Sit just to sit. And why not sit? You have to sit sometimes, and so you may as well really sit, and be altogether here. Otherwise the mind wanders away from the matter at hand, and away from the present. Even to think through the implications of the the present is to avoid the present moment completely. - Alan Watts in the Zen Calendar (June 27, 2007)
Day 57. I am very tired of the wind. I've noticed that the wind doesn't seem to care a bit. Evidently, I don't get a vote about how hard it blows.
I woke up today anxious and exhausted from a restless night fraught with disturbing dreams. I could not seem to shake the anxiety for most of the day. Frustrating, especially since I am supposedly a competent psychologist who knows a great deal about treating anxiety. Doctor: heal thyself! Anxiety is a mischievous beast. It doesn't seem to give a damn about whether or not I can produce a rational reason for its existence. Like everything else, it just IS.
This feeling state may be a remnant from some most unsatisfying cushion time as of late. I incontrovertibly agree with Alan Watts' quote, however, lately I am struggling with really sitting. I can't dwell in the moment. I can't mute the Monkeys. I am attempting to approach my meditation in earnest, noticing an internal scrutiny of my protocol like that of a newly promoted drill sergeant. Yet I've been a lousy sitter for several nights in a row.
A pox on the promise to be honest in my blog! But promise I did, so I am writing about two recent examples of how poorly zazen is going. A few nights ago, I had been sitting in a reasonably calm and quiet manner when I abruptly became acutely aware of the time. It felt like twenty minutes had already passed. I told myself that I would count ten more breaths. On about the third one, the timer blinked and I popped up off my cushion like a Toaster Strudel. No set of three side bows. No reverent and deep bow forward. No brushing off the imaginary dirt from the cushion. No gentle lifting of my cushions to store them on the chest. You would have thought the blinking timer was the zero digit on a bomb fuse. As I turned from mindlessly plunking my cushions down on the storage chest, I was overcome with a deep sense of mortification. What happened? Where was my mind? It hadn't fallen away, at least not in the pure and dignified Buddhist sense. It had fast forwarded to my profound attachment to getting some sleep.
Trying not to look over my shoulder as though a hidden camera had recorded my atrocities, I humbly placed my cushions back on the floor. Sat down, and slowly, deliberately, performed the ritual signifying the end of zazen. The corrective action did little to assuage my discomfiture. I told myself not be be attached to compulsively performing my sitting ritual. It felt like excuses and cheating. I was taught long and well about the value of mindfully approaching meditation.
On the heels of this anarchy, I approached zazen with a heightened degree of seriousness. I strongly, sternly, grounded myself on my cushion for some somber sitting. Several deep breaths passed through a perfectly held mudra. Then I heard something right behind me calmly licking its chops. At first I thought it was Reality. Reflexively I turned and saw it was Katy (the border collie), come to round up an errant member of her flock. In an inpatient voice, I said, "Katy, quit licking!" I was aghast. I had done it again. Interrupted zazen with a random and unnecessary impulse. Katy and I both tucked our tails; she returned to her kennel, I to my sitting.
During the time I sat with the sangha at my teacher's house, we were extremely formal. He emphasized the style of zazen he learned from Suzuki Roshi at the San Francisco Zen Center. It was a very ancient, traditional, precise form of meditation. I adored and revered it. I could sit motionless for forty minutes, making the guards at Buckingham Palace look hyperactive. I could abstain from scratching the most persistent of itches. My spine and knees could wail in agony, and I held my position. I don't recall feeling attached to perfection. I respected my teacher and was deeply invested in communicating that sentiment through flawless sitting.
These thoughts and experiences are jumbled in my heart. I know the thing to do is get my butt on my cushion. Somehow it seems timely that, beginning tomorrow, I'm going to sit for just a little bit longer.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Be A Part Of It All
And everything comes to One as we dance on. Dance on. Dance on. - _________ in the Zen Calendar _____________
Day 56. Short blog in honor of March Madness and the amazing women athletes of the NCAA.
I belong to something. I haven't always belonged, and the feeling of being on the inside of something is immense. Today was the first official ride of the EZ Rider road season. And what a ride it was!
We turned out in our colors. Watch for us -- our jerseys are the blue of summer sky and the yellow of a brilliant sun shining in it. Some of us had not seen one another since the season ended last October. We exchanged warm smiles of greeting and exuberant hand shakes. The pleasure of seeing one another was genuine. The excitement of riding together again was palpable.
I know that different cycling clubs and teams each have their unique set of dynamics. Groups tend to take on their own identity. The team dynamic seems to have everything to do with how strongly the members identify with one another and with being a part of the team. The EZ riders are strongly identified with each other. Individual egos are left in the parking lot, and the good of the team is sincerely upheld in all of us. We watch out for one another in a hundred subtle ways. We have our own verbal and nonverbal shorthand for relaying information about performance and safety. Each rider contributes to the team effort through his or her distinctive talents. We have sprinters and climbers and strong pullers. Some team mates reliably provide emotional support -- uplifting morale on especially difficult rides (like when the Oklahoma headwinds howl at us with 40 mph gusts).
The very best thing, and the deciding factor for me when I joined the EZ Riders, is that noone gets dropped. Getting dropped means left by the peloton to ride back alone. I've ridden with groups that dropped riders who couldn't keep up. When you are by yourself after a strenuous attempt at trying to stay with the group, it is a long, lonely, discouraging pedal back home. With my team, if you are "off the back" (usually exhausted, sometimes ill, or maybe just having a bad day), someone always drops back to pick you up. Usually, they lend a wheel for you to draft, and pull you up to the group. We've all been off the back at some point or another.
For me, something incredibly powerful happens when a team mate drops back to pull me up to the peloton. It is something much more than the literal assistance provided by someone blocking the wind and creating an air flow that conserves my energy. There is a psychological and spiritual uplifting that accompanies the act. It says to me, "I matter. The Whole wants me back. It has come to get me so that I may remain a part of it."
This is Buddhism. No separation. We all belong. And everything comes to One. Dance on.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 56. Short blog in honor of March Madness and the amazing women athletes of the NCAA.
I belong to something. I haven't always belonged, and the feeling of being on the inside of something is immense. Today was the first official ride of the EZ Rider road season. And what a ride it was!
We turned out in our colors. Watch for us -- our jerseys are the blue of summer sky and the yellow of a brilliant sun shining in it. Some of us had not seen one another since the season ended last October. We exchanged warm smiles of greeting and exuberant hand shakes. The pleasure of seeing one another was genuine. The excitement of riding together again was palpable.
I know that different cycling clubs and teams each have their unique set of dynamics. Groups tend to take on their own identity. The team dynamic seems to have everything to do with how strongly the members identify with one another and with being a part of the team. The EZ riders are strongly identified with each other. Individual egos are left in the parking lot, and the good of the team is sincerely upheld in all of us. We watch out for one another in a hundred subtle ways. We have our own verbal and nonverbal shorthand for relaying information about performance and safety. Each rider contributes to the team effort through his or her distinctive talents. We have sprinters and climbers and strong pullers. Some team mates reliably provide emotional support -- uplifting morale on especially difficult rides (like when the Oklahoma headwinds howl at us with 40 mph gusts).
The very best thing, and the deciding factor for me when I joined the EZ Riders, is that noone gets dropped. Getting dropped means left by the peloton to ride back alone. I've ridden with groups that dropped riders who couldn't keep up. When you are by yourself after a strenuous attempt at trying to stay with the group, it is a long, lonely, discouraging pedal back home. With my team, if you are "off the back" (usually exhausted, sometimes ill, or maybe just having a bad day), someone always drops back to pick you up. Usually, they lend a wheel for you to draft, and pull you up to the group. We've all been off the back at some point or another.
For me, something incredibly powerful happens when a team mate drops back to pull me up to the peloton. It is something much more than the literal assistance provided by someone blocking the wind and creating an air flow that conserves my energy. There is a psychological and spiritual uplifting that accompanies the act. It says to me, "I matter. The Whole wants me back. It has come to get me so that I may remain a part of it."
This is Buddhism. No separation. We all belong. And everything comes to One. Dance on.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tri-Titled Blog
To enjoy the world without judgment is what a realized life is like. - Charlotte Joko Beck in the Zen Calendar (September 26, 2009) Note: Quote is subject to change -- I just can't find the one I am looking for.
Day 55. My dad used to say (a lot), "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But I'm going to blog today anyway.
I'm not fond of the days I end up writing a whole lot about not having anything to write about. Instead, I'll explain the title to today's blog. About halfway through today, the title was going to be "Crashing Back to Earth." I was going to write gloomily about the post-adrenaline blues that accompanied getting off the bike and going to work. That blog was definitely going to have an Eeyore-esque tone. Since I was in no hurry to write it, I decided to take a walk in the beautiful Spring evening. One of the things I do while walking is look for change (i.e. coins - not a surprising turn of events). I wasn't three houses from my own when I spotted a penny. And another. And another. Not even off my block yet, and I've made three cents (my record for one walk is 14 cents). I briefly considered categorizing this as a Peak Experience. Especially since these penny finds appear to be comprising my retirement savings. I walked on, deciding to call tonight's blog "My Three Cents Worth." I began to free associate to a blog about the ramifications of walking with my head down rather than walking while looking forward.
These thoughts carried me about four more blocks. I was blogging along in my head (so much for being fully present in the moment), recalling the walk where I found a dime and four pennies when lo! and Behold! I look down and see a quarter. A whole, shiny, no-doubt recently-dropped quarter. I stooped to pick it up, aware that I was feeling much less like Eeyore, whom I'm certain never found a quarter in his life because Pooh would have talked about it. I mentally switched my blog title to "Unexpected Quarters." Naturally, this would be an upbeat blog about Peak Experiences, unanticipated pleasures, serendipitous discoveries, blah, blah, blah.
I walked for another mile or so, and as the sun set I concluded that 28 cents was probably going to be my new record for coin collecting. I observed that in less than three miles I had formulated three different titles for today's blog. I sort of liked all the titles, but realized that, still, no stupendous blogging material was rising to consciousness. I considered returning to my original plan, which was essentially to gripe and moan about Mondays, work, and my ongoing failure to find someone to pay me a living to ride bikes. Then that small section of my brain that still has a few memory cells remaining quietly asked, "What does that have to do with Zen?"
It was at that point that my dilemma was solved. I would call the blog "Tri-Titled Blog" and simply illuminate the title-selection process. This conclusion felt like it had everything to do with Zen. Zen is about being in touch with Reality. Zen is about experiencing and representing things truthfully. Zen is about the absence of need to gussy things up, to exaggerate, to pontificate. Zen is about what IS. Sometimes this is so simple that it alludes me. I often struggle with understanding what is enough. Holy crap! Peak experience right this second! What is - IS enough! That just came to me as I read the words "what is enough." Just think, ten minutes ago I had nothing substantive to write about!
Damn. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself, so I'm going to have to stop writing to garner my might to squelch my burgeoning ego. I was about finished anyway. Another thing my dad used to say (a lot) was, "Know when to say when."
Gassho (and "When"),
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 55. My dad used to say (a lot), "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But I'm going to blog today anyway.
I'm not fond of the days I end up writing a whole lot about not having anything to write about. Instead, I'll explain the title to today's blog. About halfway through today, the title was going to be "Crashing Back to Earth." I was going to write gloomily about the post-adrenaline blues that accompanied getting off the bike and going to work. That blog was definitely going to have an Eeyore-esque tone. Since I was in no hurry to write it, I decided to take a walk in the beautiful Spring evening. One of the things I do while walking is look for change (i.e. coins - not a surprising turn of events). I wasn't three houses from my own when I spotted a penny. And another. And another. Not even off my block yet, and I've made three cents (my record for one walk is 14 cents). I briefly considered categorizing this as a Peak Experience. Especially since these penny finds appear to be comprising my retirement savings. I walked on, deciding to call tonight's blog "My Three Cents Worth." I began to free associate to a blog about the ramifications of walking with my head down rather than walking while looking forward.
These thoughts carried me about four more blocks. I was blogging along in my head (so much for being fully present in the moment), recalling the walk where I found a dime and four pennies when lo! and Behold! I look down and see a quarter. A whole, shiny, no-doubt recently-dropped quarter. I stooped to pick it up, aware that I was feeling much less like Eeyore, whom I'm certain never found a quarter in his life because Pooh would have talked about it. I mentally switched my blog title to "Unexpected Quarters." Naturally, this would be an upbeat blog about Peak Experiences, unanticipated pleasures, serendipitous discoveries, blah, blah, blah.
I walked for another mile or so, and as the sun set I concluded that 28 cents was probably going to be my new record for coin collecting. I observed that in less than three miles I had formulated three different titles for today's blog. I sort of liked all the titles, but realized that, still, no stupendous blogging material was rising to consciousness. I considered returning to my original plan, which was essentially to gripe and moan about Mondays, work, and my ongoing failure to find someone to pay me a living to ride bikes. Then that small section of my brain that still has a few memory cells remaining quietly asked, "What does that have to do with Zen?"
It was at that point that my dilemma was solved. I would call the blog "Tri-Titled Blog" and simply illuminate the title-selection process. This conclusion felt like it had everything to do with Zen. Zen is about being in touch with Reality. Zen is about experiencing and representing things truthfully. Zen is about the absence of need to gussy things up, to exaggerate, to pontificate. Zen is about what IS. Sometimes this is so simple that it alludes me. I often struggle with understanding what is enough. Holy crap! Peak experience right this second! What is - IS enough! That just came to me as I read the words "what is enough." Just think, ten minutes ago I had nothing substantive to write about!
Damn. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself, so I'm going to have to stop writing to garner my might to squelch my burgeoning ego. I was about finished anyway. Another thing my dad used to say (a lot) was, "Know when to say when."
Gassho (and "When"),
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Same Song, Second Verse
Benny: "Hey, Ted, how would you like to blast up that?"
Ted: "I wouldn't even want to blast down that!" - EZ Riders on March 27, 2010
Day 54. A day in paradise, or another mountain bike ride? Oops - they are the same thing!
I have been robustly crediting my meditation with lifting my spirit, leveling my emotions, and brightening my soul. Who knew it would strengthen my body and straighten my spine?! My physical self seems to be thriving as well. I'd attribute it to Spring, but Spring in Oklahoma generally does nothing but clog my sinuses and make my head want to explode. Must be the sitting.
We rode like a banshee again today. Unprecedented since I had my first heat incident in 2007. One day I will blog about my near demise while road riding; suffice it to say for now that I have been impatiently working on a long comeback. Nietzsche said if it doesn't kill me, it makes me stronger. I had begun to think that if it didn't kill me, it might keep me off the bike for the rest of my life. Thankfully, patience (or grudging necessity), meditation, and numerous trips to an internal medicine specialist seem to be paying off. I am having glimpses of how I could ride three years ago. Thank the Buddha!
During the twenty minutes on my cushion last night, I could not quit thinking about yesterday's ride. I sat there grinning like a Buddha who has discovered mango flavored green tea. Poured over the day in my mind while breathing quietly and sitting up extra straight. I kept thinking about the junctures where Ted took a bypass and I powered forward over terrain that usually makes me tremble. I was not feeling competitive with or superior to Ted; on the contrary, I respect him immensely and recognized that he drops me like Toyota stock when we are on road bikes. Internally, we approach mountain biking so differently now. Ted is cautious and vigilant and ever mindful of the potential Big Crash. I strongly identify with that. I watch him disappear into his brain on the trails, and his meticulous mind perpetually opts for safety. I've never seen him crash. I've never heard him give jubilant shouts, either.
A word incessantly throbbed in my thoughts today: Passion! Meditation is bringing forth my passion. When I let go of attachments, a tremendous amount of fear disperses as well. When I am not attached to certain ride outcomes, or getting it right the first time, or not bleeding, or being freakishly strong, or the innumerable other preferences that consume my energy and blur my focus -- my world is an indomitable place in which to live. I may be using the word "passion" in an unconventional sense. I'm thinking of passion in the "Big Mind" sense. No limits, no qualifications, no inhibitions. Living passionately feels like I am developing the capacity to live life fully as it comes. It's not the same as naive optimism - I feel acutely aware of the painful aspects of being alive. There is simply room for it all. I feel kind of empty and open inside, which allows space for this sense of expansive possibility. It makes me feel passionate.
During the last five miles of the ride yesterday, we encountered this huge, steep hill. It angled straight up, and was strewn from top to bottom with loose rock, jutting ledges, and deep crevices. My partner and Ted exchanged the quote I used today, and we laughingly chose the less daunting bypass. As the skies clouded over and the wind howled, we rode out two more miles, turned around, and headed back. This terrain was much more tame than our earlier miles, so we flew over it at top speed. I'm sure the pace also reflected how revved up we were from the exciting day; everyone was riding extraordinarily well. Suddenly, I heard my partner exclaim, "Oh -- here it is!" and he disappeared from sight. Mainly because he had abruptly dropped over the edge of that killer hill. I was right on his wheel, flying along, still a Buddha on my bike. It did not occur to my Buddha self to stop -- I was too into the flow. In all honesty, I was also riding way to fast to react in time. I spilled over the edge, too. Immediately realized where we were. Slid way back, almost off my seat, tightened my core, and blasted down that hill like a lightening strike. Never touched the brakes. We were going so fast that the wheels could only plane over the rocks. It felt like I wasn't even touching the ground. I burst out laughing as a rush of adrenaline zapped me. The endorphins pulsated through my blood stream, making the colors in the woods and sky vibrant and alive. My partner was waiting at the bottom, grinning like we were Olympians on the podium. We bumped knuckles.
Turning, we looked toward the bypass trail and waited for Ted to emerge. Waited a couple of minutes. Looked questioningly at one another. Then my partner's eyes shifted to the steep hill. Ted was descending it. He wasn't laughing, or shouting, or looking at all pleased, but he was riding it all the same. As he pulled up beside us, we shouted surprised congratulations. Ted explained that he had seen as plummet over the edge, and he stopped at the top and peered down. Thought a lot. Considered the bypass. Back up, clipped in, and carefully, cautiously, spilled over the ledge. Bumped down the hill with both feet dragging, but made it to the bottom upright. We said it totally counted.
I think there are times in our lives when we are up to plunging over the edge, never touching our brakes. Today I learned from Ted that, at other times, we first need to scope things out, and take them at our own pace. Just do it the way we need to; allowing whatever works. Slowing down and checking it out first may help us try things we usually bypass. This way, we get to have a lot more first times. That's something to feel passionate about.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Ted: "I wouldn't even want to blast down that!" - EZ Riders on March 27, 2010
Day 54. A day in paradise, or another mountain bike ride? Oops - they are the same thing!
I have been robustly crediting my meditation with lifting my spirit, leveling my emotions, and brightening my soul. Who knew it would strengthen my body and straighten my spine?! My physical self seems to be thriving as well. I'd attribute it to Spring, but Spring in Oklahoma generally does nothing but clog my sinuses and make my head want to explode. Must be the sitting.
We rode like a banshee again today. Unprecedented since I had my first heat incident in 2007. One day I will blog about my near demise while road riding; suffice it to say for now that I have been impatiently working on a long comeback. Nietzsche said if it doesn't kill me, it makes me stronger. I had begun to think that if it didn't kill me, it might keep me off the bike for the rest of my life. Thankfully, patience (or grudging necessity), meditation, and numerous trips to an internal medicine specialist seem to be paying off. I am having glimpses of how I could ride three years ago. Thank the Buddha!
During the twenty minutes on my cushion last night, I could not quit thinking about yesterday's ride. I sat there grinning like a Buddha who has discovered mango flavored green tea. Poured over the day in my mind while breathing quietly and sitting up extra straight. I kept thinking about the junctures where Ted took a bypass and I powered forward over terrain that usually makes me tremble. I was not feeling competitive with or superior to Ted; on the contrary, I respect him immensely and recognized that he drops me like Toyota stock when we are on road bikes. Internally, we approach mountain biking so differently now. Ted is cautious and vigilant and ever mindful of the potential Big Crash. I strongly identify with that. I watch him disappear into his brain on the trails, and his meticulous mind perpetually opts for safety. I've never seen him crash. I've never heard him give jubilant shouts, either.
A word incessantly throbbed in my thoughts today: Passion! Meditation is bringing forth my passion. When I let go of attachments, a tremendous amount of fear disperses as well. When I am not attached to certain ride outcomes, or getting it right the first time, or not bleeding, or being freakishly strong, or the innumerable other preferences that consume my energy and blur my focus -- my world is an indomitable place in which to live. I may be using the word "passion" in an unconventional sense. I'm thinking of passion in the "Big Mind" sense. No limits, no qualifications, no inhibitions. Living passionately feels like I am developing the capacity to live life fully as it comes. It's not the same as naive optimism - I feel acutely aware of the painful aspects of being alive. There is simply room for it all. I feel kind of empty and open inside, which allows space for this sense of expansive possibility. It makes me feel passionate.
During the last five miles of the ride yesterday, we encountered this huge, steep hill. It angled straight up, and was strewn from top to bottom with loose rock, jutting ledges, and deep crevices. My partner and Ted exchanged the quote I used today, and we laughingly chose the less daunting bypass. As the skies clouded over and the wind howled, we rode out two more miles, turned around, and headed back. This terrain was much more tame than our earlier miles, so we flew over it at top speed. I'm sure the pace also reflected how revved up we were from the exciting day; everyone was riding extraordinarily well. Suddenly, I heard my partner exclaim, "Oh -- here it is!" and he disappeared from sight. Mainly because he had abruptly dropped over the edge of that killer hill. I was right on his wheel, flying along, still a Buddha on my bike. It did not occur to my Buddha self to stop -- I was too into the flow. In all honesty, I was also riding way to fast to react in time. I spilled over the edge, too. Immediately realized where we were. Slid way back, almost off my seat, tightened my core, and blasted down that hill like a lightening strike. Never touched the brakes. We were going so fast that the wheels could only plane over the rocks. It felt like I wasn't even touching the ground. I burst out laughing as a rush of adrenaline zapped me. The endorphins pulsated through my blood stream, making the colors in the woods and sky vibrant and alive. My partner was waiting at the bottom, grinning like we were Olympians on the podium. We bumped knuckles.
Turning, we looked toward the bypass trail and waited for Ted to emerge. Waited a couple of minutes. Looked questioningly at one another. Then my partner's eyes shifted to the steep hill. Ted was descending it. He wasn't laughing, or shouting, or looking at all pleased, but he was riding it all the same. As he pulled up beside us, we shouted surprised congratulations. Ted explained that he had seen as plummet over the edge, and he stopped at the top and peered down. Thought a lot. Considered the bypass. Back up, clipped in, and carefully, cautiously, spilled over the ledge. Bumped down the hill with both feet dragging, but made it to the bottom upright. We said it totally counted.
I think there are times in our lives when we are up to plunging over the edge, never touching our brakes. Today I learned from Ted that, at other times, we first need to scope things out, and take them at our own pace. Just do it the way we need to; allowing whatever works. Slowing down and checking it out first may help us try things we usually bypass. This way, we get to have a lot more first times. That's something to feel passionate about.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The Rock Garden of Eden
I know it was wonderful, but I don't know how I did it. - Laurence Olivier in the Zen Calendar (May 2, 20003)
Day 53. Welcome, New Followers (is it just me, or does that sound a wee bit evangelical?) Thank you, and Gassho. As soon as I can feel my fingers (they are presently paralyzed with performance anxiety), I will write you another blog.
Dawn on Saturday mornings in the spring brings a crucial decision: Road or mountain bike? This morning was a no-brainer. The wind was blowing 40 mph -- head for the hills! Mountain bike season is waning (love the sport, hate ticks and poison ivy) so every ride is precious. I just returned from Ardmore after riding eighteen miles on the Lake Murray trails. I'm trying to find a way to describe the ride with the accuracy and clarity I've committed to without bulging at the Ego. Hmmm. Nope. Can't be done.
Me and Buddha on the bike. I knew a quarter of a mile into the ride that I would be blogging about it. I'm rather bipolar when I ride mountain bikes (I'm a shrink, so I can credibly toss around these diagnostic terms). To quote my mother, "When I am good, I am very, very good, and when I am bad, I am horrid!" I have had rides where I had to be scraped out of ravines and we ran out of band aids before the halfway point. Usually, these were the rides when I would get way up into my head -- over-thinking every pedal stroke, over-analyzing the terrain, second guessing my timing, undermining my reflexes. Basically, riding like crap. Usually, once I've gravitated to the upper cerebral cortex, I can't come down and salvage the ride. I'm tight and hesitant and frustrated and angry (well, no, actually mountain bikers get pissed). Not a very pleasant riding companion. I've never actually hurled my bike, but that's probably because I was just too sore.
Many variables contributed to the astounding ride today. I was with my dream team: my partner and our good friend Ted. The weather was warm but not hot, low humidity, and plenty of breeze. After seeing two guys on the trail early in the ride, we seemed to be the only three people within five hundred acres. By some amazing planetary alignment, both my bike and my body were in perfect working order. Most importantly: as soon as I began to pedal I noticed that, although my hands were safely gripping the handlebars, I was breathing through my mudra. At least, where my mudra rests when I sit zazen. I followed a couple of breaths as they whooshed in and out. I knew - I just KNEW - that today's ride was going to kick ass.
I wasn't in my head -- I was on my bike! At any given second, I was just IN that second, ON that trail, RIDING my bike. A few years ago I used to ride with some guys that were about ten years younger than me (yes, I have a clinical term for that, but I'm not going there). On Tuesday nights, they used to meet for what they called a "flow ride." The idea was to just flow with the trail, and try not to use your brakes. I'm pretty sure their flow may have been substance enhanced; I, on the other hand, rarely got into a rhythm that remotely resembled flow. I sort of chopped. Or sputtered. I rode so far up into my head, it's a wonder my bike didn't levitate of its own accord.
At Lake Murray, there are several sections of trail called Rock Gardens. I have no idea why. Perhaps my connotation of the word "garden" is unique, but I've always pictured them as these pleasant, serene, green, flowery areas. These "gardens" were portions of trail, usually on a steep climb or descent, littered with treacherous rocks and boulders that were clearly intentionally placed in strategic positions to make you crash on the sharpest ones. Nature would never design such perilous pathways. With each crank of my pedals, there were about a thousand different things that could go wrong. Loose rock, lose momentum, take the wrong line, bury my front wheel, jam my back wheel, pop up a ledge so forcefully that my shoe comes unclipped . . . not to mention the urge to just tip myself over to cut the tension and end the terror. And not a flower in sight.
During the first few rocky patches, we would stop, dismount the bikes, and stand staring at the trail like river guides before the rapids. We discussed, pointed, contemplated, picked a line. We would then jump on the bikes, clip in, and three characteristic things would happen: My partner would flow through like poetry in motion; I would optimistically follow, catching myself a heartbeat before I crashed, and Ted would opt out and take the bypass. Then the guys would patiently stand at the top of the hard section while I tried a second, third (and once, fourth!) time until I got it. Yes, there was bloodshed. Yes, there was triumph.
The ride progressed, and I continued to mudra breathe. At a moment I cannot distinguish, I began to flow. I flowed from the place where I sit zazen: a centered, present, Place of the One. I was out of my head, and out of my mind. We came to the Mother of all Rock Gardens. Ted took the bypass. I followed my partner. There was no trail -- only rocks. Big rocks and bigger boulders. Tricky cracks and irregular crevices lying in wait to take a bite out of a pedal or chain ring. A million different lines, none of which seemed possible to execute. Upon entering, there was no turning back. I considered the options, concluding this was like a Pass/Fail class. I either rode the whole section through, or I crashed and lay there because I could never get back on my bike on such uneven terrain, and it was too hazardous to walk out. I guess the "Fail" option comes with helicopter evacuation. This section of trail is illustrated when you Google "expert technical mountain biking." It seemed to stretch to infinity.
We rode it. Clear through. No crash, no MediFlight. The line just offered itself up, and I guided my bike over it. Except it didn't feel like I was a guide at all. My bike and body just merged and poured over the rocks like water. Instinct, reflex, flow. My mind didn't think; I had ridden out of it. If a single thought had flickered, all would have been lost. I would have freaked out. Like all intense moments, looking back at it comes to me in slow motion, though I wasn't moving slowly. When we emerged out of the garden onto dirt trail, I gave a jubilant shout. Thanked the Buddha. Felt like a bad ass.
I ride best in unfamiliar territory. It's because I can't anticipate dreaded segments and fret about how I will ride; I don't approach anything with preconceived notions. This is where Buddhism is trying to lead us: to approach each moment of our lives with the utter openness and freshness it deserves. No moment like it has come before, and no moment exactly like it will follow. If we live from this "Beginner's Mind" we won't clutter our encounters with debris that doesn't belong. We can be objective, and accepting, and let Reality unfold. We can sail right through the rock gardens of our lives.
I can't speak to what a sitting practice does for anyone else. Oftentimes, I can't even get words to what it does for me. There is just something within me that feels like it is being born and nurtured through my meditation. It's complex and multifaceted. It is also simple as dirt. Breathe. Ride. Flow.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, March 26, 2010
Templates and Tension
To the right, books; to the left, a tea cup. In front of me, the fireplace; behind me, the post. There is no greater happiness than this. - Teiga in the Zen Calendar (May 31, 2009)
Day 52. I'm so tired that I balked at buckling my dog's collar. And she was holding perfectly still.
When I checked my e-mail today (I try to look once a week, whether it needs it or not), I had a message from blogger.com informing me of the fantastic new blog templates that are now available. Bright colors! New fonts! Custom design! I am not yet over the triumph of the confident ease with which I can set the timer on my cell phone, and along comes another cyber-reminder that I am not hip. I'm not really that invested in being hip; I just hate the constant evidence of how truly unhip I am.
When I was in grade school, one of my favorite things to do was sit at my dad's monstrous wooden desk and type on my mother's ancient portable, manual, Royal typewriter. It was made of heavy, substantial metal, and made the most amazing, industrious sound. The keys literally clattered when I typed. I bet the font was Courier, and I remember specifically the little lever that switched the font size from 10 to 12. Every once in a while, when finances allowed, my mom purchased a ribbon for the Royal that produced red type. I thought it the most amazing invention in the world. It was probably made around 1955. I didn't take an official typing class until my junior year in high school, where I busted out about 120 wpm because of my familiarity with the Royal. I was in my element. I am filled with fondness for that young girl who was enchanted with words from the very beginning.
Nestled closely to our ADD chromosomes, our family has a fairly hefty set of obsessive-compulsive genes. We're counters and checkers and ritual-performers, though everyone seems to have successfully dodged the cleaning component. I'll elaborate in a future post, but suffice it to say that my brain lights up in the presence of symmetry the way the Disney Channel lights up when it features a Shia LaBeouf movie. It was my biological destiny to delight in the presence of a 1956 Royal typewriter. Compact, precise, hardy, dependable. Easy to operate. The thing could tumble down the stairs, bounce twice before landing on our floor furnace, and you could still pick it up and start typing on the same line. If I look sideways at something with a silicon chip, it blows up. I should be banned from all technology after about 1972 (whatever year followed the invention of the microwave - I rock on those).
I'm sure I have a point in this tangential bit of retro-babble. My point is that I like old things. I am a reasonably smart and capable person when I am motivated, and I can usually figure out something when I care to. But I rarely care to. Call me a pragmatist (or a dinosaur!) - but I loathe anything that is developed beyond what is necessary to achieve its purpose. Things that look like they are trying too hard make me anxious. My OCD genes tremble in the face of too many choices -- especially when they make no substantive difference. I am an ardent admirer of metal paper clips, rubber bands, twist ties, bungie cords, baking soda, ear candles, three television networks with the option of PBS, my Sears Huffy bike, and -- my all time favorite -- Post-it Notes.
I realize this makes me a lousy capitalist and probably a bad American. It is highly likely that my blog will continue to be in black and white with the default font, and I will focus on attempting to write something substantive. Thankfully, these exact traits make me damn suited for Zen. Think I'll go have some rice and tea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 52. I'm so tired that I balked at buckling my dog's collar. And she was holding perfectly still.
When I checked my e-mail today (I try to look once a week, whether it needs it or not), I had a message from blogger.com informing me of the fantastic new blog templates that are now available. Bright colors! New fonts! Custom design! I am not yet over the triumph of the confident ease with which I can set the timer on my cell phone, and along comes another cyber-reminder that I am not hip. I'm not really that invested in being hip; I just hate the constant evidence of how truly unhip I am.
When I was in grade school, one of my favorite things to do was sit at my dad's monstrous wooden desk and type on my mother's ancient portable, manual, Royal typewriter. It was made of heavy, substantial metal, and made the most amazing, industrious sound. The keys literally clattered when I typed. I bet the font was Courier, and I remember specifically the little lever that switched the font size from 10 to 12. Every once in a while, when finances allowed, my mom purchased a ribbon for the Royal that produced red type. I thought it the most amazing invention in the world. It was probably made around 1955. I didn't take an official typing class until my junior year in high school, where I busted out about 120 wpm because of my familiarity with the Royal. I was in my element. I am filled with fondness for that young girl who was enchanted with words from the very beginning.
Nestled closely to our ADD chromosomes, our family has a fairly hefty set of obsessive-compulsive genes. We're counters and checkers and ritual-performers, though everyone seems to have successfully dodged the cleaning component. I'll elaborate in a future post, but suffice it to say that my brain lights up in the presence of symmetry the way the Disney Channel lights up when it features a Shia LaBeouf movie. It was my biological destiny to delight in the presence of a 1956 Royal typewriter. Compact, precise, hardy, dependable. Easy to operate. The thing could tumble down the stairs, bounce twice before landing on our floor furnace, and you could still pick it up and start typing on the same line. If I look sideways at something with a silicon chip, it blows up. I should be banned from all technology after about 1972 (whatever year followed the invention of the microwave - I rock on those).
I'm sure I have a point in this tangential bit of retro-babble. My point is that I like old things. I am a reasonably smart and capable person when I am motivated, and I can usually figure out something when I care to. But I rarely care to. Call me a pragmatist (or a dinosaur!) - but I loathe anything that is developed beyond what is necessary to achieve its purpose. Things that look like they are trying too hard make me anxious. My OCD genes tremble in the face of too many choices -- especially when they make no substantive difference. I am an ardent admirer of metal paper clips, rubber bands, twist ties, bungie cords, baking soda, ear candles, three television networks with the option of PBS, my Sears Huffy bike, and -- my all time favorite -- Post-it Notes.
I realize this makes me a lousy capitalist and probably a bad American. It is highly likely that my blog will continue to be in black and white with the default font, and I will focus on attempting to write something substantive. Thankfully, these exact traits make me damn suited for Zen. Think I'll go have some rice and tea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Inky Black Darkness
Cease from practice based on intellectual understanding, pursuing words, and following after speech, and learn the backward step that turns your light inward to illuminate your self. Body and mind of themselves will drop away, and your original face will be manifest. - Dogen in the Zen Calendar (October 18, 2002)
Day 51. Wow. This quote, almost eight years ago, referenced two important concepts I've previously blogged about: body and mind falling away, and coming to know my original face. So far, my body and mind are still present and intact, and I've not yet perceived the appearance of my original face. Guess I'll sit some more. That's okay -- I was going to sit anyway.
Last night I felt crooked, tilted, and asymmetrical on my cushion. I considered developing a profound and intellectual metaphor with which to elaborate, but realized that the true phenomena was simply my scoliosis tugging me off center because I have neglected my stretching regime. That's the whole picture. It is what it is.
Symmetry (or lack thereof) aside, I had an interesting experience while meditating. After a series of ham's and sah's, I concentrated on the sensation of dropping down into my "lizard brain" - the locale of my amygdala - to escape the Monkeys. They usually hover above, concentrated in my thinking brain. When I dwell in the territory of my ancient brain, it seems to up the chance that my mind can fall away. Last night my consciousness shot right past the amygdala ledge, and floated out into inky black darkness. Suspended. Detached. No thought no feeling no perception. A glimmer of transcendence.
A few years ago I was teaching at the Air Force Base in Treebeek, Netherlands. My son had accompanied me on the trip, and we had embarked upon one of my requisite forays into the unknown. We found ourselves on a tour of the "Velvet Caves" in the area. The caves were originally mined for limestone, but in the 1940's they were utilized as hideouts during the war. Their history was resplendent with human drama, including stunning murals drawn with chunks of coal on the cave walls. At one point during our walk through the caves, the tour guide announced that she would be extinguishing her lantern so that we could sample the unique darkness. Abruptly, we were plunged into a blackness unlike anything I had ever experienced. The dark was a fluid, tangible, living thing. Inky, thick, heavy, and moist. All orientation to space and time was lost, and in the absence of visual cues it became impossible to command simple body functions. Cognitive and physical equilibrium waned, followed by a sense of confusion, vulnerability, and helplessness. I felt more curiosity than fear. Other members of our group, however, loudly voiced their distress. The guide hastily illuminated her lantern. There was a sound of laughter mixed with anxiety and relief.
When I entered deep darkness while meditating last night, again I did not feel fear. There were a couple of moments of contemplating the dark, and recognizing my cerebral self describing it. I consciously switched the label of "inky black darkness" to "velvety darkness." The connotation felt very different. "Inky black" felt dangerous, precarious, sinister. I recalled the "Velvet Caves" and was mindful of my associations to the word "velvet" - soft, sensual, benign. The fringe of my awareness registered this analytic activity, and then let go of it. I drifted softly, safely, into the black nothingness. Untethered, unanchored, released.
As I write of the experience now, I am suffering from a reminder that "When you speak of it, you lose it." This time, however, it is a little different. A thought about what happened feels important to record. I have as yet to wrap my mind around the Buddhist concept of "Big Mind," but my infantile understanding is that it is a state that allows room for inclusion of everything; i.e. an utterly non-dualistic, expansive frame of reference for apprehending something. Last night, the very Ego that I try to dodge reframed my experience of the dark such that I could launch into it and briefly experience a sort of transcendence. When we're fearful, we tend to quit moving forward, to freeze, to cease risk-taking and become wary. My thinking brain intervened on my behalf to lessen potential fear. It seems like my ego provided a function in the service of transcendence, rather than interfering with it. Puzzling and contradictory. How can that beast of an ego I'm supposed to conquer assist me in the very quest it supposedly impedes?
This is why monks disappear into caves. As for me, I'm headed to the velvety darkness.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 51. Wow. This quote, almost eight years ago, referenced two important concepts I've previously blogged about: body and mind falling away, and coming to know my original face. So far, my body and mind are still present and intact, and I've not yet perceived the appearance of my original face. Guess I'll sit some more. That's okay -- I was going to sit anyway.
Last night I felt crooked, tilted, and asymmetrical on my cushion. I considered developing a profound and intellectual metaphor with which to elaborate, but realized that the true phenomena was simply my scoliosis tugging me off center because I have neglected my stretching regime. That's the whole picture. It is what it is.
Symmetry (or lack thereof) aside, I had an interesting experience while meditating. After a series of ham's and sah's, I concentrated on the sensation of dropping down into my "lizard brain" - the locale of my amygdala - to escape the Monkeys. They usually hover above, concentrated in my thinking brain. When I dwell in the territory of my ancient brain, it seems to up the chance that my mind can fall away. Last night my consciousness shot right past the amygdala ledge, and floated out into inky black darkness. Suspended. Detached. No thought no feeling no perception. A glimmer of transcendence.
A few years ago I was teaching at the Air Force Base in Treebeek, Netherlands. My son had accompanied me on the trip, and we had embarked upon one of my requisite forays into the unknown. We found ourselves on a tour of the "Velvet Caves" in the area. The caves were originally mined for limestone, but in the 1940's they were utilized as hideouts during the war. Their history was resplendent with human drama, including stunning murals drawn with chunks of coal on the cave walls. At one point during our walk through the caves, the tour guide announced that she would be extinguishing her lantern so that we could sample the unique darkness. Abruptly, we were plunged into a blackness unlike anything I had ever experienced. The dark was a fluid, tangible, living thing. Inky, thick, heavy, and moist. All orientation to space and time was lost, and in the absence of visual cues it became impossible to command simple body functions. Cognitive and physical equilibrium waned, followed by a sense of confusion, vulnerability, and helplessness. I felt more curiosity than fear. Other members of our group, however, loudly voiced their distress. The guide hastily illuminated her lantern. There was a sound of laughter mixed with anxiety and relief.
When I entered deep darkness while meditating last night, again I did not feel fear. There were a couple of moments of contemplating the dark, and recognizing my cerebral self describing it. I consciously switched the label of "inky black darkness" to "velvety darkness." The connotation felt very different. "Inky black" felt dangerous, precarious, sinister. I recalled the "Velvet Caves" and was mindful of my associations to the word "velvet" - soft, sensual, benign. The fringe of my awareness registered this analytic activity, and then let go of it. I drifted softly, safely, into the black nothingness. Untethered, unanchored, released.
As I write of the experience now, I am suffering from a reminder that "When you speak of it, you lose it." This time, however, it is a little different. A thought about what happened feels important to record. I have as yet to wrap my mind around the Buddhist concept of "Big Mind," but my infantile understanding is that it is a state that allows room for inclusion of everything; i.e. an utterly non-dualistic, expansive frame of reference for apprehending something. Last night, the very Ego that I try to dodge reframed my experience of the dark such that I could launch into it and briefly experience a sort of transcendence. When we're fearful, we tend to quit moving forward, to freeze, to cease risk-taking and become wary. My thinking brain intervened on my behalf to lessen potential fear. It seems like my ego provided a function in the service of transcendence, rather than interfering with it. Puzzling and contradictory. How can that beast of an ego I'm supposed to conquer assist me in the very quest it supposedly impedes?
This is why monks disappear into caves. As for me, I'm headed to the velvety darkness.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Picture Me Flying
With the ideal comes the actual, like a box and its lid. In darkness there is light, but you will not understand it by one-sided darkness alone. In light there is darkness, but you will not understand it by one-sided light. The two go together like the sequence of steps in a dance. - The Sandokai in the Zen Calendar (May 23, 2002)
Day 50. The big Five Oh. When I turn the big Five Oh, I'll be finished with this blog. I think. Although this could be habit forming . . . .
My brother sent me some pictures of our recent ski trip. In my favorite picture, he captured me at the height of a jump in the ski park. I am illuminated against a brilliant blue sky; packed powder beneath me, ski poles askance, my face beaming. The day before, my twelve-year-old nephew and I had enjoyed several runs down this section of the mountain. He is a fearless, skillful snowboarder who, with patient amusement, showed his ancient aunt how to attempt multiple jumps in single descents through the park. He hurtled off the biggest ledges; I caught air on the smaller ramps. We had a blast. My brother remarked the next day, after following us down the run, "Well, crap. When I saw you doing the jumps, I knew I had to try them, too." I am seven years older. Still happy to inspire my baby brother to keep up with me.
The picture that didn't get snapped was my landing on that particular, spectacular jump. Actually, landing is a misnomer: splattering would be a more accurate description. I didn't keep my skis parallel during the jump and hit the snow off balance, resulting in a rolling snowball with some ski tips sticking out. Laughing from inside the snowy heap, I asked my brother, "Did you get me in the air?" He replied, "I don't know, but I got a picture of something!"
Looking at the enlargement of the pretty jump picture on my computer, my ego shimmered with gratification. What an extremely cool pic! My Buddha self then chuckled with insight: what a flagrantly incomplete portrayal of the actual event! What a classic journalistic spin on my athletic prowess. Lotta yin, no yang! The thrill of victory minus the agony of defeat. Pardon the pun, but, uh, you get the picture.
I've been thinking today about how often we either aren't provided with the entire picture, and/or we choose (consciously or not) to avoid seeing things as they completely, fully, are. My hunch is that, if I were a FaceBook proprietor (it will never happen, but this is a hypothetical point) I would paste up the smiley jump picture and conveniently fail to mention the splat that followed. It seems that as a culture we publicly depict fairly unidimensional aspects of ourselves. The themes of FaceBook pictures can probably be summarily captured within the categories of: Success, happiness, prosperity, popularity, achievement, travel, love, and lust. I'm not a seasoned perusor of computer social networks, but in my limited exposure there seems to be a dirth of photos with themes of despair, worry, failure, loss and disappointment.
This leaves us with a skewed picture about the reality of things. If we aren't careful, we end up with aspirations and models that are not remotely attainable (for those of us still stuck in the quest for attainment). Reaching for the unreachable is seldom a gratifying pursuit. Not to mention that keeping up appearances is exhausting. I am grateful for the central teaching of Buddhism that reminds us to see things as they really are. With the ideal comes the actual. What a relief.
It is tempting to spin my blog so that I appear to be a dedicated, patient, devoted student of Buddhism who blissfully sits, reads, chants, and blogs. One day I will post the jump picture so that my vast audience can picture me flying. And right after that, picture me tumbling into a human snowball. That's the whole picture.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 50. The big Five Oh. When I turn the big Five Oh, I'll be finished with this blog. I think. Although this could be habit forming . . . .
My brother sent me some pictures of our recent ski trip. In my favorite picture, he captured me at the height of a jump in the ski park. I am illuminated against a brilliant blue sky; packed powder beneath me, ski poles askance, my face beaming. The day before, my twelve-year-old nephew and I had enjoyed several runs down this section of the mountain. He is a fearless, skillful snowboarder who, with patient amusement, showed his ancient aunt how to attempt multiple jumps in single descents through the park. He hurtled off the biggest ledges; I caught air on the smaller ramps. We had a blast. My brother remarked the next day, after following us down the run, "Well, crap. When I saw you doing the jumps, I knew I had to try them, too." I am seven years older. Still happy to inspire my baby brother to keep up with me.
The picture that didn't get snapped was my landing on that particular, spectacular jump. Actually, landing is a misnomer: splattering would be a more accurate description. I didn't keep my skis parallel during the jump and hit the snow off balance, resulting in a rolling snowball with some ski tips sticking out. Laughing from inside the snowy heap, I asked my brother, "Did you get me in the air?" He replied, "I don't know, but I got a picture of something!"
Looking at the enlargement of the pretty jump picture on my computer, my ego shimmered with gratification. What an extremely cool pic! My Buddha self then chuckled with insight: what a flagrantly incomplete portrayal of the actual event! What a classic journalistic spin on my athletic prowess. Lotta yin, no yang! The thrill of victory minus the agony of defeat. Pardon the pun, but, uh, you get the picture.
I've been thinking today about how often we either aren't provided with the entire picture, and/or we choose (consciously or not) to avoid seeing things as they completely, fully, are. My hunch is that, if I were a FaceBook proprietor (it will never happen, but this is a hypothetical point) I would paste up the smiley jump picture and conveniently fail to mention the splat that followed. It seems that as a culture we publicly depict fairly unidimensional aspects of ourselves. The themes of FaceBook pictures can probably be summarily captured within the categories of: Success, happiness, prosperity, popularity, achievement, travel, love, and lust. I'm not a seasoned perusor of computer social networks, but in my limited exposure there seems to be a dirth of photos with themes of despair, worry, failure, loss and disappointment.
This leaves us with a skewed picture about the reality of things. If we aren't careful, we end up with aspirations and models that are not remotely attainable (for those of us still stuck in the quest for attainment). Reaching for the unreachable is seldom a gratifying pursuit. Not to mention that keeping up appearances is exhausting. I am grateful for the central teaching of Buddhism that reminds us to see things as they really are. With the ideal comes the actual. What a relief.
It is tempting to spin my blog so that I appear to be a dedicated, patient, devoted student of Buddhism who blissfully sits, reads, chants, and blogs. One day I will post the jump picture so that my vast audience can picture me flying. And right after that, picture me tumbling into a human snowball. That's the whole picture.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Sitting Supplements
The life of Zen attainment is not like standing on a riverbank watching the current and appreciating the water or the landscape as a witness; it is jumping into the current and becoming one with it. - Travor Leggett in the Zen Calendar (May 4, 2004)
Day 49. Hey, I'm 49! I love symmetry. Sometimes this blog seems like it is 49 years old, rather than 49 days. Sometimes it feels like I sit for 49 days rather than 20 minutes. Time is, as they say, relative.
While sitting last night I recalled my commitment to increase my sitting time to 40 minutes beginning with my half birthday on August 3rd. The athlete in me noted that perhaps it would be beneficial to titrate up to the longer time, rather than doubling it over night. I know for a fact that most marathon runners don't jump directly from running a 10k to running 26.2 miles. I thought it would be wise to sit for 25 minutes in April and May, 30 minutes in June, 35 in July, and then I would be conditioned and ready to sit for 40 minutes when August arrives. From this vantage point, that sure seems like a LOT of blogs away. I'm laughing in this moment as I contemplate the idea of "conditioning" to sit on a cushion, while also remembering that Julie on Julie/Julia gave herself plenty of time to work up to tackling the roast duck. Pacing yourself is just good sense.
In addition to increasing my sit time, I've decided to supplement my practice in some other ways. From the moment I began sitting with my teacher, he suggested that we read about Zen Buddhism to complement our zazen. We also chanted in Japanese, which I adored (chanting deserves a blog devoted exclusively to its splendor), and listened to a dharma talk from him each week. Those were lovely perks from belonging to a sangha (all these Buddha words! Sangha refers to a group that sits and studies Buddhism together).
I sat with these ideas during and after zazen last night while my ego wrestled with the question of whether or not broadening my practice in these ways represented a typical Westerner's desire to be excessive in everything. We tend to jump into things zealously, churn like hell for a while, then burn out and quit. That won't do, being as how I have 316 days left to fulfill my promise. I wanted to be certain that my motives were not in the category of attainment, or competition, or over-achievement. I concluded that my desire was simply to deepen my practice - learning in several modalities is conducive to keeping a perpetual "Beginner's Mind."
I can't imagine what will happen when I expand "Sit/Blog" to "Sit/Chant/Read/Blog." I'd better toss in "stretch" as well, because my Buddha Belly is impeding my pedal stroke! And Julie thought roasting a duck was intimidating. Guess I'll begin. Starting with SIT.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 49. Hey, I'm 49! I love symmetry. Sometimes this blog seems like it is 49 years old, rather than 49 days. Sometimes it feels like I sit for 49 days rather than 20 minutes. Time is, as they say, relative.
While sitting last night I recalled my commitment to increase my sitting time to 40 minutes beginning with my half birthday on August 3rd. The athlete in me noted that perhaps it would be beneficial to titrate up to the longer time, rather than doubling it over night. I know for a fact that most marathon runners don't jump directly from running a 10k to running 26.2 miles. I thought it would be wise to sit for 25 minutes in April and May, 30 minutes in June, 35 in July, and then I would be conditioned and ready to sit for 40 minutes when August arrives. From this vantage point, that sure seems like a LOT of blogs away. I'm laughing in this moment as I contemplate the idea of "conditioning" to sit on a cushion, while also remembering that Julie on Julie/Julia gave herself plenty of time to work up to tackling the roast duck. Pacing yourself is just good sense.
In addition to increasing my sit time, I've decided to supplement my practice in some other ways. From the moment I began sitting with my teacher, he suggested that we read about Zen Buddhism to complement our zazen. We also chanted in Japanese, which I adored (chanting deserves a blog devoted exclusively to its splendor), and listened to a dharma talk from him each week. Those were lovely perks from belonging to a sangha (all these Buddha words! Sangha refers to a group that sits and studies Buddhism together).
I sat with these ideas during and after zazen last night while my ego wrestled with the question of whether or not broadening my practice in these ways represented a typical Westerner's desire to be excessive in everything. We tend to jump into things zealously, churn like hell for a while, then burn out and quit. That won't do, being as how I have 316 days left to fulfill my promise. I wanted to be certain that my motives were not in the category of attainment, or competition, or over-achievement. I concluded that my desire was simply to deepen my practice - learning in several modalities is conducive to keeping a perpetual "Beginner's Mind."
I can't imagine what will happen when I expand "Sit/Blog" to "Sit/Chant/Read/Blog." I'd better toss in "stretch" as well, because my Buddha Belly is impeding my pedal stroke! And Julie thought roasting a duck was intimidating. Guess I'll begin. Starting with SIT.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Unequal Distribution of Wealth
"I stole daffodils! (And some hyacinth, too)." - C.B. on March 22, 2010
Day 48. Spring is in the air. Daffodils are blooming.
I guess most occupations elicit a stereotypical question or comment when people find out what you do for a living. For psychologists the loathsome question is, "So why would you want to sit around and listen to people's problems all day?" To which I reply, "Actually, I don't sit around listening to people's problems all day. I get to be with people while they search for solutions. If I wanted to listen to problems all day, I would work in the front office of a dental practice." Most of the time, this ends the conversation.
After I typed the title of today's blog, I was tempted to launch into a highly passionate, politicized, opinionated tirade about the topic. The unequal distribution of wealth on our planet is something that I can, indeed, become rather hyped up about. Instead, I'm sharing a moving story regarding a client I saw today.
My client is enduring the first turn of a calendar year following her beloved mother's death last September. Her mother lived in the country, and Spring was a special time they shared through gardening, their mutual love of flowers and color, and long, leisurely drives together on the country roads surrounding their small town. Grief work with clients can be intense, intimate, and unpredictable. It can also be quite beautiful.
My client wept through most of our session today as she attempted to get words to how profoundly she felt the loss of her mother during their first Spring apart. It is apparent that her mother was a remarkable woman: energetic, kind, giving, spirited, and social. My client shared a particularly poignant memory as she recalled her parents giving shelter to 25 elementary aged children when a school bus was trapped in a blizzard near their country home. Her mom was a storyteller - the verbal historian for many generations of my client's ancestors. Her stories dated back to the mid-1800's and were resplendent with rural Oklahoma history. My client has no children nor nieces or nephews with whom she can pass down this colorful family history. Her grief was multilayered: loss of her mother and the familial past; loss of an upcoming generation; the transition from being a "child" to becoming a member of the "eldest" generation of her remaining extended family.
My orientation to grief counseling is primarily to bear compassionate witness to a client's pain and loss. With this client, I remarked upon the depth of her attachment to her mother - both as a child and well into her adulthood. I acknowledged that the enormity of her grief told us a great deal about how deeply connected she was to her mother. We talked about grief being proportionate to the significance of the lost. I encouraged my client to keep sharing her memories; she continued to weep as she told me more about her mom. Their love for one another was extremely touching.
As the session wrapped around these shared memories, my client began to smile through her tears. She was speaking of the mutual admiration of fresh flowers she shared with her mother when she confessed, with a sheepish grin, "I stole daffodils." I grinned back, and said, "Tell me about it." My client responded with a detailed story about her flower theft. She said that for several days she had watched a patch of these cheerful yellow flowers growing prolifically outside the fence of a home in her neighborhood. She watched the house carefully, noting that a couple of college boys who were rarely home lived there. My client even mentioned that the flowers could not be seen from the house. Anticipating snow over the weekend, my client stopped at the home (when the boys weren't there!) and snipped off several of the daffodils. She noted that she chose them carefully, so it was very difficult to notice that any were missing. She then took the daffodils to the bed and breakfast she owns, artfully arranged them into several small bouquets, and distributed them among the bedrooms for her guests to enjoy. My client then added that she had also "snipped a few stems of hyacinth" to make the bouquets more fragrant.
As she told the story of the Great Daffodil Heist, my client's entire countenance changed. She clearly derived immense delight from sharing the flowers with her guests and imagining telling the story to her mother. I was struck by the seriousness with which she contemplated the moral dilemma posed by her flower theft. Maybe my ethical judgment needs tightening, but I had absolutely no problem with justifying in my moral consciousness the illicit acquisition of flowers that: a) were highly unlikely to have been noticed in the first place, much less missed and b) brought such pure pleasure to this woman during her time of grief. I communicated this sentiment to my client with the qualification that HER superego was the one that mattered. We smiled in agreement that perhaps this transgression would be considered a small one by most higher powers.
It is true that the riches of this world are not evenly distributed amongst us. It is also true that sometimes we can commit small acts of redistribution that carry potentially powerful consequences. I'm not altogether comfortable with unequivocally "robbing from the rich to give to the poor." But an occasional snagging of rogue blossoms for the sake of salving pain rests okay with me.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 48. Spring is in the air. Daffodils are blooming.
I guess most occupations elicit a stereotypical question or comment when people find out what you do for a living. For psychologists the loathsome question is, "So why would you want to sit around and listen to people's problems all day?" To which I reply, "Actually, I don't sit around listening to people's problems all day. I get to be with people while they search for solutions. If I wanted to listen to problems all day, I would work in the front office of a dental practice." Most of the time, this ends the conversation.
After I typed the title of today's blog, I was tempted to launch into a highly passionate, politicized, opinionated tirade about the topic. The unequal distribution of wealth on our planet is something that I can, indeed, become rather hyped up about. Instead, I'm sharing a moving story regarding a client I saw today.
My client is enduring the first turn of a calendar year following her beloved mother's death last September. Her mother lived in the country, and Spring was a special time they shared through gardening, their mutual love of flowers and color, and long, leisurely drives together on the country roads surrounding their small town. Grief work with clients can be intense, intimate, and unpredictable. It can also be quite beautiful.
My client wept through most of our session today as she attempted to get words to how profoundly she felt the loss of her mother during their first Spring apart. It is apparent that her mother was a remarkable woman: energetic, kind, giving, spirited, and social. My client shared a particularly poignant memory as she recalled her parents giving shelter to 25 elementary aged children when a school bus was trapped in a blizzard near their country home. Her mom was a storyteller - the verbal historian for many generations of my client's ancestors. Her stories dated back to the mid-1800's and were resplendent with rural Oklahoma history. My client has no children nor nieces or nephews with whom she can pass down this colorful family history. Her grief was multilayered: loss of her mother and the familial past; loss of an upcoming generation; the transition from being a "child" to becoming a member of the "eldest" generation of her remaining extended family.
My orientation to grief counseling is primarily to bear compassionate witness to a client's pain and loss. With this client, I remarked upon the depth of her attachment to her mother - both as a child and well into her adulthood. I acknowledged that the enormity of her grief told us a great deal about how deeply connected she was to her mother. We talked about grief being proportionate to the significance of the lost. I encouraged my client to keep sharing her memories; she continued to weep as she told me more about her mom. Their love for one another was extremely touching.
As the session wrapped around these shared memories, my client began to smile through her tears. She was speaking of the mutual admiration of fresh flowers she shared with her mother when she confessed, with a sheepish grin, "I stole daffodils." I grinned back, and said, "Tell me about it." My client responded with a detailed story about her flower theft. She said that for several days she had watched a patch of these cheerful yellow flowers growing prolifically outside the fence of a home in her neighborhood. She watched the house carefully, noting that a couple of college boys who were rarely home lived there. My client even mentioned that the flowers could not be seen from the house. Anticipating snow over the weekend, my client stopped at the home (when the boys weren't there!) and snipped off several of the daffodils. She noted that she chose them carefully, so it was very difficult to notice that any were missing. She then took the daffodils to the bed and breakfast she owns, artfully arranged them into several small bouquets, and distributed them among the bedrooms for her guests to enjoy. My client then added that she had also "snipped a few stems of hyacinth" to make the bouquets more fragrant.
As she told the story of the Great Daffodil Heist, my client's entire countenance changed. She clearly derived immense delight from sharing the flowers with her guests and imagining telling the story to her mother. I was struck by the seriousness with which she contemplated the moral dilemma posed by her flower theft. Maybe my ethical judgment needs tightening, but I had absolutely no problem with justifying in my moral consciousness the illicit acquisition of flowers that: a) were highly unlikely to have been noticed in the first place, much less missed and b) brought such pure pleasure to this woman during her time of grief. I communicated this sentiment to my client with the qualification that HER superego was the one that mattered. We smiled in agreement that perhaps this transgression would be considered a small one by most higher powers.
It is true that the riches of this world are not evenly distributed amongst us. It is also true that sometimes we can commit small acts of redistribution that carry potentially powerful consequences. I'm not altogether comfortable with unequivocally "robbing from the rich to give to the poor." But an occasional snagging of rogue blossoms for the sake of salving pain rests okay with me.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Ah Hah . . . .
Zen is like a spring coming out of a mountain. It doesn't flow in order to quench the thirst of a traveler, but if the travelers want to help themselves to it, that's fine. It's up to you what you do with the water; the spring's job is just to flow. - Alan Watts in the Zen Calendar (May 22, 2007)
Day 47. Back to work tomorrow. I have many thoughts and feelings about that. The primary one is gratitude that I have work to go back to. Many people do not.
Last night I sat upon my cushion and it was very, very quiet. Extraordinarily silent. I adore quiet. I revel in it, and thrive. Quiet is extremely conducive to meditation. I had just finished writing about my "Blogging Brain," and, true to form, the Monkeys initially prattled on about potential blog titles and topics. The chatter felt incongruous with the silence. I try to remain unattached to the context in which I find myself meditating, reminding myself that I survived sitting in the havoc of a family hotel during Spring Break. "This should be a cinch," I told myself, "Sit in zazen as if engaged in the fight for your life!"
I watched my ego drive several thoughts across the byways of my mind. Despite my effort to visualize the thoughts as fluffy clouds passing through a clear summer sky, they swirled circularly -- more like the dark gray thunderheads that start to spin wildly before a tornado. The circle went like this: Criticism of my lack of deep meditation over the past several days; chastisement at being critical; reminder to accept all feelings and responses without getting attached to them; sneaking desire for more of the meaningful (or at least mildly interesting) meditative experiences I described in earlier blogs; Voila! Back to criticisms of my current meditation (or lack thereof). The thought circles swirled, gathering momentum.
I briefly Hammed and Sahed, counted breaths, pictured melting in water, however, my loathsome ego would not surrender the helm of my consciousness. Like a dog with a ham bone, it chewed vigorously on the "Why" of my sitting struggles. I continued to sit, pulling my mudra closer to my middle. Then, in a galaxy different from the one in which my Ego is Sun, a brilliant flash of "Ah Hah!" ignited and exploded. SITTING COMES FIRST! THE BLOG IS SECONDARY!
I was flooded with relief and delight. The clarity was blinding. It was as though I was being held in a warm embrace. My ego didn't just surrender the helm -- it jumped ship entirely! I could just sit. No thought, no feeling, no illusion, no intention, no expectation. The misery on my cushion was, apparently, connected to my growing attachment to writing a good - nay, great - blog. It had begun to MATTER what happened during zazen. How humbling: I turn my back for an instant to glance at my dream of writing and - Whoosh! The expectations and attachments tumble in like free throws during March Madness.
We live in an ego-driven culture. If feels virtually impossible to separate self-worth from possessions and accomplishment. Not much press is allocated to stellar cushion sitting, but there are innumerable writing awards. I lost my way for a moment. When I conceptualized this journey, my original intent was to resume a meditation practice. No attainment. Just sit. The blogging is secondary. If travelers to my blog want to help themselves to it, that's fine. It's up to you what you do with the water of my words; my job is just to sit.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 47. Back to work tomorrow. I have many thoughts and feelings about that. The primary one is gratitude that I have work to go back to. Many people do not.
Last night I sat upon my cushion and it was very, very quiet. Extraordinarily silent. I adore quiet. I revel in it, and thrive. Quiet is extremely conducive to meditation. I had just finished writing about my "Blogging Brain," and, true to form, the Monkeys initially prattled on about potential blog titles and topics. The chatter felt incongruous with the silence. I try to remain unattached to the context in which I find myself meditating, reminding myself that I survived sitting in the havoc of a family hotel during Spring Break. "This should be a cinch," I told myself, "Sit in zazen as if engaged in the fight for your life!"
I watched my ego drive several thoughts across the byways of my mind. Despite my effort to visualize the thoughts as fluffy clouds passing through a clear summer sky, they swirled circularly -- more like the dark gray thunderheads that start to spin wildly before a tornado. The circle went like this: Criticism of my lack of deep meditation over the past several days; chastisement at being critical; reminder to accept all feelings and responses without getting attached to them; sneaking desire for more of the meaningful (or at least mildly interesting) meditative experiences I described in earlier blogs; Voila! Back to criticisms of my current meditation (or lack thereof). The thought circles swirled, gathering momentum.
I briefly Hammed and Sahed, counted breaths, pictured melting in water, however, my loathsome ego would not surrender the helm of my consciousness. Like a dog with a ham bone, it chewed vigorously on the "Why" of my sitting struggles. I continued to sit, pulling my mudra closer to my middle. Then, in a galaxy different from the one in which my Ego is Sun, a brilliant flash of "Ah Hah!" ignited and exploded. SITTING COMES FIRST! THE BLOG IS SECONDARY!
I was flooded with relief and delight. The clarity was blinding. It was as though I was being held in a warm embrace. My ego didn't just surrender the helm -- it jumped ship entirely! I could just sit. No thought, no feeling, no illusion, no intention, no expectation. The misery on my cushion was, apparently, connected to my growing attachment to writing a good - nay, great - blog. It had begun to MATTER what happened during zazen. How humbling: I turn my back for an instant to glance at my dream of writing and - Whoosh! The expectations and attachments tumble in like free throws during March Madness.
We live in an ego-driven culture. If feels virtually impossible to separate self-worth from possessions and accomplishment. Not much press is allocated to stellar cushion sitting, but there are innumerable writing awards. I lost my way for a moment. When I conceptualized this journey, my original intent was to resume a meditation practice. No attainment. Just sit. The blogging is secondary. If travelers to my blog want to help themselves to it, that's fine. It's up to you what you do with the water of my words; my job is just to sit.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Buddha Belly, Blogging Brain
Let's get physical - physical. I wanna get physical. Let me hear your body talk - your body talk. - Olivia Newton John from "Let's Get Physical"
Day 46. Snow without mountains. I like the combo better.
One of our dogs, Katy, is a border collie/blue heeler mix. If you know anything about these two breeds, it will not be surprising to hear that scientists have actually discovered an Attention Deficit Disorder gene in the bloodline. Compared to Katy, gnats exhibit deep concentration. She blends well with our family because our motto is, "I saw something shiny." This serves as an all-purpose excuse for our tendency to interrupt, lose track of a thought mid-sentence, and walk into a room to get something, only to have to exit and re-enter so we can remember what it was.
I feel great love and appreciation for Katy, probably because I so strongly identify with her. She is only happy when she is on task -- when she thinks she has a job. Currently our acre is void of cattle or sheep for her to herd, so she keeps busy by chasing leaves. And by "chasing" I mean herding; she snatches blowing leaves up with her mouth and deposits them in a pile by the house. Katy does this all day long, but is never in danger of running out of leaves because she pauses every three to five seconds when she sees something shiny. Or hears a bird, dog, plane, squirrel, postal carrier, delivery person, or any other sentient being within a five mile radius. If she sees or hears ANYTHING, she has to investigate. The dog cannot filter. If I ever DO own sheep or cattle, or have grandchildren for that matter, I will trust their lives to Katy. She is the most diligent, vigilant shepherd I have ever witnessed. She can't help it. It is her nature.
Buddhism teaches us to observe and accept the true nature of things. Herding breeds herd. Over centuries, evolution has perfected a biologically driven mechanism to make these dogs intensely observant, energetic, hard-working, and attentive. So attentive that, if we are not mindful of their nature, we erroneously judge them to be inattentive. They simply can't NOT attend to every miniscule nuance of their environment. Talk about living in the moment. Katy appears to live in the nanosecond.
I think sitting meditation is making my brain evolve like Katy's. I'll have to check with other bloggers (which undoubtedly will require a cyber-skill I have as yet to attain), but I suspect that an occupational hazard of blogging is that, over time, your brain scrutinizes every stimuli as potential blog material. It's making me a little crazy. Rather than being mindful and present in the moment, I am constantly swirling words in my head - associating to them, arranging them into titles, integrating ideas into possible grist for my blogging mill. It's especially annoying when I am trying to sit zazen. I've written before about this paradox: my blogging brain revs up like a toddler on Skittles, resulting in manic Monkeys when I attempt to meditate. Who's idea was it, anyway, to combine such opposing practices?? Oh yeah. Mine.
My brain is not the only part of my anatomy impacted by this endeavor. After amassing additional data, I have changed my diagnosis of Wii Elbow to Zazen Elbow. Perhaps I am holding my mudra at an awkward angle. Does this quality as a sports injury? I hope so, because they seem to carry more prestige. To top it all off, I'm developing a Buddha Belly. At least Julie in Julie/Julia gained weight while getting to eat delectable French cuisine. My pouch is protruding because I am too tired after blogging and sitting to do my nightly stretching regime.
My inner critic says be a better time manager. My inner Buddha nature says there are worse things than having a pouch. Especially when your soul is waking up.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 46. Snow without mountains. I like the combo better.
One of our dogs, Katy, is a border collie/blue heeler mix. If you know anything about these two breeds, it will not be surprising to hear that scientists have actually discovered an Attention Deficit Disorder gene in the bloodline. Compared to Katy, gnats exhibit deep concentration. She blends well with our family because our motto is, "I saw something shiny." This serves as an all-purpose excuse for our tendency to interrupt, lose track of a thought mid-sentence, and walk into a room to get something, only to have to exit and re-enter so we can remember what it was.
I feel great love and appreciation for Katy, probably because I so strongly identify with her. She is only happy when she is on task -- when she thinks she has a job. Currently our acre is void of cattle or sheep for her to herd, so she keeps busy by chasing leaves. And by "chasing" I mean herding; she snatches blowing leaves up with her mouth and deposits them in a pile by the house. Katy does this all day long, but is never in danger of running out of leaves because she pauses every three to five seconds when she sees something shiny. Or hears a bird, dog, plane, squirrel, postal carrier, delivery person, or any other sentient being within a five mile radius. If she sees or hears ANYTHING, she has to investigate. The dog cannot filter. If I ever DO own sheep or cattle, or have grandchildren for that matter, I will trust their lives to Katy. She is the most diligent, vigilant shepherd I have ever witnessed. She can't help it. It is her nature.
Buddhism teaches us to observe and accept the true nature of things. Herding breeds herd. Over centuries, evolution has perfected a biologically driven mechanism to make these dogs intensely observant, energetic, hard-working, and attentive. So attentive that, if we are not mindful of their nature, we erroneously judge them to be inattentive. They simply can't NOT attend to every miniscule nuance of their environment. Talk about living in the moment. Katy appears to live in the nanosecond.
I think sitting meditation is making my brain evolve like Katy's. I'll have to check with other bloggers (which undoubtedly will require a cyber-skill I have as yet to attain), but I suspect that an occupational hazard of blogging is that, over time, your brain scrutinizes every stimuli as potential blog material. It's making me a little crazy. Rather than being mindful and present in the moment, I am constantly swirling words in my head - associating to them, arranging them into titles, integrating ideas into possible grist for my blogging mill. It's especially annoying when I am trying to sit zazen. I've written before about this paradox: my blogging brain revs up like a toddler on Skittles, resulting in manic Monkeys when I attempt to meditate. Who's idea was it, anyway, to combine such opposing practices?? Oh yeah. Mine.
My brain is not the only part of my anatomy impacted by this endeavor. After amassing additional data, I have changed my diagnosis of Wii Elbow to Zazen Elbow. Perhaps I am holding my mudra at an awkward angle. Does this quality as a sports injury? I hope so, because they seem to carry more prestige. To top it all off, I'm developing a Buddha Belly. At least Julie in Julie/Julia gained weight while getting to eat delectable French cuisine. My pouch is protruding because I am too tired after blogging and sitting to do my nightly stretching regime.
My inner critic says be a better time manager. My inner Buddha nature says there are worse things than having a pouch. Especially when your soul is waking up.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, March 19, 2010
All Stressed Up and Nowhere to Go
". . . I come awake all at once with a start, as if my sleep has been one long falling and I've just landed, smashing, onto the pavement of reality. My insides feel like jelly, wobbly and fragile." - Nancy Thayer in "Between Husbands & Friends."
Day 45. The party is over. The mountains are gone. Ugly, flat Oklahoma surrounds me. I want to go back.
My meditation last night was a parody of "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind." I felt like a zazen newborn, a rookie, a novice. I can meditate in a Nissan, for Buddha's sake! It is so much easier to remain unattached to the status of my meditation when it is gratifying and progressive. New insight, peak experiences, and cosmic oneness lend themselves to much more stimulating blog material. Restless, frustrating, disappointing twenty-minute eternities on a sofa cushion are infinitely harder to write about.
But write about it I will. My sitting last night was cluttered with a have-to list constructed by my ego. Reinforced by job security and my credit rating. After the bliss of my toughest daily decision consisting of which pair of long underwear to don under my ski pants, activities of daily living feel particularly stymieing.
I pride myself in how dedicated I am to simplifying my life. Even if, in all honesty, my original motive was to feel smugly superior to my frenetic, stressed out peers. Of course, this was before my ego had been captured and bound by meditation. I think if I literally needed to chop wood and carry water, I might be okay. Those are concrete, tangible tasks that have some basis in reality. It stuns me at how revved up I can get over hypothetical circumstances. Over tasks that I conjure and police myself. As though I risk receiving a citation issued by myself for negligence or procrastination. It is absurd.
It appears that we all do it though. Experience anxiety, paralysis and self-loathing dished out by some tyrannical inner critic who has internalized a bizarre set of standards and expectations. For women: I must be thin with disproportionately large breasts (regardless of how many babies I have borne), my purse must match my shoes, my nails polished, my children happy and moral (an oftentimes difficult combination), my crown molding dusted, my bathroom fragrant, my social calendar full, my roots match the rest of my hair. A man's list is no less ridiculous: I must be tall, my ______ (car, truck, boat, bike, motorcycle, penis) must be large and powerful, I must always pick up the tab, and somehow I must balance Marlboro Man toughness with the manners of a southern gentleman. For both genders: Large house, landscaped yard, new car, fast laptop, IPhones resplendent with applications, designer clothes, exotic vacations, popular children, empathic therapists, thorough maids, and reliable dry cleaners. Conceal your depression. Hide your despair. Uphold the facade of effortless perfection. Yeah, right.
I was feeling stressed about improvements to my office interior. Apprehensive about the accumulation of e-mail, phone messages, and paper carnage during my absence. Concerned about my man-child entertaining female company while home alone. Dreading the consequences of my untimely submission of the FAFSA form. But after reading over the last paragraph, I'm feeling light and liberated, because none of the things I listed bother me in the least. I have water to drink and my wood is chopped. I'm going to focus on something based in reality. Breathing. Sitting real still. Bowing especially deep before I drop on my cushion.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 45. The party is over. The mountains are gone. Ugly, flat Oklahoma surrounds me. I want to go back.
My meditation last night was a parody of "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind." I felt like a zazen newborn, a rookie, a novice. I can meditate in a Nissan, for Buddha's sake! It is so much easier to remain unattached to the status of my meditation when it is gratifying and progressive. New insight, peak experiences, and cosmic oneness lend themselves to much more stimulating blog material. Restless, frustrating, disappointing twenty-minute eternities on a sofa cushion are infinitely harder to write about.
But write about it I will. My sitting last night was cluttered with a have-to list constructed by my ego. Reinforced by job security and my credit rating. After the bliss of my toughest daily decision consisting of which pair of long underwear to don under my ski pants, activities of daily living feel particularly stymieing.
I pride myself in how dedicated I am to simplifying my life. Even if, in all honesty, my original motive was to feel smugly superior to my frenetic, stressed out peers. Of course, this was before my ego had been captured and bound by meditation. I think if I literally needed to chop wood and carry water, I might be okay. Those are concrete, tangible tasks that have some basis in reality. It stuns me at how revved up I can get over hypothetical circumstances. Over tasks that I conjure and police myself. As though I risk receiving a citation issued by myself for negligence or procrastination. It is absurd.
It appears that we all do it though. Experience anxiety, paralysis and self-loathing dished out by some tyrannical inner critic who has internalized a bizarre set of standards and expectations. For women: I must be thin with disproportionately large breasts (regardless of how many babies I have borne), my purse must match my shoes, my nails polished, my children happy and moral (an oftentimes difficult combination), my crown molding dusted, my bathroom fragrant, my social calendar full, my roots match the rest of my hair. A man's list is no less ridiculous: I must be tall, my ______ (car, truck, boat, bike, motorcycle, penis) must be large and powerful, I must always pick up the tab, and somehow I must balance Marlboro Man toughness with the manners of a southern gentleman. For both genders: Large house, landscaped yard, new car, fast laptop, IPhones resplendent with applications, designer clothes, exotic vacations, popular children, empathic therapists, thorough maids, and reliable dry cleaners. Conceal your depression. Hide your despair. Uphold the facade of effortless perfection. Yeah, right.
I was feeling stressed about improvements to my office interior. Apprehensive about the accumulation of e-mail, phone messages, and paper carnage during my absence. Concerned about my man-child entertaining female company while home alone. Dreading the consequences of my untimely submission of the FAFSA form. But after reading over the last paragraph, I'm feeling light and liberated, because none of the things I listed bother me in the least. I have water to drink and my wood is chopped. I'm going to focus on something based in reality. Breathing. Sitting real still. Bowing especially deep before I drop on my cushion.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Goodfather
"This is normality, our two families nestled together, as content and familiar as animals from the same pack, and it seems suddenly precious to me, an ordinary moment suddenly rimmed with sacredness, like the silver of a frame around a picture." - Nancy Thayer in "Between Husbands & Friends"
Day 44. I have a thing about double numbers (as long as they are not sixes.) Must go back to my Yatzee days. I remember being 44. That was a really good year.
My brother is a Buddha. Seriously. I think he arrived in the world that way. What a gift to us all. I have been watching him father his sons over the past four days, and have come to the conclusion that if all beings were parented like my brother fathers his children, there would be world peace. And if all sisters were brothered like my brother is with me, we would pick really good men as mates and create incredibly happy families. Sane families. Tolerant, creative, respectful families. Naturally, this is the foundation from which all peace flourishes.
How, exactly, does a Buddha parent? With acceptance, of course. Acceptance of his sons' unique talents, capabilities, preferences, desires, vulnerabilities, and fallibilities. The older son is incredibly musical, brilliant in thought, creative, alternative, insightful. The younger son is a daredevil and a jock - fearless, bold, and athletic. They are both artistic and tuned in to others' emotions. My brother, who embodies all of the characteristics distributed between his sons, beautifully encourages and supports each boy's unique attributes. He doesn't compare them. He doesn't favor one over the other. He doesn't endorse only the interests and behaviors that he agrees with. He avoids reinforcing the bizarre, stereotypical idea of what being a boy in America is, and just lets his sons BE. Be themselves. Be accepted and supported. Be loved and respected.
This Buddha Brother certainly was not well fathered himself. And he wasn't socialized in a culture that does a particularly good job of preparing men to be good fathers. I think he simply immersed himself deeply into the passion he feels toward fatherhood. He thinks a lot about being a dad, and pays close attention to what seems to work best for his sons. He arrived at the conclusion underlying all spiritual paths: The Greatest of These is Love. He marinates his children in love. Not surprisingly, they, in turn, are evolving into loving, caring, respectful young men. I know my nephews have never flinched at the ridiculous things our own father used to say: "I'll give you something to cry about . . ." and "Boys don't cry . . . " and (worst of all) "Don't ______ (fill in the blank) like a girl!" My brother has also managed to give his sons the greatest gift of all - he loves their mother with all his heart.
When I observe something aloud about my brother's family, he is the first to admit, "We're a strange clique." They have a level of intimacy - inside jokes, shared humor and history - that can be rather intimidating. I don't think they intend it that way; it's just rare to watch four individuals who are so interconnected. They aren't cheesy, smarmy, or remotely nauseating because they are INCREDIBLY human. I think what distinguishes this family is that they have such wide parameters around what is acceptable. Similar to the Buddhist concept of Big Mind. There are no dichotomies and nothing to hide. There is room among them for everything, including the gross, unusual, and atypical. I think it's because of the atmosphere of love that permeates every dynamic. Love undermines fear, which I believe is the basis of all harmful human acts. I wish societies operated like that.
My brother has an eclectic and colorful group of friends who also seem to benefit from his Buddha nature. It's hard not be jealous of his ability to effortlessly model the characteristics I have to plunk down on a sofa cushion every night to try to cultivate. Deep down, however, I know he suffers, too. Which makes me love him even more.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 44. I have a thing about double numbers (as long as they are not sixes.) Must go back to my Yatzee days. I remember being 44. That was a really good year.
My brother is a Buddha. Seriously. I think he arrived in the world that way. What a gift to us all. I have been watching him father his sons over the past four days, and have come to the conclusion that if all beings were parented like my brother fathers his children, there would be world peace. And if all sisters were brothered like my brother is with me, we would pick really good men as mates and create incredibly happy families. Sane families. Tolerant, creative, respectful families. Naturally, this is the foundation from which all peace flourishes.
How, exactly, does a Buddha parent? With acceptance, of course. Acceptance of his sons' unique talents, capabilities, preferences, desires, vulnerabilities, and fallibilities. The older son is incredibly musical, brilliant in thought, creative, alternative, insightful. The younger son is a daredevil and a jock - fearless, bold, and athletic. They are both artistic and tuned in to others' emotions. My brother, who embodies all of the characteristics distributed between his sons, beautifully encourages and supports each boy's unique attributes. He doesn't compare them. He doesn't favor one over the other. He doesn't endorse only the interests and behaviors that he agrees with. He avoids reinforcing the bizarre, stereotypical idea of what being a boy in America is, and just lets his sons BE. Be themselves. Be accepted and supported. Be loved and respected.
This Buddha Brother certainly was not well fathered himself. And he wasn't socialized in a culture that does a particularly good job of preparing men to be good fathers. I think he simply immersed himself deeply into the passion he feels toward fatherhood. He thinks a lot about being a dad, and pays close attention to what seems to work best for his sons. He arrived at the conclusion underlying all spiritual paths: The Greatest of These is Love. He marinates his children in love. Not surprisingly, they, in turn, are evolving into loving, caring, respectful young men. I know my nephews have never flinched at the ridiculous things our own father used to say: "I'll give you something to cry about . . ." and "Boys don't cry . . . " and (worst of all) "Don't ______ (fill in the blank) like a girl!" My brother has also managed to give his sons the greatest gift of all - he loves their mother with all his heart.
When I observe something aloud about my brother's family, he is the first to admit, "We're a strange clique." They have a level of intimacy - inside jokes, shared humor and history - that can be rather intimidating. I don't think they intend it that way; it's just rare to watch four individuals who are so interconnected. They aren't cheesy, smarmy, or remotely nauseating because they are INCREDIBLY human. I think what distinguishes this family is that they have such wide parameters around what is acceptable. Similar to the Buddhist concept of Big Mind. There are no dichotomies and nothing to hide. There is room among them for everything, including the gross, unusual, and atypical. I think it's because of the atmosphere of love that permeates every dynamic. Love undermines fear, which I believe is the basis of all harmful human acts. I wish societies operated like that.
My brother has an eclectic and colorful group of friends who also seem to benefit from his Buddha nature. It's hard not be jealous of his ability to effortlessly model the characteristics I have to plunk down on a sofa cushion every night to try to cultivate. Deep down, however, I know he suffers, too. Which makes me love him even more.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sitting at Seventy
". . . I'd felt a sense of satisfaction so deep that it resonated in my bones and belly. It was as if I were at the very center of a green and gentle world, as if I needed to know nothing more, as if this moment in time was good and true and right and would last forever. - Nancy Thayer in "Between Husbands and Friends."
Day 43. Home again. Home to my familiar keyboard and a cushion that is becoming suspiciously shaped like my buttocks. Home to discover two new followers! Thank you! Thank You and Gassho. I am utterly thrilled and terrified, and will probably write total horse crap for a couple of days in your honor.
I was delighted last night when I read Nancy Thayer's words quoted above because they so captured my feelings about being in the mountains and being with my family. Remember said family? The beloved nephews and son who were so respectful and supportive of my blog/meditation endeavor? That was pretty short lived. That blog was BEFORE I rode in a car with my son for nine and a half hours in the deep of the night.
My son has walked on to a college football team this Spring. I'm not quite sure how working out with a football team for two short months could increase his testosterone production so exponentially, but I DO know that he passed his first NCAA random drug test. Must be the locker room water. The child is OBSESSED with football (and remember, I am a psychologist so I am credentialed to assign this diagnosis officially). He is also nineteen years old, and, as we fondly say at my practice, "His brain's not cooked" (referring to the physiological reality that the prefrontal cortext of males - the site of integrative thought, foresight, and ability to synthesize information to make good decisions - is not fully developed until around age 23-25). Even with my knowledge of brain development, I still can't fathom how he has become suddenly infused with infinite world knowledge, and feels it necessary to inform me of this in an arrogant, egocentric, ceaseless stream of consciousness. So much for being raised by a feminist, vegetarian, Buddhist single mother. Socialization is a powerful mechanism!
So my football wannabe son decides that we must get home from our trip a day early to avert missing an urgent, nay potentially catastrophic, workout requirement. (Since riding a snow board for three days at 11,400 feet isn't very physical). I am vulnerable from skiing three days at the same altitude, so I agree. This necessitates a hastily written blog entry because I don't travel with a laptop and have been borrowing my brother's. It also necessitates sitting meditation in a Nissan.
My son is actually an excellent driver. He even turned down his music for my twenty minutes, which was miraculous in itself (and might I add that our preference in genres differs ever so slightly). I precede to do some cramped bows from my perch on the passenger seat. I attempt to stretch to the sides, and am reminded of my partner's conclusion that the interior of an Xterra is comparable in size to the cockpit of a soapbox derby car. I know for a fact that we are hurtling down the highway at 70 mph - slowed from the 82 mph clocked by the good officer of Oldham County, Texas, who has just issued my son a $200 speeding ticket. I will be SO GLAD when that gray matter of his solidifies.
So there I am, at 11:30 p.m. CST in an enclosed space with a sulky teenager who issued an acoustically challenging tirade when I suggested we pull over at a rest stop for twenty minutes so that I can keep my commitment to meditate every single day. Like every night for the past 42, I sat my timer, formed my mudra, sat up as straight as the cockpit of a soapbox derby car permits, and began to breathe. My son continued to operate our motor vehicle at high speeds down the inky black asphalt of I40. Even if I wasn't sitting zazen, my eyes would have been cast downward; it was much too scary to view the blackness flying by.
I attempted to focus on my breath and sink into meditation with every strategy I know . Nothing worked. I couldn't envision tranquilly floating on water because of the bouncing and rattling of my seat (the shocks on an Xterra aren't much to brag about either). In my mind's ear, my "Hams" and "Sahs" sounded like "Help!" and "Save!". The Monkeys chattered excitedly, wondering how in the world my son could come up with $200. I couldn't find that deep cranial place where my amygdala resides because it was consumed with screaming, "Warning! Warning! Teen at the wheel! Danger!" And this particular teen was checking the time on his cell phone about every 90 seconds, waiting for twenty minutes to elapse so the he could crank the volume on his music.
I returned to the most basic of skills - the old standby taught by my teacher the very first time I sat zazen with him. Count your breaths. One to ten and over again. I was so distracted that I caught myself several times on breath Number Eleven or Number Twelve and quickly, embarrassingly, returned to breath one. I kept questioning my decision not to sell my son on E-Bay when I had the chance. Reminded myself that I had abandoned the idea for two reasons: I am too much of a cyber-phobe, and would likely have prematurely settled on a low offer and not profited from my investment. Breathe. One to ten and over again.
It was the longest twenty minutes of my entire meditating history. Uncomfortable, unnerving, and unsatisfying. But I didn't give up. I sat until the timer sounded and my son's rap music resumed with a bass line that could wake road kill. I don't know how many rounds of ten breaths I counted, but count them I did. When the timer when off and I awkwardly bowed, elation soared. Despite my best efforts, a bit of ego edged around my non-attachment and threatened to blossom into full fledged pride. Like stamping out a fire, I immediately squelched it.
Obviously, the child I decided not to sell successfully drove us home. I know the year will bring additional, unimaginable challenges to my practice. I hope the next time I title a blog "Sitting at Seventy," I will be referring to years, not miles per hour. For now, I've got some sittin' to do on a cushion that fits my butt perfectly.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 43. Home again. Home to my familiar keyboard and a cushion that is becoming suspiciously shaped like my buttocks. Home to discover two new followers! Thank you! Thank You and Gassho. I am utterly thrilled and terrified, and will probably write total horse crap for a couple of days in your honor.
I was delighted last night when I read Nancy Thayer's words quoted above because they so captured my feelings about being in the mountains and being with my family. Remember said family? The beloved nephews and son who were so respectful and supportive of my blog/meditation endeavor? That was pretty short lived. That blog was BEFORE I rode in a car with my son for nine and a half hours in the deep of the night.
My son has walked on to a college football team this Spring. I'm not quite sure how working out with a football team for two short months could increase his testosterone production so exponentially, but I DO know that he passed his first NCAA random drug test. Must be the locker room water. The child is OBSESSED with football (and remember, I am a psychologist so I am credentialed to assign this diagnosis officially). He is also nineteen years old, and, as we fondly say at my practice, "His brain's not cooked" (referring to the physiological reality that the prefrontal cortext of males - the site of integrative thought, foresight, and ability to synthesize information to make good decisions - is not fully developed until around age 23-25). Even with my knowledge of brain development, I still can't fathom how he has become suddenly infused with infinite world knowledge, and feels it necessary to inform me of this in an arrogant, egocentric, ceaseless stream of consciousness. So much for being raised by a feminist, vegetarian, Buddhist single mother. Socialization is a powerful mechanism!
So my football wannabe son decides that we must get home from our trip a day early to avert missing an urgent, nay potentially catastrophic, workout requirement. (Since riding a snow board for three days at 11,400 feet isn't very physical). I am vulnerable from skiing three days at the same altitude, so I agree. This necessitates a hastily written blog entry because I don't travel with a laptop and have been borrowing my brother's. It also necessitates sitting meditation in a Nissan.
My son is actually an excellent driver. He even turned down his music for my twenty minutes, which was miraculous in itself (and might I add that our preference in genres differs ever so slightly). I precede to do some cramped bows from my perch on the passenger seat. I attempt to stretch to the sides, and am reminded of my partner's conclusion that the interior of an Xterra is comparable in size to the cockpit of a soapbox derby car. I know for a fact that we are hurtling down the highway at 70 mph - slowed from the 82 mph clocked by the good officer of Oldham County, Texas, who has just issued my son a $200 speeding ticket. I will be SO GLAD when that gray matter of his solidifies.
So there I am, at 11:30 p.m. CST in an enclosed space with a sulky teenager who issued an acoustically challenging tirade when I suggested we pull over at a rest stop for twenty minutes so that I can keep my commitment to meditate every single day. Like every night for the past 42, I sat my timer, formed my mudra, sat up as straight as the cockpit of a soapbox derby car permits, and began to breathe. My son continued to operate our motor vehicle at high speeds down the inky black asphalt of I40. Even if I wasn't sitting zazen, my eyes would have been cast downward; it was much too scary to view the blackness flying by.
I attempted to focus on my breath and sink into meditation with every strategy I know . Nothing worked. I couldn't envision tranquilly floating on water because of the bouncing and rattling of my seat (the shocks on an Xterra aren't much to brag about either). In my mind's ear, my "Hams" and "Sahs" sounded like "Help!" and "Save!". The Monkeys chattered excitedly, wondering how in the world my son could come up with $200. I couldn't find that deep cranial place where my amygdala resides because it was consumed with screaming, "Warning! Warning! Teen at the wheel! Danger!" And this particular teen was checking the time on his cell phone about every 90 seconds, waiting for twenty minutes to elapse so the he could crank the volume on his music.
I returned to the most basic of skills - the old standby taught by my teacher the very first time I sat zazen with him. Count your breaths. One to ten and over again. I was so distracted that I caught myself several times on breath Number Eleven or Number Twelve and quickly, embarrassingly, returned to breath one. I kept questioning my decision not to sell my son on E-Bay when I had the chance. Reminded myself that I had abandoned the idea for two reasons: I am too much of a cyber-phobe, and would likely have prematurely settled on a low offer and not profited from my investment. Breathe. One to ten and over again.
It was the longest twenty minutes of my entire meditating history. Uncomfortable, unnerving, and unsatisfying. But I didn't give up. I sat until the timer sounded and my son's rap music resumed with a bass line that could wake road kill. I don't know how many rounds of ten breaths I counted, but count them I did. When the timer when off and I awkwardly bowed, elation soared. Despite my best efforts, a bit of ego edged around my non-attachment and threatened to blossom into full fledged pride. Like stamping out a fire, I immediately squelched it.
Obviously, the child I decided not to sell successfully drove us home. I know the year will bring additional, unimaginable challenges to my practice. I hope the next time I title a blog "Sitting at Seventy," I will be referring to years, not miles per hour. For now, I've got some sittin' to do on a cushion that fits my butt perfectly.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Shortest of Blogs
You cannot avoid paradise. You can only avoid seeing it. - Charlotte Joko Beck in the Zen Calendar (October 8, 2007)
Day 42. Mountains, sunshine snow. Mountains, sunshine, snow. Ski 'til you drop. Meditate a little, blog a little. Not a bad lifestyle at all.
The perfect storm of circumstances threatens to prohibit the production of a blog today. But I committed to post a blog every day, so I'm trying to write something coherent in about five minutes. Hard to be profound. Easy to be grateful. I have breathed through so many things over the past few days. There is a quote from the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral" that has planted itself in my mind. Hugh Grant's character says, "I need to be where people are not."
I will make the greatest writer ever, if they are generally introverts. A mountain full of Spring Break revelers is a good thing right up to the point where they start crashing into one another. I am extremely grateful that none of our party crashed into anything other than fresh powder. I am running out of time, so I will edit this post profoundly at my first opportunity. Until then, I will be thinking about a room of my own!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Blue Bandana
I thank God for the things I do not own. - (Gotta look up her name) from the Zen Calendar (Gotta look up the date)
Day 41. Another day in paradise. Mountains, snow and sky. Surrounded by people I love. I understand now when Buddhists say: Just this.
In my Buddhist reading, I've come across a theme that feels very relevant to me. It has to do with separating the essential from the nonessential. This is a crucial distinction. Most Americans err in the direction of confusing the latter with the former. If you pay very close attention to your life, it will proffer opportunities to accurately separate the two.
Take skiing, for example. Most of the time, warm apparel is fairly necessary, but within the general outerwear category, there is a hierarchy. If your head, feet and hands are reasonably warm, it is amazing what low temperatures your body can tolerate. It stands to reason then that hat, socks and gloves rank highly on the essential list. Skis and some boots that attach to them probably come next. Poles, though useful on moguls, are nonessential. From here it gets a little blurry.
For me, the most essential item while skiing is my blue bandana. In the event of a hotel fire, I would probably reach for it first (certainly before my cell phone!) Foggy goggles? Blue bandana. Cold cheeks? Blue bandana. No paper towels in the women's room? Blue bandana. Runny nose, watery eyes? Blue bandana. Dirty camera lense? Blue bandana. Spilled PowerAid on the drive down the mountain? You guessed it. Reach for old blue.
I understand a fair amount about capitalism and the American foundation laid down upon it. What I don't understand is why a person believes it is essential to purchase anti fog spray and goggle wipes, a synthetic face mask, paper towels, Kleenex, eye drops, a lense cloth, and Handiwipes when they could simply tuck a blue bandana in the pocket of their parka. I'm worried about how reliant we have become on products. This overdependence on specialized "things" seems to undermine the development of our resiliency, creativity, ingenuity, and interdependence on one another. It fosters insecurity and competitiveness. We buy things to cope with painful feeling states, rather than looking to relationships to garner support and guidance in difficult times.
When I began to sit zazen last night, it was noisy and distracting. I could hear the TV and ongoing conversation in both adjacent rooms. Doors kept slamming, and it sounded as though the people in the room above ours were polka dancing in wooden shoes. Anger and resentment roiled. How can people be so oblivious? Briefly, I shifted my ear plugs from the nonessential to the essential category. Meditating in relative silence is difficult enough - how could I even begin to approach Nirvana in this melee? I straightened my spine, checked my mudra, and chose to keep breathing. I imagined the innumerable contexts in which those before me suffered while trying to meditate, and decided to press on. The din diminished - not in decibels but in relevance to my time on the cushion. Twenty minutes passed. Mentally, I shifted my ear plugs back to the nonessential category where they belong (no small feat for the woman who thinks paradise is a sensory deprivation tank).
The ritual of my sitting continues to fulfill me. To sit and breath requires very little. I'm learning to cherish my effort and commitment above all possessions. Except, perhaps, for my blue bandana.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 41. Another day in paradise. Mountains, snow and sky. Surrounded by people I love. I understand now when Buddhists say: Just this.
In my Buddhist reading, I've come across a theme that feels very relevant to me. It has to do with separating the essential from the nonessential. This is a crucial distinction. Most Americans err in the direction of confusing the latter with the former. If you pay very close attention to your life, it will proffer opportunities to accurately separate the two.
Take skiing, for example. Most of the time, warm apparel is fairly necessary, but within the general outerwear category, there is a hierarchy. If your head, feet and hands are reasonably warm, it is amazing what low temperatures your body can tolerate. It stands to reason then that hat, socks and gloves rank highly on the essential list. Skis and some boots that attach to them probably come next. Poles, though useful on moguls, are nonessential. From here it gets a little blurry.
For me, the most essential item while skiing is my blue bandana. In the event of a hotel fire, I would probably reach for it first (certainly before my cell phone!) Foggy goggles? Blue bandana. Cold cheeks? Blue bandana. No paper towels in the women's room? Blue bandana. Runny nose, watery eyes? Blue bandana. Dirty camera lense? Blue bandana. Spilled PowerAid on the drive down the mountain? You guessed it. Reach for old blue.
I understand a fair amount about capitalism and the American foundation laid down upon it. What I don't understand is why a person believes it is essential to purchase anti fog spray and goggle wipes, a synthetic face mask, paper towels, Kleenex, eye drops, a lense cloth, and Handiwipes when they could simply tuck a blue bandana in the pocket of their parka. I'm worried about how reliant we have become on products. This overdependence on specialized "things" seems to undermine the development of our resiliency, creativity, ingenuity, and interdependence on one another. It fosters insecurity and competitiveness. We buy things to cope with painful feeling states, rather than looking to relationships to garner support and guidance in difficult times.
When I began to sit zazen last night, it was noisy and distracting. I could hear the TV and ongoing conversation in both adjacent rooms. Doors kept slamming, and it sounded as though the people in the room above ours were polka dancing in wooden shoes. Anger and resentment roiled. How can people be so oblivious? Briefly, I shifted my ear plugs from the nonessential to the essential category. Meditating in relative silence is difficult enough - how could I even begin to approach Nirvana in this melee? I straightened my spine, checked my mudra, and chose to keep breathing. I imagined the innumerable contexts in which those before me suffered while trying to meditate, and decided to press on. The din diminished - not in decibels but in relevance to my time on the cushion. Twenty minutes passed. Mentally, I shifted my ear plugs back to the nonessential category where they belong (no small feat for the woman who thinks paradise is a sensory deprivation tank).
The ritual of my sitting continues to fulfill me. To sit and breath requires very little. I'm learning to cherish my effort and commitment above all possessions. Except, perhaps, for my blue bandana.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Ties That Bind
When you truly feel this equal love for all, when your heart has expanded so much that it embraces the whole of creation, you will certainly not feel like giving up this or that. You will simply drop off from secular life as a ripe fruit drops from the branch of a tree. You will feel that the whole world is your home. - Ramana Maharshi in the Zen Calendar (June 11, 2009)
Day 40. Blogging in Beauty. I am glancing up from my (borrowed) computer every 15 seconds to look out a huge window at snow capped mountains as they fade to purple in the twilight. Mountains I skied upon all day long, while huge snowflakes swirled around me. Thank you, Buddha.
I am on vacation with my brother, my son, and my two nephews. Yes, all members of the group previously referenced regarding the ADD gene, the "I can't fall asleep because my brain won't shut down syndrome," the offspring and grand-offspring of the Poster Family for Alcoholic Dynamics. Dad has been sober for 15 years now, and we've come a long way. We laugh a whole lot, we say outrageous things right out loud, we love bigger and hug harder. There is an implicit sense of belonging, of being completely uninhibited, of being fully known and loved anyway. We also grate on each other's nerves, act obscenely inpatient with each other and the rest of the world, and rarely censor bodily functions (can teenaged boys censor ANYTHING?) Our families' annual Spring Break Trek To The Mountains is undoubtedly my most beloved rite of Spring.
This is the first my nephews have heard of the blog. They were stunned and amazed since their Aunt (cyber-phobic that she is ) even boycotted texting until sometime late in 2008. When I explained the idea of blogging and meditating, they couldn't wrap their multitasking monkey minds around the concept of sitting still for 20 minutes in a row. Together, they couldn't come up with anything that sounded more difficult. But here's the coolest thing: they were utterly accepting and supportive of my endeavor. Some of the vocabulary from the blog has carried over into our banter. We all talk about the chattering monkeys, and the new crew motto is: Ski Through It. As our first evening wound down and "cushion time" approached, everyone just watched matter of factly as I took one of the sofa cushions and placed in on the floor facing the wall. I was much less blasé, feeling rushed and self-conscious as I attempted to execute my month-old ritual in foreign surroundings for the first time.
After two very deep bows, I sat down on an unfamiliar sofa cushion in the unfamiliar suite of a nondescript hotel chain and began to breathe. Honoring my commitment to blog and meditate every single day felt overwhelmingly difficult. It is one thing to be consistent on my home turf; another thing entirely to keep my practice in the midst of vacation chaos. While anxiety and trepidation built to a crescendo, I formed my mudra, straightened my spine, and set my timer. Breathe through it. It wasn't long before I settled more deeply into the cushion, into my breath, into the familiarity of my ritual. The anxiety waned. Calm crept in on the heels of my exhale.
I have a new way of trying to quiet the monkeys. I envision the deepest part of my brain - the lizard brain when I explain it to my clients - the place where our primitive, carnal, ancient self is housed. It is down around the region of the amygdala and the hypocampus. Deep and distant from the thinking and speaking brain. As my consciousness rests on this innermost part of me, I then envision an even more primordial facet of myself. Something cellular, then molecular, and then . . . I'm left with wonderment at what lies beyond the most minute, subatomic fiber of my being. That's when the monkeys go silent. That's when, for less than a second, my Self disappears. I can't yet remain in the No-Self state for longer that a hearbeat - something pulls me back. Probably not my amygdala. Probably something originating far more forward in my thinking brain -- the anatomical housing of my ego. It still squirms at the idea of mind and body falling away. It still wants to drive the ship of my Self.
While perched on the strange sofa cushion last night, I dipped near my lizard brain and beyond. I felt an archetypal kinship with my family that transcended our common ancestors. Briefly, I returned to that ecstatic place of supreme love, feeling deeply rooted in the ties that bind. A profound sense of gratitude and expansiveness followed. Then words for the blog flooded my mind: Cleave to your clan. Tether to your tribe. Surrender to the beauty and grace that awaits within the One.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 40. Blogging in Beauty. I am glancing up from my (borrowed) computer every 15 seconds to look out a huge window at snow capped mountains as they fade to purple in the twilight. Mountains I skied upon all day long, while huge snowflakes swirled around me. Thank you, Buddha.
I am on vacation with my brother, my son, and my two nephews. Yes, all members of the group previously referenced regarding the ADD gene, the "I can't fall asleep because my brain won't shut down syndrome," the offspring and grand-offspring of the Poster Family for Alcoholic Dynamics. Dad has been sober for 15 years now, and we've come a long way. We laugh a whole lot, we say outrageous things right out loud, we love bigger and hug harder. There is an implicit sense of belonging, of being completely uninhibited, of being fully known and loved anyway. We also grate on each other's nerves, act obscenely inpatient with each other and the rest of the world, and rarely censor bodily functions (can teenaged boys censor ANYTHING?) Our families' annual Spring Break Trek To The Mountains is undoubtedly my most beloved rite of Spring.
This is the first my nephews have heard of the blog. They were stunned and amazed since their Aunt (cyber-phobic that she is ) even boycotted texting until sometime late in 2008. When I explained the idea of blogging and meditating, they couldn't wrap their multitasking monkey minds around the concept of sitting still for 20 minutes in a row. Together, they couldn't come up with anything that sounded more difficult. But here's the coolest thing: they were utterly accepting and supportive of my endeavor. Some of the vocabulary from the blog has carried over into our banter. We all talk about the chattering monkeys, and the new crew motto is: Ski Through It. As our first evening wound down and "cushion time" approached, everyone just watched matter of factly as I took one of the sofa cushions and placed in on the floor facing the wall. I was much less blasé, feeling rushed and self-conscious as I attempted to execute my month-old ritual in foreign surroundings for the first time.
After two very deep bows, I sat down on an unfamiliar sofa cushion in the unfamiliar suite of a nondescript hotel chain and began to breathe. Honoring my commitment to blog and meditate every single day felt overwhelmingly difficult. It is one thing to be consistent on my home turf; another thing entirely to keep my practice in the midst of vacation chaos. While anxiety and trepidation built to a crescendo, I formed my mudra, straightened my spine, and set my timer. Breathe through it. It wasn't long before I settled more deeply into the cushion, into my breath, into the familiarity of my ritual. The anxiety waned. Calm crept in on the heels of my exhale.
I have a new way of trying to quiet the monkeys. I envision the deepest part of my brain - the lizard brain when I explain it to my clients - the place where our primitive, carnal, ancient self is housed. It is down around the region of the amygdala and the hypocampus. Deep and distant from the thinking and speaking brain. As my consciousness rests on this innermost part of me, I then envision an even more primordial facet of myself. Something cellular, then molecular, and then . . . I'm left with wonderment at what lies beyond the most minute, subatomic fiber of my being. That's when the monkeys go silent. That's when, for less than a second, my Self disappears. I can't yet remain in the No-Self state for longer that a hearbeat - something pulls me back. Probably not my amygdala. Probably something originating far more forward in my thinking brain -- the anatomical housing of my ego. It still squirms at the idea of mind and body falling away. It still wants to drive the ship of my Self.
While perched on the strange sofa cushion last night, I dipped near my lizard brain and beyond. I felt an archetypal kinship with my family that transcended our common ancestors. Briefly, I returned to that ecstatic place of supreme love, feeling deeply rooted in the ties that bind. A profound sense of gratitude and expansiveness followed. Then words for the blog flooded my mind: Cleave to your clan. Tether to your tribe. Surrender to the beauty and grace that awaits within the One.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Sitting in Sadness
If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun. - Edna St. Vincent Millay in the Zen Calendar (September 30, 2009)
Day 39. First Road Blog. On a computer that is way too new and speedy for me. This could get dangerous.
Last night I began sitting with great sadness. A good friend's sister passed away after a four year battle with breast cancer. Hmmm. Interesting that I chose the word "battle." Sharla responded to her illness like a hybrid warrior and goddess. She grasped the intricate distinction between times of being courageous and times to rest and be cared for. Sharla's cancer was diagnosed when she was pregnant with her second son.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, March 12, 2010
Sit Up a Little Straighter
Each one of you is perfect as you are. And you all could use a little bit of improvement. - Shunryu Suzuki in the Zen Calendar (December 4, 2007)
Day 38. Let the Spring Break Festivities Begin!
When I entered my blog site yesterday, I HAD MY FIRST FOLLOWER! It felt better than getting nominated for Key Club Princess in 1979 (I didn't win, and I was in the bathroom when they took the picture for the yearbook). Does that mean I can no longer make my anonymity jokes? My joy was short-lived, however, because I immediately became hideously self-conscious about my writing. Wow. This does not bode well for my first book signing. My usual 125 wpm typing speed trickled to about 27 wpm. I quit counting how many times I reached for my Thesaurus when I hit number 12, and that was in the first paragraph. No wonder Virginia Wolfe said, " . . . all a woman needs is a room of her own." Of course, that was before a room of your own could simultaneously be a window into the rooms of a gazillion cyber-buddies. Times have changed.
The impact of "The Follower" spilled over into my meditation. I was well into my 20 minutes, and the Monkeys were chattering away about my future prolific writing career. The books were written, the agent signed, the editor was thrilled, the publisher stock was soaring. To think there was a time when I wasn't voted Princess! Before I even felt the escalation, my ego got so bloated that my cushion squished flat to the floor. I was as attached to being a good writer as the color red to the state of Oklahoma in an election year. So what have I been doing in that cramped up lotus position for the past 37 days?!
As the Monkey Chorus thundered uproariously, another voice edged around The Ego, admonishing, "Hold on there, Little Sitter. Your spine's not even erect. Your mudra is so tense it would take the jaws of life to force a piece of rice paper between your thumbs. Take a pause. Sit up a little straighter." I shot right past my subtle Buddha smile and cracked up right there on my cushion. Like a non-green sports car, I had gone from zero to ninety back to zero in less than sixty seconds. Quickly, I mentally blew through every synonym for "non-attachment" that my Buddhist vocabulary could muster. I was stunned at how easily my investment in being a good and competent blogger could be provoked. Amazed and embarrassed at how effortlessly I could abandon my commitment to "non-Self" and land smack in the middle of self absorption. Briefly, I questioned my dedication to truthfully blogging ALL of my meditative experiences. Fortunately, I summoned integrity and am fessing up.
For the remaining minutes of my zazen session, I tugged my mind back to my breath. I sat up straighter, and tweaked my mudra. Chuckled again at the audacity of prematurely launching my ingenious writing career. What can I say? It's only been 38 days. I'm pretty sure my mind and body won't be falling away in the near future. That's okay - more grist for the blogging mill.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 38. Let the Spring Break Festivities Begin!
When I entered my blog site yesterday, I HAD MY FIRST FOLLOWER! It felt better than getting nominated for Key Club Princess in 1979 (I didn't win, and I was in the bathroom when they took the picture for the yearbook). Does that mean I can no longer make my anonymity jokes? My joy was short-lived, however, because I immediately became hideously self-conscious about my writing. Wow. This does not bode well for my first book signing. My usual 125 wpm typing speed trickled to about 27 wpm. I quit counting how many times I reached for my Thesaurus when I hit number 12, and that was in the first paragraph. No wonder Virginia Wolfe said, " . . . all a woman needs is a room of her own." Of course, that was before a room of your own could simultaneously be a window into the rooms of a gazillion cyber-buddies. Times have changed.
The impact of "The Follower" spilled over into my meditation. I was well into my 20 minutes, and the Monkeys were chattering away about my future prolific writing career. The books were written, the agent signed, the editor was thrilled, the publisher stock was soaring. To think there was a time when I wasn't voted Princess! Before I even felt the escalation, my ego got so bloated that my cushion squished flat to the floor. I was as attached to being a good writer as the color red to the state of Oklahoma in an election year. So what have I been doing in that cramped up lotus position for the past 37 days?!
As the Monkey Chorus thundered uproariously, another voice edged around The Ego, admonishing, "Hold on there, Little Sitter. Your spine's not even erect. Your mudra is so tense it would take the jaws of life to force a piece of rice paper between your thumbs. Take a pause. Sit up a little straighter." I shot right past my subtle Buddha smile and cracked up right there on my cushion. Like a non-green sports car, I had gone from zero to ninety back to zero in less than sixty seconds. Quickly, I mentally blew through every synonym for "non-attachment" that my Buddhist vocabulary could muster. I was stunned at how easily my investment in being a good and competent blogger could be provoked. Amazed and embarrassed at how effortlessly I could abandon my commitment to "non-Self" and land smack in the middle of self absorption. Briefly, I questioned my dedication to truthfully blogging ALL of my meditative experiences. Fortunately, I summoned integrity and am fessing up.
For the remaining minutes of my zazen session, I tugged my mind back to my breath. I sat up straighter, and tweaked my mudra. Chuckled again at the audacity of prematurely launching my ingenious writing career. What can I say? It's only been 38 days. I'm pretty sure my mind and body won't be falling away in the near future. That's okay - more grist for the blogging mill.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Proliferous Profundities
"I had coffee so now I'm profound." - Sharin, my Pilates teacher (March 11, 2010)
Day 37. I got to mountain bike today -- on a work day! I feel like I've stolen the crown jewels and gotten away with it. Life is good.
Short blog tonight. I'm preparing for a trip (and taking my blog on the road for the first time. Hope I can find a computer!) I was stretched out on my reformer during Pilates class this afternoon, and my teacher uttered the brilliant statement quoted above. She was revved up, all right. I burst out laughing when she said it, and told her I would be quoting her on my blog. Sharin was so hyped on caffeine, I think the honor was lost on her.
Most nights, when I first begin to sit, I feel like Sharin did today. My mind starts racing, and at first it seems like profoundly significant epiphanies are streaming through my consciousness. Titles of blogs drop from my cerebellum like Georgia peaches in the spring. As I continue to breathe, however, and usher my ego out of the limelight, the profundity of my ideas plummets. (By the way: Peak Experience! I wasn't even aware that I knew the word "profundity" - it just flowed from my fingertips. I looked it up, and it's exactly what I wanted to express!) As I ease deeper into meditation, the carefully calibrated yardstick with which I evaluate my thoughts fades and then disappears entirely. Interestingly, this is usually when genuinely profound things surface. Not when I'm revved up, but when I'm very, very quiet. When I don't prematurely get puffed up over my brilliance. When my ego is hushed and my soul takes the limelight. When I disappear from myself.
I avoid coffee most of the time because my ADD twelve-lane autobahn of a brain races along too fast without stimulants. It gets loud, and my mouth emits words before I can arrange them properly, or (better yet) swallow them. The marvelous thing about sitting is that you don't have to be profound. You just breath. And try to sit real still.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 37. I got to mountain bike today -- on a work day! I feel like I've stolen the crown jewels and gotten away with it. Life is good.
Short blog tonight. I'm preparing for a trip (and taking my blog on the road for the first time. Hope I can find a computer!) I was stretched out on my reformer during Pilates class this afternoon, and my teacher uttered the brilliant statement quoted above. She was revved up, all right. I burst out laughing when she said it, and told her I would be quoting her on my blog. Sharin was so hyped on caffeine, I think the honor was lost on her.
Most nights, when I first begin to sit, I feel like Sharin did today. My mind starts racing, and at first it seems like profoundly significant epiphanies are streaming through my consciousness. Titles of blogs drop from my cerebellum like Georgia peaches in the spring. As I continue to breathe, however, and usher my ego out of the limelight, the profundity of my ideas plummets. (By the way: Peak Experience! I wasn't even aware that I knew the word "profundity" - it just flowed from my fingertips. I looked it up, and it's exactly what I wanted to express!) As I ease deeper into meditation, the carefully calibrated yardstick with which I evaluate my thoughts fades and then disappears entirely. Interestingly, this is usually when genuinely profound things surface. Not when I'm revved up, but when I'm very, very quiet. When I don't prematurely get puffed up over my brilliance. When my ego is hushed and my soul takes the limelight. When I disappear from myself.
I avoid coffee most of the time because my ADD twelve-lane autobahn of a brain races along too fast without stimulants. It gets loud, and my mouth emits words before I can arrange them properly, or (better yet) swallow them. The marvelous thing about sitting is that you don't have to be profound. You just breath. And try to sit real still.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Peak Experience
"Gotta make the donuts." - Actor-Baker guy on the old Dunkin' Donuts commercial
Day 36. Three re-boots to get to my blog. That is a lot even for this ancient piece of rubbish. I'd better type fast; I'm not sure how long I have until the next error message is generated.
Remember that commercial when the semi-conscious baking guy arrives at 4:00 a.m. to make the donuts at Dunkin Donuts, sleepily muttering the above quote? That line, spoken in the same demeanor, has been in my mind today. For some reason I've interpreted it as an updated version of "Most (of us) live lives of quiet desperation," or the famous Zen recommendation to "Chop wood, carry water." I grasp the wisdom of these sentiments: Do what needs to be done. Some days it's easier than others. I didn't make any baked goods today, but my inner monologue ran something like this: "Gotta get the oil changed; gotta get the tires balanced and rotated; gotta buy gluten-free food at the health food store; gotta call in that prescription; gotta return those phone calls; gotta write that intake; gotta carry out the recycling bin; gotta load the dishwasher, gotta write the blog, gotta sit meditation" . . . ad infinitum. I'm not feeling philosophical or inspirational about any of it. The tedium is grating.
Why, then, the title "Peak Experience" for today's blog? Since I say the phrase a lot in my life, and it's likely to pop up in the blog from time to time, I decided to explain its origin. Surprisingly, it's not the academic term described by Humanistic psychologists, although I think they generally receive the credit.
During the first year of my first job after completing my Ph.D., I worked in the counseling center of a public university. One day I was waiting to use the copier while a lovely, reed-thin woman in a vibrantly colored turban made her copies. As the Xerox churned out the last of her request, it beeped and she exclaimed, "Peak Experience! The copier ran out of paper at exactly the same time I finished my copies!" She proceeded to open the paper tray and reload it, smiling at me and gesturing that it was my turn. The beautiful lady sauntered off down the hall.
A couple of days later I was visiting with a colleague in the break room. The turbaned woman passed by, and I grinned, remembering her exclamation at the copy machine. I told the story to my friend, and asked who the woman was. My friend replied that she was an intern at the counseling center who had just completed a long round of chemotherapy. The friend sadly shared that the intern's cancer had not gone into remission, and the likelihood of recovery was extremely low.
I got to know that spirited woman throughout the year of her internship. A remission continued to allude her, but somehow she continued to work, and kept the entire staff laughing in the process. This was in 1988, when "being in the moment" and "living in the here-and-now" weren't such trite and overused phrases. She lived in the moment because it could very well be among her last. She did it with grace and perspective and raunchy humor. I remember many occasions when she exclaimed, "Peak experience!" over things I considered mundane. Now that over 20 years have past, I understand her a lot better.
Today I thought of my friend from long ago when I flipped on the TV during my lunch break, and a show about Rosa Parks was on BET. I heard myself exclaim, as I often do, "Peak experience!" because I had referenced Rosa Parks in my blog only yesterday. I have come to treasure those serendipitous moments when life offers up a little slice of synchronisity. It turns the mundane into the marvelous. The trick is to notice them, because the moments aren't preceded with a big banner that says, "Pay attention! This is going to be really cool!" Sitting helps me pay attention, and when you're watching for them, Peak Experiences crop up all the time.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 36. Three re-boots to get to my blog. That is a lot even for this ancient piece of rubbish. I'd better type fast; I'm not sure how long I have until the next error message is generated.
Remember that commercial when the semi-conscious baking guy arrives at 4:00 a.m. to make the donuts at Dunkin Donuts, sleepily muttering the above quote? That line, spoken in the same demeanor, has been in my mind today. For some reason I've interpreted it as an updated version of "Most (of us) live lives of quiet desperation," or the famous Zen recommendation to "Chop wood, carry water." I grasp the wisdom of these sentiments: Do what needs to be done. Some days it's easier than others. I didn't make any baked goods today, but my inner monologue ran something like this: "Gotta get the oil changed; gotta get the tires balanced and rotated; gotta buy gluten-free food at the health food store; gotta call in that prescription; gotta return those phone calls; gotta write that intake; gotta carry out the recycling bin; gotta load the dishwasher, gotta write the blog, gotta sit meditation" . . . ad infinitum. I'm not feeling philosophical or inspirational about any of it. The tedium is grating.
Why, then, the title "Peak Experience" for today's blog? Since I say the phrase a lot in my life, and it's likely to pop up in the blog from time to time, I decided to explain its origin. Surprisingly, it's not the academic term described by Humanistic psychologists, although I think they generally receive the credit.
During the first year of my first job after completing my Ph.D., I worked in the counseling center of a public university. One day I was waiting to use the copier while a lovely, reed-thin woman in a vibrantly colored turban made her copies. As the Xerox churned out the last of her request, it beeped and she exclaimed, "Peak Experience! The copier ran out of paper at exactly the same time I finished my copies!" She proceeded to open the paper tray and reload it, smiling at me and gesturing that it was my turn. The beautiful lady sauntered off down the hall.
A couple of days later I was visiting with a colleague in the break room. The turbaned woman passed by, and I grinned, remembering her exclamation at the copy machine. I told the story to my friend, and asked who the woman was. My friend replied that she was an intern at the counseling center who had just completed a long round of chemotherapy. The friend sadly shared that the intern's cancer had not gone into remission, and the likelihood of recovery was extremely low.
I got to know that spirited woman throughout the year of her internship. A remission continued to allude her, but somehow she continued to work, and kept the entire staff laughing in the process. This was in 1988, when "being in the moment" and "living in the here-and-now" weren't such trite and overused phrases. She lived in the moment because it could very well be among her last. She did it with grace and perspective and raunchy humor. I remember many occasions when she exclaimed, "Peak experience!" over things I considered mundane. Now that over 20 years have past, I understand her a lot better.
Today I thought of my friend from long ago when I flipped on the TV during my lunch break, and a show about Rosa Parks was on BET. I heard myself exclaim, as I often do, "Peak experience!" because I had referenced Rosa Parks in my blog only yesterday. I have come to treasure those serendipitous moments when life offers up a little slice of synchronisity. It turns the mundane into the marvelous. The trick is to notice them, because the moments aren't preceded with a big banner that says, "Pay attention! This is going to be really cool!" Sitting helps me pay attention, and when you're watching for them, Peak Experiences crop up all the time.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Oppositional and Defiant
It is best to be yourself, imperial, plain and true. - Robert Browning in the Zen Calendar (February 3, 2009)
Day 35. Glorious, warm sunshine. It's about damn time. I took a whompin long walk this afternoon, and rediscovered how demanding it is to be self-ambulatory. It felt rigorous to be a biped, rather than astride two wheels. I'll probably stick to cycling.
While sitting last night, I was like an indignant, petulant child. I plunked down on my cushion like a two-year-old sent to time out. If there had been anyone to listen, my inner toddler would have said sulkily, "I don't wanna. And you can't make me." What a brat. I didn't want to bow, or sit up straight, or maintain a proper mudra. I decided to simply go with it. It wasn't long before my Buddha smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and I got really tickled over myself. Indulging those feelings began to crack me up.
Like all true children of an alcoholic, I have never been young. If someone were to conduct a formal intake interview with me, it would be apparent that I had reached most significant maturational milestones by the age of 11, which was when I began to earn my own money. I was the quintessential Hero child. I'm not particularly proud of this distinction, and I've done a fairly thorough job of processing it on my analyst's couch. My point is that my zazen cushion may be the first and only place I've ever manifested anything remotely childlike. Not that adults can't be indignant and petulant, too.
In my profession, there is actually a diagnosis called "Oppositional Defiant Disorder." It's usually applied to kids, although I've had some former bosses who met the criteria. I suspect it is a diagnosis applied most commonly to spunky, creative, independent-thinking little individuals by therapists who were potty-trained too rigidly. I like to think that an eight-year-old Meryl Streep, and Bruce Springsteen for most of his life, might have been misdiagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder. I didn't have the luxury of opposing much. It was far too dangerous to contradict my dad.
This may be a horse crap pile of rationalization, but I believe there are definitely times and places where there is an imperative to oppose and defy. I'm really glad Rosa Parks did her stint of it. And Joseph Campbell, Carl Sagen, and Madame Curie to name a few others. I'm not exactly sure what triggered my petulance last night, but the moment I indulged it, watched it, and (mildly!) celebrated it, the petulance kind of ebbed out of me. Interestingly, it was replaced by a sense of amusement and exhilaration. I don't have to be "good" all of the time. Inevitably, there will be occasions when I can't be profound, or witty, or insightful, or even mildly interesting on my blog. And times when, despite my most sincere efforts, I don't sit up very straight, forget to count my breaths, and for 20 solid minutes think of nothing other than, "When is the timer going off? Is it over yet? Is it over yet? Is it over yet? I want to stretch. I want to read. I want to sleep."
My first instinct upon witnessing a crack in my Inner Repsonsible Adult was that all hell would break loose, the world as we know it would come to an end, and (another) shift of the earth's axis would result. Spoken like a Poster Child for Adult Children of Alcoholics. I braced myself for the disapproval and rejection of Buddha, God, my former therapist, friends, family and entire reading audience. I noticed that none of these catastrophic consequences occurred. I just kept sitting on my cushion. My breath went on breathing in and out. Twenty minutes passed. I had nothing to show for it, other than a wicked little smile and the indention my buttocks left on my sofa cushion. And a tiny bit of unclinching - mostly of my superego but perhaps some other body parts as well.
That felt really good.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 35. Glorious, warm sunshine. It's about damn time. I took a whompin long walk this afternoon, and rediscovered how demanding it is to be self-ambulatory. It felt rigorous to be a biped, rather than astride two wheels. I'll probably stick to cycling.
While sitting last night, I was like an indignant, petulant child. I plunked down on my cushion like a two-year-old sent to time out. If there had been anyone to listen, my inner toddler would have said sulkily, "I don't wanna. And you can't make me." What a brat. I didn't want to bow, or sit up straight, or maintain a proper mudra. I decided to simply go with it. It wasn't long before my Buddha smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and I got really tickled over myself. Indulging those feelings began to crack me up.
Like all true children of an alcoholic, I have never been young. If someone were to conduct a formal intake interview with me, it would be apparent that I had reached most significant maturational milestones by the age of 11, which was when I began to earn my own money. I was the quintessential Hero child. I'm not particularly proud of this distinction, and I've done a fairly thorough job of processing it on my analyst's couch. My point is that my zazen cushion may be the first and only place I've ever manifested anything remotely childlike. Not that adults can't be indignant and petulant, too.
In my profession, there is actually a diagnosis called "Oppositional Defiant Disorder." It's usually applied to kids, although I've had some former bosses who met the criteria. I suspect it is a diagnosis applied most commonly to spunky, creative, independent-thinking little individuals by therapists who were potty-trained too rigidly. I like to think that an eight-year-old Meryl Streep, and Bruce Springsteen for most of his life, might have been misdiagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder. I didn't have the luxury of opposing much. It was far too dangerous to contradict my dad.
This may be a horse crap pile of rationalization, but I believe there are definitely times and places where there is an imperative to oppose and defy. I'm really glad Rosa Parks did her stint of it. And Joseph Campbell, Carl Sagen, and Madame Curie to name a few others. I'm not exactly sure what triggered my petulance last night, but the moment I indulged it, watched it, and (mildly!) celebrated it, the petulance kind of ebbed out of me. Interestingly, it was replaced by a sense of amusement and exhilaration. I don't have to be "good" all of the time. Inevitably, there will be occasions when I can't be profound, or witty, or insightful, or even mildly interesting on my blog. And times when, despite my most sincere efforts, I don't sit up very straight, forget to count my breaths, and for 20 solid minutes think of nothing other than, "When is the timer going off? Is it over yet? Is it over yet? Is it over yet? I want to stretch. I want to read. I want to sleep."
My first instinct upon witnessing a crack in my Inner Repsonsible Adult was that all hell would break loose, the world as we know it would come to an end, and (another) shift of the earth's axis would result. Spoken like a Poster Child for Adult Children of Alcoholics. I braced myself for the disapproval and rejection of Buddha, God, my former therapist, friends, family and entire reading audience. I noticed that none of these catastrophic consequences occurred. I just kept sitting on my cushion. My breath went on breathing in and out. Twenty minutes passed. I had nothing to show for it, other than a wicked little smile and the indention my buttocks left on my sofa cushion. And a tiny bit of unclinching - mostly of my superego but perhaps some other body parts as well.
That felt really good.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, March 8, 2010
Now You See Me, Now You Don't
Think enough and you won't know anything. - Kenneth Patchen in the Zen Calendar (May 23, 2009)
Day 34. Remember that song with the lyrics, "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down"? Today was Monday AND it's rainy.
For some reason tonight (see above), the task of selecting a title, a quote, and then writing the actual blog feels almost more burdensome than I can bear. I'm experiencing this bizarre sense of responsibility and obligation to produce something profound. I KNEW it was risky to let others know that my blog exists. How could I possibly have performance anxiety when it is highly likely that no more people are reading this today than yesterday? This white box staring back at me from my computer looks exactly the same as it has for the past 34 nights, and yet it seems to be taunting me: Write something Good! Write something Good! I have to get over this. And fast.
I think, perhaps, that my zazen cushion and a really good novel (not necessarily in that order) are competing for my attention. Not to mention that everything feels anticlimactic after my weekend of mountain biking. I am trying to return my focus to the original intent of this blog: MEDITATION! Most nights, when I first begin to sit, there is a brief period when the Monkeys protest and do their best jabbering. My mind usually responds with an extra cerebral flex in an attempt to silence the chattering. Of late, the technique my mind reaches for is centered upon a quote I first heard from my teacher. I believe he introduced it as, of all things, a mental device on which to concentrate while meditating. Imagine that! The quote goes something like, "What did your face look like before your parents were born?" I know; it's right up there with the infamous ". . . sound of one hand clapping." Interestingly, in a state of meditation, these buggers really do provoke a deeper sense of calm.
I've spent a fair amount of meditation time over the past couple of weeks with this question floating around and in between my Ham's and Sah's. It has the effect of knocking my ego down a few notches. I am reminded of the stark reality that there was, definitely, a time before the "me" as I know me existed. And the world continued to turn. I was beginning to grasp the idea of "time before Julie" when, a couple of nights ago, it occurred to me that there would, indeed, be a "time after Julie." How self-centered for it to take nearly half a century for me to begin to wrestle with this Truth!
Remember that spending time with a new concept in meditation is quite different from contemplating the abstract in a traditional state of consciousness. Each night, as I pose the question and enter the wonderment of my appearance prior to the birth of my parents, I am filled with a sense of tranquility and relief. To me, it feels incredibly peaceful to rest with the knowledge that "I" - complete with all my worries, fears, anxieties and attachments -- don't even exist. I'm not sure how to reconcile the two simultaneous realizations that arise: First, "I" in the sense of being separate and individual am an illusion (and am therefore exempt from all the worry and expectation that accompanies separateness), and second, I am free to live a spectacular life void of fear and apprehension because there is no "me" to be hurt. This must be why monks meditate for hours on end. You just can't wrap your mind around the stuff that emerges in meditation. Which is exactly the point.
Again, the second I try to put words to these insights, they evaporate. My proverbial Sit/Blog dilemma. I recognize to a much greater extent why my teacher used to pose such provocative (and unanswerable) queries. I move deeper into meditation because my brain is trying to shut down so it won't blow up. I know that this particular question will linger for a long, long time. I'm strangely satisfied and content with "practicing" the idea of relinquishing my ego and remembering that there is time both before and after my conscious existence. It's delightfully freeing. The awareness that most threatens to explode my brain is this: The dual truth that nothing matters when I am not attached to it, and yet I have a somber responsibility to live this "non-life" to the fullest - with joy and love and growth. Very odd indeed. Stay deeply invested in my life while totally relinquishing my hold on it.
I'll never know what I looked like before my parents were born. Probably a lot like I'll look after I die. And I'm strangely okay with that.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 34. Remember that song with the lyrics, "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down"? Today was Monday AND it's rainy.
For some reason tonight (see above), the task of selecting a title, a quote, and then writing the actual blog feels almost more burdensome than I can bear. I'm experiencing this bizarre sense of responsibility and obligation to produce something profound. I KNEW it was risky to let others know that my blog exists. How could I possibly have performance anxiety when it is highly likely that no more people are reading this today than yesterday? This white box staring back at me from my computer looks exactly the same as it has for the past 34 nights, and yet it seems to be taunting me: Write something Good! Write something Good! I have to get over this. And fast.
I think, perhaps, that my zazen cushion and a really good novel (not necessarily in that order) are competing for my attention. Not to mention that everything feels anticlimactic after my weekend of mountain biking. I am trying to return my focus to the original intent of this blog: MEDITATION! Most nights, when I first begin to sit, there is a brief period when the Monkeys protest and do their best jabbering. My mind usually responds with an extra cerebral flex in an attempt to silence the chattering. Of late, the technique my mind reaches for is centered upon a quote I first heard from my teacher. I believe he introduced it as, of all things, a mental device on which to concentrate while meditating. Imagine that! The quote goes something like, "What did your face look like before your parents were born?" I know; it's right up there with the infamous ". . . sound of one hand clapping." Interestingly, in a state of meditation, these buggers really do provoke a deeper sense of calm.
I've spent a fair amount of meditation time over the past couple of weeks with this question floating around and in between my Ham's and Sah's. It has the effect of knocking my ego down a few notches. I am reminded of the stark reality that there was, definitely, a time before the "me" as I know me existed. And the world continued to turn. I was beginning to grasp the idea of "time before Julie" when, a couple of nights ago, it occurred to me that there would, indeed, be a "time after Julie." How self-centered for it to take nearly half a century for me to begin to wrestle with this Truth!
Remember that spending time with a new concept in meditation is quite different from contemplating the abstract in a traditional state of consciousness. Each night, as I pose the question and enter the wonderment of my appearance prior to the birth of my parents, I am filled with a sense of tranquility and relief. To me, it feels incredibly peaceful to rest with the knowledge that "I" - complete with all my worries, fears, anxieties and attachments -- don't even exist. I'm not sure how to reconcile the two simultaneous realizations that arise: First, "I" in the sense of being separate and individual am an illusion (and am therefore exempt from all the worry and expectation that accompanies separateness), and second, I am free to live a spectacular life void of fear and apprehension because there is no "me" to be hurt. This must be why monks meditate for hours on end. You just can't wrap your mind around the stuff that emerges in meditation. Which is exactly the point.
Again, the second I try to put words to these insights, they evaporate. My proverbial Sit/Blog dilemma. I recognize to a much greater extent why my teacher used to pose such provocative (and unanswerable) queries. I move deeper into meditation because my brain is trying to shut down so it won't blow up. I know that this particular question will linger for a long, long time. I'm strangely satisfied and content with "practicing" the idea of relinquishing my ego and remembering that there is time both before and after my conscious existence. It's delightfully freeing. The awareness that most threatens to explode my brain is this: The dual truth that nothing matters when I am not attached to it, and yet I have a somber responsibility to live this "non-life" to the fullest - with joy and love and growth. Very odd indeed. Stay deeply invested in my life while totally relinquishing my hold on it.
I'll never know what I looked like before my parents were born. Probably a lot like I'll look after I die. And I'm strangely okay with that.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Buddha is a Bad Ass 2
Inwardly seeing your own self-nature and being unshakable, indestructible -- that is Zen! - Zen Saying in the Zen Calendar (April 13, 2009)
Day 33. The number thirty-three always makes me think of a former consultant who would say, "That is your Jesus year." A reminder that He died when he was 33. So very young.
I'm still on a post trail ride high, though I'm pretty sure Monday morning will imminently squelch it. There was, however, another incredibly Zen moment during yesterday's ride that I want to brag about. Blog about. Whatever. It offered another meaningful metaphor that seemed relevant to my life, and hopefully to the lives of others.
When I last blogged about mountain biking, I described a section of trail in which I had to stop, balance beside a tree, and start again. The reason for the interruption to my flow was, essentially, a combination of unfamiliarity with the trail, extremely difficult terrain, and, uh, terror. I've never ridden that piece of trail all the way through. It is relatively new to the Clear Bay Trail system, and the result of diligent work on the part of ingenious trail designers (who also happen to be incredibly talented mountain bikers). The approach to the turn-off for this part of trail has two signs: one points away from it and says, benignly enough, "Bypass." The other sign points directly toward a deep ravine and says, "Advanced." Pretty straightforward, and how kind of them to build a shame-free alternative to the ridiculously challenging new stretch of trail. That said, I've always been somewhat of an overachiever, so I've never been able to "bypass" anything that says "advanced."
This little zinger is about half-way through the 18-mile loop. I'm cruising along, feeling all Zenned out, a little (no, a lot) cocky over the fact that the three stud guys I'm riding with have all had crashes, and I'm still blood-free. The two leaders have disappeared ahead of me - they live for this piece of trail. My cockiness falters as I careen down the first abyss and my front wheel skids some before I launch straight up the other side. That is just enough to trigger memories of my attempt to ride this section of ground two weeks ago. I would rocket headlong down the steep ravines and get three-fourths of the way up the other side only to hesitate, fail to pedal aggressively, wobble, and teeter on the edge of the tiny summit of the next crater. That moment of hesitation, my split second of indecision, would cost me the momentum I needed to successfully tackle the next sequence of roller coaster cliffs. This resulted in plenty of dirt-diving, bike pushing, and a decidedly dissatisfied attitude toward my mountain biking skills.
The moment of truth on sections like this comes just before you reach the apex of the climbs. The bike is pointing straight up, so momentum is quickly lost. You've gone from bullet speed to almost a dead stop, and every instinct says to kick your foot free from the pedal and put it down to prevent crashing back down to the bottom. The trick is to override your instincts and pedal hardest at precisely the moment you want to stop pedaling altogether. You have to commit. You can't equivocate. Or, as the EZ riders always say, "Ride through it."
During yesterday's ride, I didn't hesitate as I approached the tops. I tightened the core muscles I've worked so hard on in Pilates class, and pedaled those last revolutions like my life depended on it (and it might have!). I tried to visualize the layout of the trail so that I could have an extra nanosecond to anticipate where to steer my bike. Then my brain just shut off and shut up. I rode that segment of trail on pure reflex. My expression was a grimace of determination. I committed, flowing with the momentum until it gave out, keeping my feet glued to the pedals as I hammered those last couple of pedal strokes to bring me up and over. As I sailed over a crest I'd never ridden continuously before, I let out a whoop that was heard from across the lake. Sheer guts. Sheer glory.
I've repeated that part of the trail a hundred times in mind since yesterday, and I'm still grinning. I've been wondering how many times in my life I haven't, metaphorically, pedaled those last difficult, necessary strokes. How many times I've floundered, bailed, preempted an opportunity because I was afraid. I think we all prematurely abandon things when we can't see far enough ahead, when there is risk, when we haven't done it before. Imagine all the missed glory. My meditation is changing me from the inside out. Many times during zazen there have been painful emotions that bubble up, and I've learned to just keep breathing - to not bail out of the moment. Sitting helps me recognize and accept the steep climbs in my life. I'm going to keep pedaling up and over, because I like the glory.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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