papazian to sign up)

Sitting in a Hut With Anger

2010-06-21T22:14:00.000-07:00

The passage in Jack Kornfield's "The Wise Heart" that spoke to me goes something like this:

Jack Kornfield had graduated from college, and gone to Thailand, where he had joined a Buddhist community and taken monk's vows. One day, he became upset because he felt he had been mistreated by a senior monk. It made him feel angry. He spoke to his teacher about the incident, hoping to find resolution. His teacher said, "Good. Go back to your hut, put on all of your robes, sit, and be angry."

It was in the middle of summer. He went to his small hut, put on all of his heavy monk's robes, and sat down to meditate. He was hot outside from the heat of the day and the heat of the robes. And he was hot inside, from the anger churning inside of him. The anger boiled up, all out of proportion to the incident which had occurred with the senior monk.

Kornfield had grown up in a home with a father who beat his mother. As a child, he had tried to be the peacemaker. All of his life, he had imagined that he was incapable of anger, that it was something that did not exist within him.

Sitting in that hut, he began to open that old wound, and slowly started the process of healing, by experiencing the anger. He worked with anger over the next few years. He realized that all along, he had been much closer to his father than he ever realized - so close, that he had suppressed the anger out of a deep fear of hurting himself or others.

I completely understand the flash anger that is out of proportion to the incident, such as Kornfield experienced when mistreated by the senior monk. My sense of righteous indignation is strong and fierce and sudden. Most recently, I have been dealing with some issues in my work, where I feel people are not being truthful with me. It is not personal; we are playing out roles, with me as a representative of "the press," while they are representatives of "interviewees." But I become incensed, enraged by the apparent dishonesty. I am quick to judge, and relentless in my determination to "win." My years of training have allowed me to camouflage that anger in their presence - I am a master at playing nice. But in the office, in front of my peers, I pace and rant and storm about. It seems that I am gradually losing my ability to tamp down the feelings. They keep popping up unexpectedly, lingering, following me home. I've been feeling really pissed off.

Although this feels like a loss of control, it is, ironically, I believe, a move in the right direction, a step towards greater cohesion. If I can face these little irks and problems, maybe then I can begin to tap into that deep well of rage boiling deep down inside of my gut. I think it is my time to go sit in my hot hut in all of my heavy robes.

Does That Evil Little Voice Ever Shut Up?

2010-06-20T22:18:00.000-07:00

In two short months I will go through my jukai ceremony. I am feeling woefully unprepared. It's been so crazy recently - with the extra load at work, first because of a co-worker's illness, and then because of my boss's long vacation, and then my grandmother's hospitalization and recuperation, and now this ongoing worry about our parrot - on Saturday, just as I was about to head out the door to my Precepts class, he had another "vascular event," as the vet put it, and we had to race him to the emergency clinic to put him in a tank with oxygen again. He is home, but still weak, and we have no idea what the prognosis is, and that is too much to even think about right now, so we are taking it one hour at a time.

There is this naggy little voice in my head that is berating me on a daily basis. You missed your Tuesday sitting group again. I can't believe you've missed Precepts twice now! And you had to find a substitute last week for doan duty! You're not blogging regularly! When was the last time you had dokusan? Are you serious about this? What kind of Buddhist are you, anyway?

It would be bad enough if the evil voice was only echoing around in my head during the day time. But it even shows up in my dreams. The other night I dreamed that Tony and Darlene were both mad at me, and took me aside to tell me how disappointed they were in me. The next night, I dreamed about my mother being disappointed in me. The next night, it was my boss. Hey, get in line! Apparently, everybody gets a turn!

In the middle of all of this mess, though, there is a tiny little voice saying, "But you're working really hard on some big issues now, too." The precept I chose to study for my year leading up to jukai was the one dealing with anger. For a while, it seemed that I had made a mistake, that it wasn't the right one. But in the past two months, I have come to realize that it is exactly the right one - my anger was simply so deeply buried that it has taken a long time for me to unearth it. Lately, it is spilling out all over the place, and I am learning a lot, about anger, and about myself.

When Tony and Darlene said people were one of three types, either greed, hate or delusion types, I could never figure that out. None of them seemed to fit for me. But reading a book by Jack Kornfield recently, I finally heard an analogy that opened it up for me, and I clearly saw myself - and I knew instantly that I was a hate type, which horrified me. I've been burying that for my entire adult life. That's where all that anger is.

So there's this part of me that knows that even though I haven't been able to keep every commitment I wanted to keep recently, I am still doing the work. I am still here, opening my heart every day, looking deeper, showing up.

I wish that other evil little voice would pipe down every now and then and give me a break. Any suggestions on how to hit the mute button?