Parallel Play

Zen is really extraordinarily simple as long as one doesn't try to be cute about it or beat around the bush! - Alan Watts in the Zen Calendar (September 19, 2007).

Day 87. The winds have softened. So has my mood.

I am heavy with a fatigue reminiscent of last year when I burned out my adrenal gland in a heat incident. I recall waking in the night thirsty, and it would take a half hour to summon the energy to reach for the glass on the bed stand. This weariness should allow for some very still sitting. Hope I don't drop my mudra.

The Monkeys have taken a slight sabbatical this week. They didn't file a leave of absence, so I am not sure when they will return. While upon my cushion, I am learning to, well, sit. Just sit. Strange how long it is taking me to master this. I must house some particularly robust Monkeys. The trick (not that there is one -- I'm just sitting) seems to be to not try. This is not rocket science; every syllable ever written about Zen and meditation essentially says, "Just sit." Easier read than done. When I sit tall and straight and sink downward from my brain, sometimes it becomes extraordinarily still. I can't stay there for long. Before I can consciously feel anxious or fearful, the Monkey Chorus usually strikes a high note to deliver me from the quiet. It is frustrating, and then I get frustrated because I'm not supposed to feel frustration. My instincts say this quiet is a good place to be. My habits yank me out like an AARP member on a deep sea fishing trip.

Outside of work, I am experiencing a reluctance to interact. Perhaps my writer persona is emerging! I took the dogs to the lake again this evening. The winds had calmed, and the frothy brown water had stilled to a murky blue. As we walked along the shoreline, I felt so grateful that Katy and Ruby can amuse themselves doing dog stuff. Nothing is required of me. I make enthusiastic noises when they pop out of the woods and tear down to the water, but I don't think they care much. I can do my Reflective Person thing, and they can do their Wild Dog thing.

This reminds me of a concept from Child Development classes. Up to a certain age, you can place a couple of babies next to each other, and they don't have much to do with one another. They will both just entertain their Self with whatever is currently holding their attention. They "play" (non-play?) this way side by side, but with no actual interaction with each other, which is why the phenomena is called "parallel play." Interestingly, babies are usually quite content with this non-interactive proximity to each other. It's as though being near is enough, and you don't botch it by exchanging anything else. That's the cool thing about being at the lake with my dogs. We stay in relative proximity to one another while flowing along separately. It is effortless and peaceful. A bit like "just sitting" on my cushion.

I am aware that when I sit, I am sitting for all sentient beings. I would like to say I feel equal compassion for all beings, but I am not there yet. I feel most compassionate toward those that leave me alone. The ones that don't need anything. The ones that, literally or metaphorically, are sitting on their own. The ones that can parallel play. Especially the ones that don't try to be cute or beat around the bush.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

A Really Tight Pony Tail

May happiness and peace be with you. - The charm included with the gift I received today.

Day 86. Peak Experience! I received an anonymous gift today! My very first one! The mail arrived at my office and I found an envelope addressed to me in a lovely computer font. No return address. I opened the envelope and to my delight . . . it didn't blow up! Just kidding. I opened the envelope and to my delight discovered a wonderful book titled "Being in Balance" by Dr. Wayne Dyer, and a tiny, perfect, silver charm in a cloth pouch the color of new buttercups. It says, "May happiness and peace be with you." I know I quoted it above; I just wanted to write and read it one more time. It is a very powerful charm, for I have been feeling happy and peaceful ever since I opened it.

It couldn't have arrived at a better time for all of us. Otherwise, it is highly likely that another blog saturated with sarcastic, pessimistic cynicism was going to eek from my fingertips. How very unBuddhalike. Instead, I felt buoyant and energetic throughout the day. Anonymous kindness is the ultimate ego chuck. I am so grateful. This book looks like it's going to rock.

It was too windy to ride bikes, so I decided to ride that buoyancy and take the dogs to the lake. What a sight! The water was boisterous and unruly. Muddy brown waves smashed the shore so ferociously the dogs paused at the water's edge, looking wary and confused. I love it when the Oklahoma winds whip an inland lake into wild, frothy white caps. I love it when me and the dogs have the whole shoreline to ourselves.

The wind had swirled the sand into fantastic artwork. I have never seen anything like it. I rounded the point and stumbled upon geometric, symmetrical patterns of ridges, points and ripples. Further down the beach, the symmetry yielded to mysterious and erotic cracks, creases and crevices. It was like walking across a giant M. C. Escher print. The contrasting hues of mauve, brick and pink were breathtaking. The roaring of the wind and water thundered in my ears, filling my head with sound that crowded out all thought. The dogs went a little crazy - ripping across the rippled sand, biting at the waves, lumbering through thick, squishy patches of mud. It was glorious.

I picked up a few pointers for beach combing in howling winds. Walk in the dampness near the water so blowing sand doesn't sting your legs. Keep your mouth shut if you are chewing gum - otherwise you'll be munching grit and swallowing sand. Contacts are best left at home, though squinting behind sun glasses works in a pinch. Pull your hair back in a really tight pony tail. Seriously. I felt profoundly attached to the scrunchy holding mine today. Flicking hair in 40 mph winds can do some damage.

I'm sure it is obvious after 85 (and a half!) blogs that I am not wired for wanton jaunts upon windswept canvases. My mind is designed for obsession, precision, and moderate degrees of fretfulness. I thrive on order and symmetry and logic. Numbers soothe me, as does describing things with three adjectives. Emotion untethered to reason leaves me squirmy. That is, if the emotions are mine. I'm in my element with the emotions of others because most of the time my brain gets to scurry around frantically anchoring the feelings to perfectly sound understanding. I'm a damn good shrink.

This wiring is the reason it will probably take me upwards of 400 lifetimes to experience enlightenment. Nothingness is not my forte. Emptying my mind feels tantamount to bagging up the Sahara using a thimble. It's going to take time. And practice. Lots of practice. Practice on my cushion; practice on the sand. I'm feeling hopeful, because I sense these infinitesimal shifts in my neurons. A subtle loosening. I'm going to keep going back to the lake, keep scanning the sand, pry open my wild mind so the wind can whip it into lather. So that one day the only thing tight about me will be my pony tail.

I must get on my cushion. Afterward, I have a really good book to read.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Bucking the System

"I don't know what it is, but ever since I reached my 40's my bullshit threshold has gone way down." - My friend Anna in Palmer, Texas

Day 85. I hope this is just a phase, because if I feel like this and blog like this for the next 280 days, I can probably kiss my book deal bye-bye. Not that I've yet kissed it hello . . . .

I have the opportunity to interact with amazing individuals each and every work day. This is a privilege for which I am deeply grateful. I am privy to human secrets that, over time, have accumulated and culminated in what I sense are universal truths. We all want to be loved. We are all pained by unfairness, exclusion, and abandonment. We think we ARE many things that we are NOT, and we think we ARE NOT many things that we ARE. We are profoundly influenced by early life experiences. We will all die.

In addition to discovering truths taught through individuals, I have bumped into some truths within systems. My tolerance level for many of these truths is declining with age. Here are some consistent ones: The masses regress to the mean; they don't evolve to the optimal. The mistakes and flaws of the few result in consequences applicable to the many. We compress data so thinly that truth becomes the ooze scraped off the sides. When there is too much stimulation, we overlook, overgeneralized and under analyze. Systems reward that which perpetuates the system, not necessarily that which improves it. Objectivity is lost proportionate to the amount of investment in a certain outcome a system holds. Rigid systems are the most pathological and least able to grow. Most systems operate at the lowest level of Kohlberg's Stages of Moral Reasoning: Don't do it if you'll get caught and punished. A corollary: no one thinks they will get caught. Advancement in systems is usually based on playing by the system rules rather than true criteria of superiority. The behavior of systems can often be explained by fear leaking out sideways.

I realize that, by definition, members of effective and ethical and healthy systems aren't coming into the office of a psychologist to report how great things are. Overexposure to the problematic aspects of life is an occupational hazard for shrinks. It's hard for my perspective not to become permanently bent. The definition of what constitutes "news" in our culture, along with how this news is reported, also contributes to the negative slant on my opinion of systems.

At the system level, I am certain that the practice of Buddhism is also fallible. At the level of my cushion, however, I'm going to keep sitting real still, watching for universal truth.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Smash it to Pieces

American Zen is running sideways, writing books, lecturing, referring to theology, psychology, and whatnot. Someone should stand up and smash the whole thing to pieces. - Nyogen Senzaki in the Zen Calendar (January 3, 2007).

Day 84. I rode my single bike for the first time in many months. It felt like being a newly post-op separated Siamese twin. I rode well, which was a relief. Shifting my own gears and pressing my own brakes was kind of weird. Not to mention that part where I have to unclip and put a foot down at the stop lights. I had become one spoiled Stoker!

Most nights blogging and sitting doesn't feel the least bit burdensome. Tonight is not one of those nights. I feel like an obstinate, oppositional little rebel. I am not at all interested in stringing words together. I don't want to cook, clean, sweep, mop, dust, fold, hang, straighten, pay, or balance ANYTHING. Nor do I remotely desire to pet, feed, water, walk, brush, or scratch ANYTHING. I don't want to nod or nurture or listen or care. I especially don't want to check e-mail, check voice mail, initiate or return any form of human interaction. Eye contact would be asking too much.

It felt wickedly good to write that! I have no idea where it is coming from, and I have not the slightest inclination to wonder about it. I feel like whining and bitching and ignoring and suspending any action resembling adult behavior. I want to pitch responsibility, obligation, duty and maturity into our enormous Oklahoma City trash can, and wheel the whole bin of rubbish to the curb. I want to smash the whole thing to pieces, and I'm not even sure what the Whole Thing is!

So, what DO I want to do? Eat a large quantity of something with no nutritional value. Stand in the shower with molten hot water pummeling my head. Lay on the floor and stretch long and lean and resplendent in poor yoga technique. Read something with very little plot and no polysyllabic words. Fall asleep when my eyelids shut on their own, and awaken extremely late because I am thirsty, NOT because an alarm went off. Read some more. Sleep some more. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I don't know about you, Dear Readers, but I'm feeling really good right now. I am going to sit on my cushion - not because I want to, because I promised I would. I will bow and side stretch and sit up straight and breathe. Not because I want to, because I promised I would. I don't care if absolutely nothing happens, and if the Monkeys jabber, so be it. I may just smash them to pieces.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

You Have the Watches, We Have the Time

The trouble is that you think you have time. - Jack Kornfield in the Zen Calendar (August 29, 2006)

Day 83. Serendipitous synchronicity! Two things happened today that gave me ideas for blogging. I KNOW -- on a MONDAY, even!

I have the privilege of co-leading an amazing therapy group at my practice on Monday nights. The five members comprising the group are insightful, motivated, caring women who have worked hard to establish a cohesive and mature setting in which they explore important issues in their lives. It began as a therapy group for eating disorders. It evolved into a sophisticated context for change.

Tonight the topic of values emerged. I pointed out that the value of something usually increases when we are deprived of and/or have insufficient amounts of it. I humbly revealed that I place enormous value on sleep, going to great lengths to obtain and protect it. This prompted a discussion of what, exactly, each of us values. Group members began to disclose "three things (they) value." Family and friends, helping others, competency, creativity, and beauty made the top ten list. One member wisely noted that when our behavior deviates from our values, the result is depression, anxiety, and other painful emotional states. This raised the question of why we sometimes behave incongruently with our values.

The same group member told a delightful story in which she was writing in her journal about how important spending time with her son was. At that moment, her son came up and asked her to come watch him do something, and she told him that she couldn't because she was busy writing! She quickly recognized her blunder, put down her pen, and proceeded to ACT on her values by attending to her son. The group members chuckled and nodded encouragingly. They shared similar recollections of "valuing" one thing and doing another.

The discussion turned to an examination of what our culture at the macro level seems to value. This may be on the brink of shifting, but until quite recently "Big" seems to be - well - BIG in our society, whether it pertains to square footage in a home, portion sizes in restaurants, bonuses, the size of high-salaried athletes, half-time entertainment, or breasts. Fast (as in speedy) is valued, as is winning, growing, expanding (back to "big"), acquiring, having, owning, succeeding, and achieving.

We wondered about the cognitive dissonance implicit in valuing things that mainstream society devalues. When the group began to associate to values and behavior that most contributed to happiness and contentment, a vastly different "top ten" list emerged. It included placing value on unstructured time, sharing, cooperating, belonging, connecting, trying new things, giving, and creating. Someone then stated the obvious: western culture places greater value on traditionally masculine pursuits and perspectives than on traditionally feminine viewpoints. The group concurred that reincorporating feminine values was necessary to lessen the great suffering in our world. No surprises here -- this is, after all, a group comprised of women.

On my drive home after group, there was a wonderful speaker from Slow Foods, Inc. on NPR. I missed the first part of the show, and couldn't locate the name of the speaker. He ended with a delightful story in which he had traveled to Italy for a meeting of farmers and shepherds addressing world hunger and agricultural problems. He was exhausted and grumpy from difficulties with his flight from the U.S. to Italy. He then learned that there was a group of shepherds in attendance who had walked for two days before catching a bus to catch a shuttle to catch their flight to the conference. The speaker knew some Italian, and was repeatedly asked by the conference host to apologize to the shepherds as they had to wait even longer for a shuttle to the conference hotel. After three or four apologies at 30-minute intervals, the leader of the shepherd group smilingly said, "Please stop apologizing. YOU have the watches, but WE have the time."

I think the shepherds had wisdom that many westerners do not. We value time according to our illusion of being able to manipulate it: cheating it, saving it, condensing it, measuring it, pressuring it, rushing it, constricting it, rationing it. The shepherds had a very different relationship with time. They seemed to understand the value of time itself, through surrendering, accepting, and respecting it. I don't know if time is a masculine or feminine value; it probably depends on the relationship with it.

Perhaps time transcends gender. I think Jack Kornfield had a healthy respect for time - or at least the passage of it. I'm going to meditate on these topics of values and time. When I'm watching my breath, it feels like I have all the time in the world.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Leaving Paris

Let us try to recognize the precious nature of each day. - The 14th Dalai Lama in the Zen Calendar (July 31, 2006)

Day 82. Safely home from Paris. I'm not even jet lagged.

It is becoming increasingly difficult to abstain from mild to moderate journal keeping on my blog. Although the subject of Zen, with its emphasis on the here-and-now and all that, readily lends itself to writing about the Present Day. I love irony. Especially when I get it.

Another spring day in Paris! Unlike yesterday, first morning was filled with sunshine. Quite like yesterday, the wind was howling at over 25 mph; the only difference being the maelstrom blew from the northwest rather than the southwest. Variety in turbulence is good, I suppose. We set out for a 24-mile recovery ride with our tandem buddies Mike & Sue and Jeff & Diane. Three tandem teams teeming through the freshly washed Texas countryside. We slowed the pace - partly because of the 75 miles on our legs from yesterday, mostly (my perspective!) to linger together a little longer before saying good-bye until our paths cross again. This was the first Southwest Tandem Rally for all three couples. We had toasted one another at the buffet dinner the evening before. I felt overflowing with gratitude for the gift of new friends.

I am filled with a poignant melancholy tonight as I prepare for the work week. The words "community" and "belonging" fill my mind in a large, bold font. Words are so inadequate at capturing powerful human experience. I guess that's the origin of the phrase, "You had to be there." Connection and acceptance and inclusion are best lived, not talked about. Being surrounded with others who implicitly understand me (especially me in tight Lycra cycling shorts) is immensely gratifying. Mostly it feels like love.

As I continue to sit zazen, I am aware of a subtle thinning of my interpersonal barriers. Self-consciousness is fading, and a genuine pleasure in connecting is ripening. So much of the time openness begets a reciprocal risk in the other. I wish I could infuse all sentient beings with that certainty. We have so much good to share with one another.

I am delaying the end of the precious nature of this day, but end it must. Sometimes that Truth called Impermanence is a tremendous relief. And sometimes I wish the day could go on forever.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Blooming Iris

How amazing it is to be alive! Anyone who loves and breathes and puts both feet on the ground, What possible reason could he have for envying the gods? - Paul Claudel in the Zen Calendar (I lost the date)

Day 81. Peak Experience! The sofa cushion at the Holiday Inn Express in Paris, Texas is the best zazen cushion ever! I am seriously thinking about taking up residence here . . .

During our 75-mile ride today, I burned through eight titles for my post. I decided to use the eighth one for the actual title. I'll describe the others as they came to me.

Jumping the Gap - The ride began with a police lead-out from the Paris Civic Center. What a sight: 80+ tandems parading through town at 9:30 on a glorious Saturday morning. A colorful array of jerseys represented many states and Canada. It was stormy and rainy last night, and continued to rain as we ate our standard 1,500 calorie breakfast! By the time we began, the sun shone brilliantly, the skies cleared to a pristine blue, and the air was crisp and clean from the rain. We hadn't exactly planned it this way, but somehow we ended up with the fast riders up front. By "fast" I mean two internationally ranked tandem teams and several other exceptional athletes. These are the men who shave their legs! These are the teams comprised of people with less than 5% body fat! These are the teams that me and my captain probably outweigh by 50 to 100 pounds.

We rode with this impressive group of seven other tandems for about 11 miles before they began to drop us. I was enthusiastically okay with getting dropped. Then a bizarre and mysterious experience unfurled. We were back by about a half mile, which is a hefty gap in cycling. We could see the group ahead of us as they crossed a highway while the helpful officers of Paris held traffic. We were shocked when the officers continued to hold up cross traffic as they saw us roaring toward the intersection. We flew across the highway, and it began to dawn on me that my captain was trying to jump the gap. Jump the gap?! Try to catch up with that group? Absurd! Obviously, my captain was not consulting his stoker about this decision, so with adrenaline screaming through my veins, I gave him my all. We hit 36 mph as we shot across the highway and began a gradual climb. Miracle of miracles, the gap was closing. Adrenaline cursed through me like a river in the Rockies mid-way through spring thaw. As we continued to gain ground, I felt incredulous at our momentum and overcome with a sense of sheer exhilaration. We caught them. We jumped that gap. Six of the seven teams, bellowing their appreciation, shared their own incredulous disbelief when we appeared. It was the finest moment of my short cycling history. The ranked team looked stunned. They remained silent.

The Elite Eight - Once we caught the group, we quickly realized they were riding a pace line. This is a system of riding in which two lines of cycles continuously rotate leaders so that no one team pulls for long, and everyone benefits from a draft. With strong crosswinds and headwinds, it enables the group to move incredibly fast. We were clocking along at about 30-32 mph. Once with the group, my captain and I were able to recover from the thundering heart rate required to catch them. As we took our place in the pace line of eight teams, I glanced around me and realized just what elite company we were in.

The Status of My Ego - I promised to write honestly in my blog, so to be forthright, I briefly lost control of my ego at this point in the ride. I then thought of this title to the blog, which assisted with quickly reining in my billowing Self. I have to admit that, initially, it took some pretty rigorous tugging on the reins. Whoaaaaaa there, Big Girl. So you rode your tandem fast. The galaxy as we know it will probably stay remarkably unchanged. It was helpful to feel the shoves of the egos from a couple of the bikes around us. Those teams were so tense. They were taking everything so seriously. I discovered a Truth right then and there: Joy and Lightness and Transcendence flow best in the absence of ego. Perhaps they flow ONLY in the absence of ego. I chucked mine to the side of the road and felt the joy illuminate my heart and radiate outward. Must have been that joy that kept my heart beating so strongly for the rest of the ride.

Age Before Beauty, Baby! - There was a couple in this elite group that is slightly older than me and my captain, with similar body fat percentages. We love them. We ride like them. Egos must weigh a heckuva lot, because when you ride without them, a massive amount of energy is freed up to pedal. And joke and laugh and smile at one another while offering mutual support. Perhaps wisdom does come with age. The pretty, tan, skinny teams were, admittedly, aesthetically pleasing, but caring so much about being the best seemed to be wearing them out. Their expressions and comments contained a lot of fretfulness and intensity. I wanted to shout, "Chuck the egos! Embrace the ride! You are among friends! We are One!" but I didn't say a word. Wisdom will find them in its own time.

Stand by Your Captain - We rode with the Fasties to a water stop at mile 30, followed by a 20-mile dash with blasting tailwinds. Like eight bullets shot from the same gun, we rocketed north in a pace line gone blurry with speed. Just prior to the stop at mile 50, my captain's back began to lock up. Bummer. I hate it when that happens. Especially when I still have legs. I saw the other seven teams pulling away yet again, and a brief fizzle of ego coughed up some disappointment. And, to be truthful, some anger. We joined the group at the stop, taking time to rest and drink and ply him with anti-inflammatory medication. I gave myself a stern compassion reminder (is that an oxymoron?) and consciously chose to be supportive and nurturing of my captain (after all, he steers the bike!) We headed out with the others, but were dropped within the first mile. Lunch was at mile 70. It was going to be a long twenty miles.

Slowest of the Fast - At this point in the ride, the Monkeys began to prattle. "I'm tired, I'm frustrated, I'm the only one pushing these cranks, the wind is blowing 25 mph and the gusts have to be at least 40, I'm hungry, we're all alone, we had their respect and now we're dropped, I sure wanted to finish with those fast teams, I thought this route was supposed to be flat, how much further to lunch . . . . " Somewhere out there on a lonely Texas country highway, however, I shut those Monkeys down. Came back to center, to the moment, to the breath behind my mudra. I registered the Here and Now so exquisitely that I could discriminate the slightest changes in the wind speed. I sensed the sun's minute by minute trajectory across the cloudless sky. I noticed subtle hues and shades of the blooming iris in fields we passed. Pedaled calmly, resiliently, at the cadence best suited to my captain's aching back. Quietly reminded myself that we were just behind the fast group, anyway. I was having the Ride of My Life.

It's a Rally, Not a Race - We pulled into the lunch stop less than five minutes behind the fast group. They were just unwrapping their sandwiches. A hearty welcome was extended, and the appreciative buzz continued about how we jumped the gap. Our table laughed and joked and complained gustily about the wind. We exchanged plans for showers and naps with the anticipation usually reserved for honeymoons abroad. Then eight bikes left together and leisurely rode five miles back to our starting point. We took pictures of each other at the Paris, Texas Eiffel Tower - the one with the big red cowboy hat on top. There were no podiums, no trophies, no placings. It was a rally, not a race. We were safe, injury-free, exhausted and united by an amazing ride where bonds were formed and memories emblazoned.

At the end of the day, you can see which title I chose for the blog. The iris weren't the only things in bloom today. I know for a fact that several souls blossomed, too.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Flowing in Paris

Stop. Stop. Do not speak. The ultimate truth is not even to think. - The Buddha (probably somewhere else first!) but also in the Zen Calendar (January 22, 2009).

Day 80. Greetings from Paris, Texas! I am thrilled to be at the Holiday Inn Express, where they have a computer that is a gazillion times faster than my dinosaur back in Oklahoma. They also have killer cinnamon rolls. I wonder if the staff would notice if I blogged here for a week or two . . . .

We are attending the Southwest Tandem Rally, and so far it has been a haven of competency and camaraderie. It is effortless to feel Zen in this environment; everything has been reduced to Eat, ride, eat, sleep; eat, ride, eat, sleep. We rode 48 miles this afternoon, and will ride 75 more tomorrow. I paid extremely close attention to the scenery during today's ride so that I would be able to blog about it. Ready? Green fields, cows, cows, green fields, cows, green fields, horses, cows, cows, green fields, green fields, really big unfenced dog, cows, green fields, green fields dotted with brilliant bluebonnet flowers, pond, field, cows, horses, field, cows, field, field, field. There! Pat Conroy has nothing on me when it comes to descriptive imagery!

I was perched there behind my captain, pedals churning, stoking for all I am worth, and wandering around in my mind for blog material. There was none. That is two nights in a row. I haven't even sat zazen for 100 days yet -- my mind cannot possibly be this empty! I know nothing has fallen away, because the Monkeys still chatter idly about irrelevant frets and worries. Clearly, I have not surrendered all attachments.

The terrain here is quite flat, there is essentially no traffic, and for the first 20 miles today we didn't see a single other bike (this was a day to ride at leisure as you arrived in Paris -- tomorrow there is a mass start at 9:00 a.m. that will be magnificent.) The rhythmic cadence, serene scenery, and isolation lulled me into a meditative state possibly deeper than any I have experienced on my cushion. Apparently the Monkeys didn't come along for the ride. Bless them for staying behind.

My captain and I don't talk very much on the bike, though we are constantly communicating through the nuance of our bodies and breath. It can be quite intimate, except for those bizarre moments when I hate him for no discernible reason. He is a flatliner when we ride: smooth, stable, constant, and reliable. If you graphed my mood swings, however, the profile would resemble the most jagged section of the Himalayas. Usually, I die a thousand deaths on long rides. Not so today. We bumped the ultimate truth. We did not speak. We did not even think.

I've always been intrigued by the psychological concept of flow, because it seems to parallel the experience of deep meditation. In both, you lose yourself. You become the moment, become the motion, and merge with the Now so that nothing else exists. If you try to flow, you never will. Flow has to creep up and over you so that it can wash you away. Flow was propelling us down the road today. It rained, we got wet. The sun shone, we dried off. We flowed up gentle inclines, and flowed back down gradual descents. Scenic images flickered across my visual field and rolled on by - my brain didn't bother to activate to actually perceive anything. But somehow I know it was all lovely.

I believe I will flow on up to my room and sit. Tomorrow I have plans to eat, ride, eat and sleep. Talk about lovely.

Gassho,
CycleBudddhaDoc

No Synonym for Nothing

Better nothing than something good. - Yun-Men in the Zen Calendar (May 9, 2006)

Day 79. I got nothing. I even looked up nothing in my trusty Webster's Thesaurus (1996) and there were no synonyms listed for nothing. Nothing for nothing. I find that both discouraging and hilarious.

I have (obviously!) saved favorite quotes from my Zen Page-A-Day calendar for several years. They are semi-organized according to some bizarre system that apparently made sense at the time I sorted them. This evening I rifled and rifled through them, and now my mind is so jammed full of Zen wisdom that if it DID fall away it would be too heavy to roll far. When I bumbled across the above quote, I felt liberated. It is exactly what I wanted to say. But damned if I didn't commit to writing SOMETHING for 365 days in a row - "nothing" wasn't in the promise. It's all nothing. We're all nothing. What a relief.

We are busy and preoccupied with preparing for a tandem rally that begins tomorrow afternoon. Eighty-seven bicycles built for two are currently registered. That is 12 teams over the publicized event maximum. Perhaps we will receive half-bananas at the rest stops rather than wholes. I'm okay with that. Joining eighty-six other couples pedaling their bikes up and down the east Texas countryside sounds like a blast. I have a new tandem, an old captain, and breath moving through my mudra. I'm ready.

I don't own a laptop, so I'm hoping there is a computer at our hotel. If not, I plan to blog on paper and post it on the computer when we return on Sunday night. Our planned mileage for the weekend is a little over 150. Surely that much pedaling on the back of a bike that I'm not steering will inspire a little writing. The more I read about "Wild Mind" the more mine remains in gridlock. I may need the jaws of life to pry open a crack for some creative thought to sneak through.

Wow, in tonight's blog I've managed to avoid both "nothing" AND "something good." I'm headed for my cushion, where nothing absolutely, gloriously, awaits. I bet I pull it off.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Three Moments of Love

Monks recite the sutras,
Their voices a cacophony.
We make love; afterward our whispers
Mock the empty chanting. - Ikkyu in the Zen Calendar (September 14, 2007)

Day 78. I have been thinking about Love all day.

Three memories bubbled up today while I thought about love. In each of them I was witnessing a moment of Great Love. I'll describe them in chronological order.

Before my older brother married my best friend, we went through a lengthy Jimmy Buffet stage. All of us were great fans of sun, sea, and - yes - beverages with salt around the rim. My brother would make these amazing tapes for our road trips with titles like, "Jimmy Buffet Goes to Padre" and "Jimmy Buffet: Summer Vacation 1983" and we would listen to his mixes for hours while zooming south on I35. Early one fall, I was sitting with my brother and my friend in their living room, waxing melancholy over the end of another summer. Jimmy Buffet's song "Steamer" came on. My brother met my friend's (his fiance) eye, and a look of such utter adoration came over his face that I almost wept. I couldn't recall ever being gazed at quite like that. He told me that this was the song they fell in love to, but we all knew he meant it was the first song they had ever MADE love to. Listen to the song -- you will weep, too.

I lived in Washington state in 1990, the year my son was born. He was the first grandchild. He had not been a planned event; at the time of his birth I had known his father for exactly 13 months. For many reasons, it was not the best time for my family, all of whom lived in Oklahoma. When my son was three weeks old, my mother flew alone out to see us. These were the precious years when you could still meet loved ones at their airport gate. I stood with my son swaddled in a pale yellow blanket at the end of the aisle of disembarking travelers. My mom was one of the last people off the plane. In what felt like slow motion, she approached us and I placed her grandson in her arms. My husband snapped a picture as she reached for him and hugged him to her breast. In the photo, my mom and I are beaming upon my surprise baby while tears of love stream down our faces. We still look at him like that from time to time.

A few years after my son and I returned to Oklahoma, I began attending a small Buddhist temple in Oklahoma City. Services were led by two women lay monks, except when a Japanese priest visited once a month from Dallas. I will never forget the first time I went to services led by the priest. We had chanted the Heart Sutra in English, and then meditated for a lengthy period. When meditation was over, we chanted in Japanese. I was not familiar with the chant, but soon became lost in the repetitive loveliness of it. On and on we chanted, our voices combining into a single melodic rhythm. The gong sounded and there was silence. My eyes were on the priest. He was sitting with his legs folded beneath him, and he bowed slowly forward, resting his forehead on the ground for what seemed like several minutes. As he gradually sat up, he whispered reverently, almost inaudibly, "Thank you, Buddha." A sob caught in my throat. The love in the priest's voice took my breath away. I wanted to love like that.

I met my partner three years ago today. Before we had known each other a year, our adventures together included: purchasing a home, doctoring three (3!) separate episodes of my oozing poison ivy, icing me down after a heat stroke with the bike team, adopting Ruby, watching me break my hand and dislocate my thumb in a gruesome mountain bike accident (these last two actually occurred on the same day!), traveling to Florida to visit his 87-year-old mother and four (4!) siblings' families (all of whom, I learned, vote and worship quite differently from me), and parenting my teenager while he passed from sixteen to seventeen. It was not a low-maintenance year.

Three years to the day later, I just glanced at him like my brother looked at his fiance, my mother gazed upon her grandson, the priest knelt before Buddha. This is the man who has listened to 77 blogs. The one who has to get up at 5:30 a.m. when I've typed until midnight. The one who was raised Baptist and now tiptoes silently when I am on my cushion. We've had many great moments of love. I hope we have many, many more.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Empty Containers

"It's okay, baby, I'll hang up the laundry. No writing is coming out of my fingers so I might as well use them on something." - Me, just now.

Day 77. Yeah, yeah, yeah! I love typing seven's. Clearly, I am unabashed at revealing my Number Neurosis. Hell, it's been 77 days! If anyone is actually reading this, I'm considering us a long term relationship!

I realize that the above quote is casual and out of context. But I'm trying to write from Wild Mind, and when that came out of my mouth (about 125 seconds ago) it was so bare and truthful that I decided to capture it. After all, the blank white blog box was staring me in the face.

I am struggling with brutal, demoralizing, all encompassing fatigue. We blasted into the spring training season like a bunch of over rested zealots, and it caught up with me. It's hard to be temperate when we are riding so well. I'm off the Middle Path! I could saunter right down it if, like the guys on the Tour, all I did was ride bikes, ingest enormous amounts of food, and lay around while my masseuse soothes and salves my muscles. Unfortunately, secondary tasks like parenting and preparing meals and washing clothes and practicing psychology circle like sharks, taking gaping bites of me. Balance! I need balance!

A client mentioned something today that has stayed with me, though my thoughts about it are only half formed. She referenced an idea about needing "bigger containers" within ourselves. My associations have gone way beyond the concept in the therapy session, but the phrase "bigger containers" has lingered in my consciousness. I think it must be cerebrally juxtaposed upon the Buddhist idea of "Big Mind."

Obviously, the quantity and sources of stimuli our brains and hearts must process has exponentially increased in the last couple of decades. The information highway went autobahn sometime in the 90's. Even with impressive effort at simplifying life, we can't avoid being exposed to more than our psyches can optimally manage. Thus, we're left with the necessity of "containing" more. It is difficult to be diligent gate keepers of the sensory assault that bombards us every day. Like an undetected radiation leak, we absorb lethal matter that remains largely outside of our awareness. It is hard to protect ourselves against what we don't see or know.

It just occurred to me that "Big Mind" may be the opposite of "big containers." Big Mind doesn't try to contain. It allows and accepts and refrains from attachment, so there is nothing that needs to be contained. The idea is forming in my mind more completely now. I am grappling with the recognition of how much more comes at us and gets in us now. Like it or not, our interconnectedness necessitates contact with people of different colors, religions, belief systems, values, sexual orientations, life experiences. We are reminded of prolific suffering at a global level as well as within our own skin. If we are drawing breath, there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Like the Buddha before his enlightenment, we are out among the masses, bearing witness to a vast quantity and variety of suffering. Thankfully, we also have the opportunity to observe tremendous acts of kindness, compassion, and generosity.

I'm concluding that we don't need bigger containers; there is far too much to contain. If we try to hold on to it all, we'll be filled to capacity. And if we are filled up, what then? Where is room for growth? For new experience? For evidence to the contrary? For change? For release and renewal and evolution?

I am opting for emptiness. Acceptance, detachment, and letting go. Tending an infinite space within my Non-Self that lies at the ready, so that Reality can find its way to me without twisting and contorting itself. Like my breath, experience can then move calmly in and out . . . in and out. I will always have room for what comes next.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Unwrapping the Wild

What writing practice, like Zen practice, does is bring you back to the natural sate of mind, the wilderness of your mind . . . The mind is raw, full of energy, alive and hungry. It does not think in the way we were brought up to think -- well-mannered, congenial. - Natalie Goldberg in Wild Mind.

Day 76. Due to inclement weather I have not pedaled anything for three consecutive days. I can't speak for all cyclists, but this makes my legs twitch. And my mind. And my right eye lid. I could not summon the ovarian fortitude to mount my trainer (er, hum, "ride my indoor bicycle" may be a better way to word that), so my condition appears to be worsening. Hopefully we will ride tomorrow. If my left eye starts to twitch, my vision will probably be affected.

I'm sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with the above, but my dinner this evening consisted of pretzels, popcorn, and chocolate brownie ice cream. I am an eating disorders specialist, if you recall. One would think this would cause mild to moderate cognitive dissonance, but I am feeling none. A bit of gastrointestinal upset perhaps, but no cognitive dissonance. I think we all bump occasional circumstantial catalysts for this type of behavior. I am unable to discern whether planetary alignment, hormonal misalignment, sleep deprivation, one too many episodes of muddy paw cleaning, or a combination thereof is the cause of my malaise. Etiology aside, I feel like crap. I'm noticing a pattern here. Mondays are not my best days. How original.

I am re-reading Natalie Goldberg with passion and connectedness. She is a writer who practices Zen, and I resonate with her in my soul. Reading her ideas on becoming a writer is like the rest time in between sprint intervals. My heart is just returning to a peaceful rhythm, and she revs it back up until it's pumping right through my chest. Inspirational, provocative, energizing. Natalie convinces me I can become a writer while simultaneously reminding me to keep up my zazen practice. I'm pretty sure if we met at a bus stop, we would have a long and stimulating conversation. I'd want to sit by her on the bus.

Noone has written a comment on the blog that says something like, "Every day you must write something brilliant and meaningful and insightful and relevant and applicable and understandable, and respectable and inspirational. Oh, and do that 365 days in a row." Yet most nights I sit down with Monkeys both in my mind and on my back chattering that I must do exactly that. Preferably after a round trip to Nirvana the night before. It's a bit oppressive. I may be able to binge on carbohydrates without cognitive dissonance, but reading Natalie Goldberg and desiring to write from my "Wild Mind" is causing me plenty.

I know there is a wild mind in me somewhere. It's bound by so many layers of bubble wrap I can't seem to access it. I wrap wildness with routine and duty and obligation and ethical adherence and raw, paralyzing fear. I think this same wrap deadens desire and chokes truth. It can make me want to walk away from the table. Instead, I think I'll play the ace up my sleeve: head for the cushion. It's a great way to discover where the wild things are.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Best Bye-Bye Ever

I think we all have a core that's ecstatic, that knows and that looks up in wonder. We all know that there are marvelous moments of eternity that just happen. We know them. - Coleman Barks in the Zen Calendar (October 11, 2007)

Day 75. Three quarters of the way to One Hundred days. I've always kind of liked fractions. They are very symmetrical.

It's a cheesy way of saying it, but when I get my dogs' attention before an outing, I say, "Want to go on a bye-bye?" As they dash to the shelf where their walk collars are kept, clearly they know exactly what I mean. The Bye-Bye Rules are simple and consistent: SIT without being asked while collars are snapped on, leap into the back of the Xterra, hang heads out the window with flapping ears and wide dog grins, stand patiently when the hatch is opened, quivering from tip to tail with joyous anticipation until I give the "Okay!" and then bound into freedom. Point Twelve at an Oklahoma city lake is Doggie Disneyland. We go there often.

We had the lake to ourselves today. It was cool, overcast and muddy from three days of rain, with light drops still falling from the sky. We headed around the point, following the shore and the broad expanse of "beach" exposed from a long dry spell.

As we continued along the uniquely Oklahoma red-mud sand, both dogs melted into liquid joy. They are always exuberant wild things at the lake, but today they seemed especially blissed out. I walked along gulping deep swallows of the crisp, rain-cleansed air. I couldn't help but beam as I watched such supremely happy canines. We rounded another point, this one with toppled trees that had leafed out in the few days since we'd last visited. I paused and leaned against the damp bark, breathing the clean air deeply into my lungs.

Unlike yesterday, I consciously observed my breaths. Each was its own protracted and significant event. Five breaths in, another miracle. My mind and body may have dissipated for just a second, right out over the lake. I glanced over into the edge of the woods, where the dogs frolicked in the wet grass. Odd as this sounds, I'm reporting exactly what happened: I could feel their movement with my body. As I watched, the boundaries between us disappeared, and their motion flowed through me. They leaped over a log, and I felt the effortless take-off and landing. I could feel the wet sand under their paws, and the wind blowing under their ears as they tore around and around and around on the lake's edge. The air and earth and water - nature's grays and greens and browns and brick red - flickered and glistened, merged and bore me up and into them. No thought, no perception. At an elemental level, I joined the Moment, rather than observing it. Me and Ruby and Katy became the Now - we weren't just participating in it. They appeared unchanged; dogs always exist in their Buddha nature. I, on the other hand, was ecstatic.

We turned around and began the trek back to Point Twelve. Sights, sounds, and sensation remained heightened and brimming with joy. Ruby, who can singularly sound like the back stretch of the Belmont Stakes, came thundering up behind me, only to turn on a dime and careen belly deep into the water. Katy raced back and forth, back and forth, from the tree line to the shoreline and all points in between. I strolled along in my ratty jeans, splattered jacket, and old running shoes caked to the instep with squishy red mud. In my nearly half century of walking the earth, I never felt lovelier.

I was nonplussed to discover that my mind refrained from analytic ruination of the adventure. I credit my practice and clean, fresh air with this Best Bye-Bye Ever. How delightful to smack headlong into Zen in so many places off my cushion. I've been looking for Nirvana Out There, and it was Right Here all along.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

In a Moment

You must learn to be still in the midst of activity and to be vibrantly alive in repose. - Indira Gandhi in the Zen Calendar (May 22, 2003).

Day 74. April showers brought a slow soak to this weekend. So many shades of green.

I have just returned from a first glimpse of my son playing Division One football. I must say, he looks good in blue. He IS blue, because he only got playing time on special teams. And by "special" I'm supposed to mean the receiving team on punts, but secretly I believe any team he graces is extraordinarily special. He would murder me in my sleep if he knew I wrote that. Luckily, he isn't the least bit interested in his mother's blog.

The Monkeys were frenetic this evening as I sat in the stadium watching a spring traditional in which offenses and defenses on the same team try to avoid injuring one another while simultaneously showing off for the dedicated fans that show up in the rain to catch a glimmer of what's coming in the fall. My thought symphony reached a crescendo as I compared the size of my son to other players on the field. Don't get hurt (get some playing time) don't get hurt (but tackle the stuffing out of that guy in front of you) don't get hurt ( you'd better not miss your block) don't get hurt (that coach sure yells a lot) don't get hurt (wonder how many years you'll play) don't get hurt (will you ever start?) don't get hurt (will you travel with the team?) don't get hurt (it is very cool that you and your best friend since the age of four are playing college ball together) DON'T GET HURT!! Stress and exhilaration seem to be my chronic state of being.

A deep belly breath blew in from nowhere, as though the Chattering Monkeys had somehow beckoned. I drew another and another. In less than five breaths, the most amazing thing happened. I was seized in the moment. It gobbled me up. My time and space continuum slowed and expanded. Colors on the field sizzled. I felt individual drops of rain as they gently moistened my skin. Players stood in stark relief against the dazzling green astroturf. The numbers on their jerseys blazed as though lit from within. Briefly, I was buoyed with exuberance.

My brain, with its customary urgency to save me from nirvana, released a torrent of thought about what I was experiencing. Bummer. I time traveled forward to three or four years from now when my beloved won't be on the field at all. Every molecule of my being centered on Now. I recognized how precious that exact moment was. I kept breathing from my center and marinated in the present. It was delicious. Despite my best efforts, I felt smug and superior for so completely participating in each second as it elapsed. I laughed at myself heartily, kept breathing, released thought and went balmy with acceptance. And gratitude. Always gratitude.

My zazen practice delivers gifts at the most uncanny times. I never imagined the Monkeys might herald such a miraculous moment in broad daylight. I wasn't even on my cushion. Sitting on that hard stadium seat, however, my practice found me. And gave me in a perfect moment.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Remember Ten?

When you're young, and on the threshold of a journey, rashness is all. - One of my favorite quotes but I will need to look up the author.

Day 73. Short blog tonight, which is regrettable because I've been kind of on a roll. Not that my ego is invested in this or anything . . .

Today was quite remarkable. I saw a friend with whom I have not been in touch for 30 years. That's right -- thirty years! We were kindred spirits, soul mates, comrades without arms from the time we were about ten or eleven until we lost touch early in college. Wild rascals, we were. Our memories include a ritual of making brownies at 3:00 a.m. and then sneaking out to go toilet paper the homes of junior high football players. We almost got sent home from church camp one year. How marvelous - who gets sent home from Church Camp?! I'm pretty sure that was the same year we added concentrated dish soap to the fountain at the Methodist college which was conveniently located a few blocks from her home. And concentrated it was - the soap bubbles spilled up and over the fountain walls and coated the entire square outside the student union with a thick, snowy layer of suds. Good times.

I read somewhere in the psychological literature that we are most purely who we are at around the age of ten. I suppose that's early enough that we haven't been ravaged by adolescent angst, but have a decade under our belt during which we've formed a personality. I love 10-year-olds. They are some of the most genuine folks I know. My friend and I must have met at the peak of ripeness for our true nature. I knew after two e-mails (which was the extent of our contact before meeting tonight), that we would still be deep and true friends. And we were.

Even after thirty years had added many chapters to the narratives of our lives, we remained eerily similar. Tastes in books, music, and political direction matched. Ideas about marriage and children (both on the outer perimeters of normalcy in the state of Oklahoma) were congruous. We shared significant memories with one another, each filling in missing pieces for the other. At one point in the evening, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Sheer joy." I understood implicitly. At our age, happiness and contentment well up intermittently, but "sheer joy" is a rare and precious thing.

I'm convinced we pick well when we are ten. There is a lot that hasn't yet happened to taint the essence of our being, so we naturally gravitate to what fits. I'm grateful that my Buddha nature found hers. So grateful, in fact, that I'm headed for my cushion to offer a proper thank you.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Throw That One Kid Out There

Even if our efforts of attention seem for years to be producing no result, one day a light that is in exact proportion to them will flood the soul. - Simone Weil in the Zen Calendar (August 23, 2006)

Day 72. Good ride tonight. I've got the data to prove it.

My son plays football. He has loved it since the age of four, when he proclaimed the Dallas Cowboys to be his favorite team. He spent his 10th birthday watching the Cowboys play from waaaay up in the cheap seats. Loved them through the rotten years. He played corner back in 6A football during high school. He never planned to play college ball because he is a realist and his coach was less than encouraging. Fall of 2009 was the first season in ten years he wasn't on the field. By October, he had decided to walk on to a college team.

So he did. He changed colleges over the semester break, and walked on to their team mid-year. Though it is a small private college, the athletes compete in Division One sports. My child is a skinny white kid. These are not positive attributes in collegiate football, though his extraordinarily high test scores make him a bit of a novelty. The first part of the semester was spent in grueling workout sessions where the goal was to gain an impossible amount of weight and muscle mass in the shortest amount of time. Following that endeavor Spring Practice awaits. It didn't take my genius child long to comprehend that a freshman walk-on at a Division One college is a commodity on a par with those heavy sleds that linemen push up and down the practice field. At least the sled travels in front of the linemen. They just step on the freshmen and keep on going.

My practice consists of 25 minutes on a sofa cushion and an hour tops tapping on a keyboard. My son's practices are three to five hour massacres in which he is pummeled, trampled, tackled, hit, smashed, and yelled at. This is accompanied by lengthy meetings during which players are bombarded with the intricacies of a defense that in no way resembles the defense of high school ball. Somewhere in the midst of the 30+ hours devoted to football, they are supposed to go to class and remain upright in their seats.

Most nineteen-year-olds have fairly volatile moods. Remember - their brains aren't cooked. Depending on which nanosecond I talked to him, my son was either euphoric over a good play or a coach actually knowing his name, or anguishing over his insane decision to try and walk on. Academics faded into the twilight of his consciousness, though he attempted to study through a haze of ice packs and Alleve. He never skipped a workout. Never missed a practice or was late for a meeting. Spring practice dragged on.

At 11:30 last night, my son texted me this message, "You'd better be awake." I texted that I was. He called me and said excitedly that the varsity spur (a safety position that he was being considered for) was injured early in scrimmage. The safety coach looked around and asked the head coach, "What do you want me to do at spur?" The head coach dismissively answered, "Throw that one kid out there." My son had caught the coach's attention a few times earlier in the spring with a couple of picks and a ridiculously strong work ethic. The safety coach said my son's name, and the head coach said, "Yeah."

For 24, five-minute periods, my son was on the field with the "one's" - i.e. the varsity players. He knows that he is totally expendable. He knows he is on a par with the practice sleds. He knows scholarship athletes are the real assets and must be treated as such. He suspects the varsity player will be back in a day or so. Didn't matter. He played with heart and guts and iron bending determination the entire time. During an era when most athletes readily admit they play for a championship ring, a presence on the newest NCAA XBOX game, and the probability of making millions in the NFL, my son gave his all while getting hammered and beat up in a scrimmage. The safety coach approached him when practice was over, acknowledging his dedication and hard work while reminding him, "You know we have to give the recruits a first look." My son replied, "I know, coach. I understand."

I emotionally relayed this conversation with my son to my partner, expressing how touched and proud I was of this man-child I had raised. In a caricature of male bravado, he replied, "That's how football is." I know that's how football is. I was a sports psychologist at a Pac 10 school for Chrissakes. But I am the MOM of this particular football player, and he is precious to me. His attitude echoes of bygone values and rare splendor. I love him from the depths of my soul.

I usually practice breathing through intense emotion, but tonight I'll just weep. Shine on, Number 29. One day a light that is in exact proportion to your effort will flood you soul. And I'll be in the bleachers.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Look UP!

Our lives are lived in intense and anxious struggle, in a swirl of speed and aggression, in competing, grasping, possessing, and achieving, forever burdening ourselves with extraneous activities and preoccupations. - Sogyal Rinpoche in the Zen Calendar (December 24, 2006).

Day 71. It makes me happy every time I get to type a seven!

My partner is manifesting his mid-life crisis through purchasing bicycles. Yes, the plural of bicycle. In the past six months he bought a new mountain bike, a new road bike, and - as of last Saturday - a new tandem for "us." Regarding my reaction, now seems the perfect time to practice non-attachment. In the big picture, I figure a couple of new bikes are much less intrusive than a red sports car and/or a buxom twenty-two-year-old. Bikes take up much less space in the garage.

He was preoccupied with the computer after our ride last night, and finally summoned me to check out the result of his concentration. As I gazed with mock interest at the glowing screen, he escorted me on a twenty minute tour of data pertaining to the night's ride. The data had been accumulated, tabulated, formulated, summarized and graphed by his pricey new Garmin cycling computer. The results were impressive. Colorful graphs depicted ride speed, distance, elevation change, pedal cadence, heart rate, calories burned. Minimums, maximums, and averages had been calculated. Air temperature was reported. The finale included a map straight out of MapQuest with our route juxtaposed on top. Just in case we couldn't remember where we had ridden. My partner was ecstatic. You would have thought the computer screen depicted stats on his firstborn.

I made appreciative noises and complimented our cadence. Nodded reassuringly at the accuracy with which our route had been recorded, while biting my tongue to avoid blurting out, "I know. I was THERE!" I have an odometer on my road bike that I occasionally reset before a ride. It's the same mechanism I forget to check at the end of the ride. I know that my heart rate is high when I feel like I am about to puke up my goo. I recognize elevation changes because I'm either sweating buckets and breathing like a border collie after a round up, or enjoying the rush of wind in my face. I know and remember my route because: a) I am the child of an alcoholic, and survival depended upon astute awareness of time and place, and b) I carefully choose my routes to reduce the probability of being struck by an Oklahoma driver. I estimate air temperature according to the rate sweat is dripping into my eyes or the degree of numbness in my fingers and toes. In other words, I cycle like a Buddhist!

Mustering loving kindness, I did not share any of these reflections with my partner. Far be it from me to detract from his toy joy. I sat zazen and went to sleep comparing my experience of the ride with the computer representation of it. Picturing the summary graphs in my mind, I wondered where they depicted the time Grady got dropped and Tracy bravely went back to pull him (straight into the 25 mph headwind) up to the group. There was no mention of the fact that Everett (all 65 years and 5'3", 135 pounds of him) hurtled by me and partner on the tandem, not once, but TWICE, shouting over the tailwind, "Let's blow past those guys up there so fast they can't catch us!" I didn't see a thing about the lovely scissortail fly catcher perched on a wire by the lake, and the irrational pride I felt at sighting our state bird. Nothing in the data about the intimate moment when Pete rode up beside us, gesturing toward the shiny new tandem and saying with a grin, "The family approves!" Though our maximum speed of 37.5 mph on a sprint was listed in bold black and white, there was no trace of the moment Ted appeared at our wheel, pleased as punch over his new cog set and the way it enabled him to catch us. The deep colors of the Spring sunset weren't depicted, nor was the perfect circle of camaraderie our sweaty bodies formed as we stood in the parking lot gloating over the ride.

I recognize the usefulness of accurate training data and am trying to walk the Middle Path regarding the predominance of technology in our society. My point is that, in order to fully experience the wondrous passing of the moments of our lives, we need to LOOK UP from the computer depictions of it. There is a whole generation coming of age with cricks in their necks and cramps in their thumbs because texting is their primary form of human interaction. We look down at the credit card machine to swipe our plastic, never acknowledging the human being standing at the register. For large portions of each day, the object of our gaze is the screen of our Black Berry, cell phone, lap top, or big screen TV. The dopamine levels in our brains (this has actually been measured) are being impacted by a lack of human eye contact. We are confusing the pixel representations of life with Life Itself. They are not the same thing.

I'm feeling pretty passionate as I write this. I can tell because I FEEL my heart beating, and I'm not even hooked up to a monitor. Pry your eyes off your screens. Touch, hear, smell something generated in nature. Register the human at the register. Gaze deeply at someone you love. Stretch your neck and relax your thumbs. Look UP!

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Ruby and the Buddha

Quote to come - I left it at work!

Day 70. The Big Seven-Oh. I made it through typing all those sixes. Good to know my therapy dollars weren't for naught. I need to elevate myself to the cyber-capability of communicating directly with readers who post a comment. For now, Thank You and Gassho to sfauthor for the web link and suggestion for the Mudra book. I will be spending time on that web page.

I introduced Katy the ADD Border Collie and Diligent Herder Rescue Dog in a previous post. Tonight it feels timely to write about Ruby, the Buddha Rescue Dog. She is a canine bodhisattva if ever one trotted over the earth. Ruby was rescued from a shelter in western Oklahoma on the day she was scheduled to be put down. A kind soul who monitors dogs in rural shelters had been following Ruby's status, and drove to the shelter to, literally, rescue her at the final hour. We found out about her in a web posting and went to the foster home to give her a look. That was in January of 2008; she has graced our home ever since.

Immediately, it became obvious that Ruby had been profoundly abused. Every nuance of her demeanor communicated a history of trauma. She was easily startled, hypervigilant, submissive, and readily cowed. She was just over a year old when we got her, though it seemed like her spirit had been crushed over a lifetime. We set about earning her trust. It was slow going. We had so much to overcome. Her wariness was grounded in reality, and she had every reason to be distrustful and skeptical. Our unconditional love and patience went unrewarded for a long time. We remained steadfast.

I work extensively with trauma in my psychology practice, and have developed firm convictions about how to effectively work with trauma survivors. I don't stand on the opposite side of the abyss of despair and motion for them to come over and join me. Some therapists do just that. I suspect it's because they would rather not sink chest deep in the squalid muck that usually surrounds trauma work. I join my clients where they are. We move (or not!) at their pace. It's laborious work, but we wade through the muck together. The journey is usually resplendent with fits and starts. Forward momentum, landslide regression, protracted stagnation. Recovery inevitably rides on the strength of the relationship. My role is to bear compassionate witness and steadfastly abide. Forget technique. My immutable presence is the essence of healing. When safely accompanied, beings find their own way.

Ruby found her own way. Within six months (over three years in dog time) a trusting bond had been established and her true nature revealed. Ruby is wise, courageous, protective and exquisitely intuitive. Inside and outside our home, regardless of the task or the weather or the time elapsed, she is immutably present at my side. I believe she senses some brutal similarities in our pasts, and she abides by me. One night while I was sitting zazen at an hour later than usual, Ruby silently left her kennel and came to lay at my side, with her back ever so slightly resting against my thigh. Our breaths became synchronized, and she lay motionless for the duration of my meditation. Wildly and strangely, that was a night I sat upon my cushion with a heavy heart and a restless spirit. As I performed my final bow, she quietly returned to her kennel and went to sleep. I bowed deeply to Ruby as I passed her kennel on my way to bed.

The Buddha teaches that we abide by one another the way Ruby abides by me. With unconditional, wholehearted, unwavering acceptance. When thus accompanied, all beings will find their way.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Walking the Walk

Learning and thinking are like being outside the door; sitting in meditation is returning home to sit in peace. - The Buddha in the Zen Calendar (September 4, 2006)

Day 69. I'm over my worries about being formulatic. Formulaesque? Formulistic? Evidently, I am also over my fear of using words I invent myself if the one I need doesn't yet exist.

When I first began this endeavor, I was daunted by the commitment to sit zazen every single day for a year. That is becoming increasingly less of a concern. Interestingly, getting OFF my cushion is becoming a challenge. The world does not seem to be adjusting itself to accommodate my burgeoning awakening. People can still be - well - shitty. Narcissistic, mean-spirited, impatient, aggressive, judgmental and stupid. Sometimes loving kindness is a stretch for me. I don't mean the yoga kind of stretch, either. I mean the never-gonna-happen-in-this-lifetime-will-I-feel-accepting-of-you kind of stretch. I struggle the most with judgmental people. I can be exceedingly judgmental toward people who judge.

It is one thing to sit in the safety of my home, perched on my cushion, calmly breathing while reciting the Heart Sutra. It is another thing entirely to maintain a posture of compassion while navigating the melee. Perhaps I am frequenting the wrong strata of humanity, but it feels like "the masses" are populating with greater impetus than the enlightened. Visible culture tells me that the rate of devolving trumps evolving on any given day. I don't understand it. I have been sitting for 69 consecutive days, and blogging like a madwoman. How can the world not have noticeably bettered itself??

I have an escalating conviction that meditation is the right thing to do. Not "right" exclusively in the moral sense, nor "right" as judged by some arbitrary Approval of Behavior committee. An inner sense of autonomous certainty has taken root within me. This is not to be confused with righteous indignation. Sitting just feels like a means through which I may move closer to my origin. It seems to be a mechanism for staying the course -- whatever the course may be. My mantra of late has been, "Just sit." I'm expending a lot less energy on quieting the monkeys or watching for my mind and body to fall away. It is very odd to focus on not focusing, but that's the best I can describe my practice right now. When my ego conceptualizes my task as "just sit," it is considerably less daunting. In fact, it becomes tempting to just sit all day long. I must remind myself that the Buddha got up from beneath the bodhi tree. He walked the world; he didn't always "just sit."

Mastering "no expectation, no attainment, no thought, no feeling" on the cushion is cake compared to compassionately participating in the everyday world. Surrendering ego for 25 minutes an evening hasn't yet resulted in my ability to chuck it altogether while I dodge the inevitable thrusts and jabs of daily life. Like the Buddha, I will sit AND walk. Sit AND walk. Keep moving among the masses. What else can we do?

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Radiant Red Bud

Peace . . . comes within the souls of men when they realize their relationship, their oneness with the Universe and all its powers, and when they realize that at the center of the Universe dwells the Great Spirit, and that this center is really everywhere. It is within each of us. - Black Elk in the Zen Calendar (May 12, 2009)

Day 68.

There! I broke from my formula. I didn't write anything after the day counter. Talk about creativity and flexibility! I'd like to predict that the remainder of this post will be similarly spontaneous, but I have my doubts. Incremental change -- that's my motto!

The Red Bud Classic was this weekend. It is a marvelous rite of Spring in Oklahoma City. I ran in it fourteen years in a row before completely surrendering my running career. The end overlapped with becoming a serious cyclist, which is probably why I didn't fall off the cliffs of despair the first time I didn't run. I rode a bike in the Red Bud for the first time in 2008. I missed 2009 because of my heat illness. It felt really good to be back.

The EZ Riders were fragmented across several events this weekend, so we didn't ride formally as a team. Still, we had seven members out on the course. We all managed to find one another at one point or another, offering and receiving drafts as needed. For the past several years, the weather for the bike ride had been cold, wet, rainy, or a combination thereof. It was great fun to have a lovely spring day with sunny skies and a high temperature in the low 70's. Oh yeah, and the wind was blowing hard. That's big news.

During the ride I was filled to the brim with an ongoing sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the beautiful day. For the numerous sponsors who donated time, money, and products. For the friendly and well prepared volunteers. For the police officers from three different cities who protected us at all the intersections. For the patient and unsuspecting motorists who had to wait at these same intersections while hundreds of cyclists streamed by. For the supportive home and land owners who waved and cheered as we passed. For the cooks at the delicious pancake breakfast at the finish line. Thank you, and Gassho to you all!

I didn't intend to write a blog that sounded like a speech from the Oscars. I just have such a heightened awareness of what I have come to call the "One." It's an expansive concept that arises in my heart and mind in many different contexts. During the Red Bud, I was ever mindful of the One purpose uniting all who attended, whether they were riders, volunteers, or spectators. The day was resplendent with positive energy.

There was a tremendous turnout, and vibrant variety among the cyclists. All ages, all levels of rider ability and experience, incalculable diversity in size, shape, attire, equipment and goals. What seemed to unite us all was a sense of fellowship and purpose. It felt like everyone there was invested in sharing a happy day and participating in a huge community event. People stopped to help with mechanical problems and were quick to inquire if another rider needed assistance. For such a huge number of people simultaneously on bikes at the same time, there was a surprising show of courtesy and patience. Some days really bring out the best in people!

Buddhism reminds us that, in reality, there are no boundaries separating us. If my blog allowed for goals (but there is nothing to attain!) my first hope would be that it is an ongoing reminder of belonging to the One. The Red Bud was powerful evidence of the goodness in people, and how we conduct ourselves when we transcend our differences in age, religion, political party, ability levels and premeditated agendas. I know our culture prizes competitiveness and aggression, and there must be right places for it. It just seems to me that when we check our egos at the registration table and plunge into the Collective Good, incredible things happen.

I'm going to check my ego at the edge of my cushion and do a few extra bows tonight. In gratitude for the Collective Good.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Just Behind the Mudra

How clear it is! How quiet it is! It must be something eternally existing! - Tao Te Ching in the Zen Calendar (July 26, 2004)

Day 67. Less than 300 blogs to go. No book deal as of yet, but I'll ride through it.

I read over some previous posts today, and recognized that, inadvertently, they basically follow a formula: select a title (usually provided by the Chattering Monkeys), find a relevant quote, attempt a coherent presentation of an idea or realization or interesting thing from the day (try to have it remotely connected to zazen and Buddhism), end with a a succinct and clever closing sentence. Blah, blah, blah. It occurred to me to mix it up a bit tonight, but frankly I am way too tired. Creativity is incredibly draining for us obsessive-compulsive types. Finding a formula and sticking to it ad nauseam is second nature.

A few nights ago during zazen I was focusing on dropping down into my lizard brain and hanging around the amygdala until the monkeys settled down. In one of those meditative flashes of insight, it dawned on me that perhaps I could envision getting out of my brain altogether. I Buddha smiled while realizing that it had taken me upwards of two months to imagine consciously abandoning my cerebral habitat. It's true: left to natural inclinations, my consciousness permanently resides in the frontal lobe. I'm hoping to change that.

Breathing slowly, I gently steered my awareness further down my spinal column, boldly going where it had never gone before. At some point, I let go of the wheel entirely and tried to relax, letting my awareness meander. Left to wander, my mindfulness came to rest just behind my mudra. My breath slowed and deepened, as my being spiraled and settled in a place deep within. Gradually, I experienced an increasing sense of vastness in this space behind my mudra. My brain scuttled briefly to reclaim the driver's seat in an attempt to stave off anxiety. Instead, I breathed through it. The sensation of palatial immenseness started to feel exhilarating and vaguely familiar. Each time my gray matter tugged consciousness upwards, something gentle and kind resisted. "Stay here," said the instinct. "Rest, breathe, float."

Before long, my ambivalence surrounding the state of not suffering surfaced and chased away the vastness. It was good while it lasted. Hopefully, I can hang out behind my mudra again, and stay a little longer. That's why zazen is called "practicing." These things take time. And good things come to those who sit.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Pick a New Line

My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate. - Thornton Wilder in the Zen Calendar (March 27, 2002)

Day **. Anyone who knows me at all knows about my avoidance of - well - those two numbers. If any assistance is needed regarding which blog this is, please refer to the one immediately before and (after tomorrow) immediately after. It should be fairly self explanatory.

My work allows intriguing opportunities each week to think new thoughts, develop new metaphors and draw new connections. I have my clients to thank for this; they deserve all of the credit. They also deserve a word of appreciation for the infinite patience they exhibit at this time of year - when the majority of the metaphors involve a bicycle of some sort. What can I say - cycling is life!

One day this week I was relating details of a mountain bike metaphor from which several clients say they have benefited. I have previously blogged about my tendency to make mountain biking incredibly difficult - as though the sport is not implicitly dangerous enough. When I approach a technical section of trail that requires split second decision-making regarding how to navigate it, I inevitably pummel through the most treacherous trajectory possible. The path I take is utterly absurd. This has earned me an interesting reputation that is generally captured in the phrase, "Don't take her line!"

When several people are mountain biking together, the one in front is sometimes treated as a reconnaissance rider. The goal for this front person is to select a path through the difficult sections that is: a) successful and b) possible to duplicate. I rode alone during the first few years I took up mountain biking. I don't recall consciously deciding this, but I do know that I genuinely thought the goal in difficult sections of trail was to intentionally ride the utmost challenging route imaginable. Obviously, this method made me a better mountain bike rider. It is also a metaphor for my life.

My analyst would say this stems from being the "hero" child in an alcoholic family; I think my compulsive wiring also contributes. Whatever the etiology, my autopilot is to do things the hard way. I got my undergraduate degree in three years. I had a Ph.D. when I was 27. I had my nine-pound baby through natural childbirth. I loathe to cook, and my child was born with Celiac Disease, which required (at least in the 1990's) endless hours in the kitchen, meticulously hand preparing his food. I bought my house alone, raised my child alone, started my business alone. These are not sections of my life vitae I am especially proud of; they are simply the facts of my history. It is not at all surprising that I surmised I was supposed to steer my bike along the path most likely to result in bodily harm. I came to the sport well equipped to habitually choose the hardest line.

Imagine my bewilderment when I began to ride behind other mountain bikers, all of whom consistently chose the most efficient and least difficult way through hazardous sections of trail. I thought this was wimpy - they were quick to point out how less frequently they crashed. I wondered if it was cheating. They answered that it was just smart riding - and much less painful. The obvious had to be stated: When you fall less, you spend more time on the bike and, when racing, stand a greater chance of winning. Ah ha.

Many of my clients exhibit a similar, habitual predisposition for contributing to their own suffering. Together in sessions, we wonder about the cause for this debilitating predilection. The underlying answer is always this: we gravitate toward what is familiar - not what is optimal. If we have home lives that recurrently create problems, barriers, and impediments to ease and contentment, we arrive at adulthood ill equipped to "pick the easy line." We repeat what we know: Life is difficult so I must suffer.

After ____ (I'll never tell!) years in analysis, I managed to radically alter my pattern of contributing to my own suffering. The key was awareness, and still I am occasionally astonished at how automatically I err on the side of the difficult. This fascinates me when I contemplate my commitment to study and practice Zen Buddhism, which is specifically centered upon alleviating human suffering. I was the best human sufferer in the galaxy. It feels like poetic justice to have stumbled upon Buddhism.

You can almost see the light bulb shine over my clients' heads when I share the metaphor of "picking the hardest line" in mountain biking. Their mental wheels begin to whirl as it dawns upon them that they can learn to select a different route. An easier, more efficient path. A line that is successful and can be duplicated. The realization is life changing. When I chose to sit zazen on my birthday, I picked a new line. I don't crash near as often, and I suffer a lot less, too.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Wholey Trinity

To have some deep feeling about Buddhism is not the point; we just do what we should do, like eating supper and going to bed. This is Buddhism. - Shunryu Suzuki in the Zen Calendar (April 23, 2003)

Day 65. My sixty-fifth post feels like a milestone because the remaining 300 to my goal is such a nice, round number. It feels really good. Not to mention tonight's training ride. Calm winds. Flat terrain. I may have just arrived in Nirvana.

I have continued to think about balance, or lack thereof. Spring is definitively a favorite season of mine, but as living things surrounding us gradually wake up, we humans (in all our excess!) seem to shoot past a natural emergence from winter straight into a frenetic sprint to the heat of summer. I miss moderation.

I dallied briefly in triathlon events before a back injury forced me to give up running (dreadful as that was, it opened up the gift of competitive cycling.) A freakish talent for fast swimming and my unquestionably immoderate degree of competitiveness contributed to frequent times on the podium for my age group (at the time, my group was, essentially, the youngest of the old ladies). It was immeasurably gratifying to place among such strong athletes, but the necessary training was grueling. I think the mental strain of "Gotta swim gotta bike gotta run" took the greatest toll. As a single mother and new business owner, my schedule wasn't exactly conducive to extensive multisport preparation. I was tipped so far out of balance, it's a wonder I didn't just slide off the scale. Depending on the unit of measure, I probably did slide off a few things.

The first thing triathlon competition taught me was that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. I didn't do IronWoman distances, so when I broke down the individual distances of the swim, the bike, and the run, it always felt like a very reasonable thing to tackle. I learned in my first race, however, that stringing together the three distances in quick succession was strenuously demanding, indeed. I was not mentally prepared for the transitions: how tired my swim legs would feel on the bike and how awkward my cycling legs would feel when I abruptly required them to run. I had not accurately anticipated the experience of the combined events. The proverbial missing the forest for the trees. Physically and mentally, I had approached each sport with the preparation congruent with competing in it as a single event. Executing all three was a different beast altogether. I didn't place in the first triathlon I entered. When I crossed the finish line, I was stunned and humbled.

One cool thing about being low on the learning curve is the inevitable early momentous improvements. It is a bit intoxicating - right up to the point where gain is gauged in much smaller increments. It didn't occur to me until today that I have a new triad of events I prepare for: Cycling, Meditating/Blogging, and Doctoring. Taken separately, each role feels meaningful and manageable. The combination, however, is exacting a toll. You would think I'd learn.

I'm not sure what the future holds as I grapple with trying to regain balance. I do know that my dogs keep looking at me pitifully and my partner, despite his touching unconditional support, increasingly falls asleep during the nightly Reading of the Blog. This needs some Cushion Time. Good thing, since that is my favorite event.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

In Summary

"Strive on. Untiringly." - The Buddha's last words. Quoted on the PBS Special "The Buddha" (April 7, 2010)

Day 64. I had much to write tonight; however, I just watched "The Buddha" on PBS and I am filled with a sense of gratitude to Siddhartha. So I will simply say Thank You.

Thank you, Buddha:

For the courage to leave your wife and son,
For your willingness to suffer as an aesthetic,
For continuing to seek answers when they did not immediately appear,
For your deep desire to understand suffering,
For challenging the accepted wisdom of the times,
For sitting under the Bodhi tree,
For walking the earth after your enlightenment in order to share your teaching,
For revealing the miracle of the ordinary,
For dwelling in reality,
For showing the connectedness of all sentient beings,
For the Middle Path,
For the Four Noble Truths,
For the Eightfold Path,
For bliss on this earth,
For a method of obtaining it,
For your life,
For your death,
For your compassion.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Where are the Lines?

A monk was asked, "What do you do there in the monastery?" He replied, "We fall and get up, we fall and get up, we fall and get up." - St. Benedict in the Zen Calendar (August 18, 2004)

Day 63. I am not in my happy place.

I think the wind is making me psychotic. It is taking on an identity of its own and feels like a menace, a bully, my nemesis. I sense a profound attachment to the wind becoming still. This is ridiculous because I cannot control this force of nature and am expending disproportionate amounts of energy on my preoccupation with it. The wind isn't winning; it's just beating me to a pulp. Meanwhile, I am becoming a really strong cyclist.

I thought about lines in the sand all day today. My lines. My boundaries. My perimeter markers. This is interesting for a person that is sitting zazen with all her might so that boundaries may fall away. Tonight I have only questions, no answers (the wind blew them away!) Upon second thought, the issue rattling in my mind may be more related to balance. How do I stay in balance? It is a word that is becoming trite and overused, but a useful word nonetheless. I think it's easier to stay balanced when we can see our lines in the sand. I can't see mine clearly right now. They must have blown away, too.

I've previously raised the question of "What is enough?" I'm conceptualizing the current ratchet in my brain a little differently. The idea is bigger: What is the right amount in the right frequency applied in the right place with or to the right person for the right reason? Convoluted, I know. Unanswerable, I see. I'm still curious.

This question crops up everywhere for me. Where are my parenting lines? My partnering lines? My familial lines? My dog ownership lines? Duty to the environment lines? Quest for accurate knowledge about world event lines? Long term planning lines? Self care lines? Community involvement lines? Time allocation lines? All kinds of lines at work: what is the balance between financial necessity and being the kind of therapist I want to be for my clients? Where are the lines with my business partners and colleagues? Where are the battle lines with inefficient insurance companies?

Balance is a complex, subtle, fluid and fluctuating dance. Sometimes it feels like I've learned the steps; more often I'm tripping over my own feet. Plenty of questions, few answers. I fall and get up. Fall and get up.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Two Cents Worth

Day 62. Note to Readers: I reference the blog dated March 29, 2010, titled "Tri-Titled Blog" in today's post. Additional note to Readers: I have always wanted to write a "note to readers." Charlotte Bronte addresses her readers directly in "Jane Eyre" and, even though she wrote the book about 90 years before I was born, it always felt like she was speaking to me personally. I think it is a nice touch.

I'm wondering if it is an inevitable characteristic of middle age to get "stuck in your ways." I'd like to reframe this aspect of myself as "knowing more clearly what I want" but perhaps I should just admit I am growing stuck in my ways and get on with it. The perspective and feelings of this Monday felt eerily identical to last Monday, right down to the blog I planned to right. I took a walk (although I altered the route -- THERE! Proof that I am NOT stuck in my ways) and found myself ruminating on the cruel shock of the transition from the weekend to the first work day. I find this odd, because I genuinely love what I do and consider myself quite fortunate to have such an ideal work setting.

For some reason I FEEL everything more acutely on Mondays. My clients' pain, the state of the economy, climate change, polarized and extreme political views, and the latest atrocity by terrorists seem to seize me with a tighter grip on Mondays. An accompanying feeling of responsibility and helplessness follows. Since all cognition leads to contemplating material for the blog, I wind up puzzling over how to write about these significant phenomena. My inevitable conclusion is that others are writing about newsworthy events with much more knowledge and conviction. I should probably stick to zazen stuff. My thinking becomes maddeningly circular when I remind myself that EVERYTHING potentially falls under the umbrella of "zazen stuff." This is not helpful in narrowing the scope of my writing.

As I so repetitiously point out, the heart of sitting is practicing the art of living fully in the moment. In incredibly small increments, I am learning to trust that each and every moment offers something to write about, if I just pay attention to it. It requires jarring my brain from the default circuitry that entombs it. Unfortunately, my default circuits are deeply embedded. I will probably be sitting zazen for several lifetimes before I discover the first number in the combination lock on the gate to Nirvana. Not to worry - I only plan to blog about it for this first year.

Today my neural pathways were delightfully jolted a few steps after I bent to pick up two pennies on my walk. For real. I couldn't possibly make this stuff up. I mentioned before that I tend to walk with my head down in order to look for coins. Last Monday, I found three pennies early in to my walk and planned to write a blog about "My Three Cents Worth" until I found the quarter and the planned blog was preempted. When I read over that blog, it occurred to me that the phrase was actually based on "two cents." Didn't seem to matter because I went off in the direction of the Tri-Titled Blog. And now, exactly one week later while I am once again walking and thinking about how badly I am not looking forward to writing a blog about my dismal mood on Mondays, I look down and there is two cents staring up at me. I'm tempted to deem it a Peak Experience, but it seems more weird than "peak."

The strangest thing is that the idea for tonight's blog didn't come to me instantaneously upon finding the two pennies. I scooped them up with my usual brief association to how strange it is to find coins on almost every single walk. My default circuitry immediately returned to the thought stream about discouraging Mondays. Then -- BAM! My neurons ignited with pleasure at the recognition that I could write, literally, about "two cents worth" in tonight's blog. I resigned myself to the possibility of finding more money and being thwarted again, but fortunately those two pennies were my evening's total spoils. For the remainder of the walk, I pondered the moment when my brain clanged open, i.e. when I associated finding the coins with a clever blog title and subsequent material, rather than simply pocketing the pennies and defaulting to ongoing ruminations. As I have with similar recent provocative mind bends, I credited my meditation for the jolt.

This rather lengthy depiction has far exceeded my two cents worth. Simplistically, I just wanted to illustrate the point that meditation can be a powerful tool with which we interrupt our deeply entrenched patterns of thought and behavior. Apparently it awakens new connections and takes familiar thinking routes on detours. I think the world is in stark need of new ideas and notions. Old solutions are proving unsuccessful as we evolve into a profoundly global, interconnected planet. Perceptions and ideas that fit THIS moment have the greatest likelihood of being helpful, because they are the ones that belong. Jolt your circuits. Jar your defaults. That's my two cents' worth.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc