What's in a Name?

Who am I? Who is carrying this body? - Jack Kornfield in the Zen Calendar (November 14, 2006).

Day 148. I logged on to the dinosaur, got into my blog, and the screen looks entirely different. No reason I can detect. No solution I have discovered. Next to sitting in nothingness, cyberspace is the weirdest domain I know.

I just came inside after working in my yard for three hours. This yard and I go back 17 years. When I was 32 and became a first time home owner, caring for the yard was an adventure and a tremendous ego investment. I remember playing soccer, football, baseball, and countless plots of intricate pretending with my son in the yard over the years. For the first five, I would have to interrupt the games and pull a weed if I saw one. OCD is a demanding beast. I guess all that analysis kicked in at some point, because presently I am impervious to weeds. Now that I think about it, the timing of my weed tolerance happened to coincide with my broken back. Bummer. I was hoping all that time on the couch had some measurable outcome.

I am so physically fatigued that I must head to my cushion while I can still sit up. I chose the above quote because it so closely parallels a process through which I am finding myself in deep meditation over the past few nights. I repeatedly go back to the point about our given name made by the presenter at the yoga workshop . I can't say why, but when I think of myself as nameless - or of the randomness of my name and the fact that it could have been any other name of the thousands available to Western parents in 1961 - my ego falls away. I am amazed at how my name appears to be so strongly connected to my sense of self. Lose the name, and the self becomes lost, too. I become a breathing being sitting on a cushion. The Monkeys must be connected to my name, too, because when it falls away, they chatter much less.

So who is carrying this body? Who is minding the store - of my memories, my dreams, my goals, my future? I can't really say. All I know is that the former shopkeeper seems to have left town. Before she trained her replacement.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Knowing I Have Wings

Be like a bird who,
pausing in flight
on a limb too slight,
feels it give way beneath her,
yet sings.
Sings!
Knowing she has wings. - Author unknown

Day 147. I rode like a bandit tonight. Greased lightening. My riding is as erratic as a teenage girl tweaking her Face Book profile. Temperature accounts for much of the variability, but I think what I'm learning to do with my toes in Pilates class is contributing, too. Sharin is the best teacher ever. We're learning to finesse our ankle bones. God is, truly, in the details.

In the mid-90's, me and two colleagues developed a group counseling practice called the Women's Renewal Centre. We had brand new office space, brand new furniture, and a beautiful brochure with tonight's quote on the front. I love that poem. I never saw a single client at the Women's Renewal Centre for reasons that have faded with time. I saved the brochure though. I still love the poem.

I'm finding my wings. They feel like the fragile, moist, wrinkled wings of the Monarch butterfly I raised from a caterpillar when I was ten. When my butterfly emerged from her cocoon on a windy Spring day, I gently lifted her onto my finger and walked around outside while she stretched her wings and let them dry in the sunshine. For over an hour, me and my butterfly just hung out together. The kids on my block wondered why the Monarch stayed so still on my finger for so long. I explained that I had raised her from a caterpillar. Others wanted to hold her; I said, "No way."

I felt so protective of my butterfly. I remember climbing the elm tree in our front yard (I had climbed it so many times, and - monkey child that I was - I could get up it one-handed) and sitting on a limb swinging my legs in the warm evening air. I watched the Monarch as she tentatively gauged her wingspan and began to move around on my finger. The orange of her wings was a vibrant background for her spots, jet black and velvety smooth. I felt the approach of her maiden flight before she even left my hand. With great joy and great sorrow, I watched her flutter up and up as she caught a breeze in the soft pink sunset. Streaming tears accompanied my triumphant shout as I watched my butterfly disappear into the deepening blue sky. My heart clenched with tender, maternal love as I witnessed her flight. My job was done. I had set her free.

I couldn't have known at the time, but almost 40 years later I know that butterfly is a symbol of my soul being born. Zazen is setting me free, holding me while I stretch my wings and grounding me before I take flight. It's tantalizing and terrifying. Discovering my mind is a tremendous responsibility and holds electrifying promise. I am not sure what the future will bring, but deep within me I sense an endless blue sky.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Looking

If we knew that tonight we were going to go blind, we would take a longing, last real look at every blade of grass, every cloud formation, every speck of dust, every rainbow, raindrop - everything. - Pema Chodron in the Zen Calendar (November 17, 2006).

Day 146. I don't want to take a real look at anything. It fills me with longing.

There are many times I sit down at this white screen and want to cut and paste the blog from many weeks ago in which I indulge my inner petulant child. It's quite embarrassing to even imagine how often an obstinate, negative, rebellious mood envelopes me. On the one hand I can understand and summon some empathy towards myself - after all, I lend ego strength for a living. On the other hand, I wish I were more evolved. Right smack in the middle is the truth: although our thoughts and feelings affect us mightily, they are NOT who we are. For some reason that quote from my yoga workshop has stayed with me. It's very Zen.

Today I found myself sharing a concept explained by my analyst many years ago. He called it "The Looking." He said there are times in therapy when we have to tolerate a careful, honest examination of important themes and events in our lives. This "looking" sometimes occurs over a prolonged period of time and can evoke powerful emotions. The feelings can become so strong that a sense of urgency and immediacy to take action arises. Impulsive, reflexive behavior and decisions usually don't serve us as well as those in which we take time to process and contemplate. Regret often comes on the heels of actions emanating from the need to quickly alleviate painful psychological states. Good therapy creates a safe relationship in which painful feelings can be experienced and tolerated for the duration required to clarify the actions that are ultimately best for us. As I've mentioned before, Western culture isn't known for cultivating this sort of delayed gratification and forethought.

I was certainly writing from the "Doc" facet of my screen name just then. Ouch - I just "looked" at an important theme in my life: the tendency to go cerebral when I'm hurting about something in my personal life. The consequences of daily zazen may be more momentous than I anticipated. When the fallout is positive, the endeavor seems like a very good idea. The enchantment fades, however, at the juncture where being mindful results in painful awareness of my primary relationship, my lifestyle, my future, my dreams. That's where the rubber meets the road. That's the moment of truth in sessions with clients when I can almost see the light bulb blaze about their heads: You mean I really have to CHANGE!!?

"Looking" through my sitting practice is shining a light in some dark recesses in my mind. Where haven't I gone? Who haven't I met? What haven't I known? I am pulsing with a bizarre and inexplicable obsession to travel to Tassahara (the Zen retreat in California established by Suzuki Roshi), New Zeland, and Patagonia. In that order. Soon. Talk about rash actions to alleviate painful feelings. I can't afford going to any of those places. As if that fruitless fantasy isn't consuming enough energy, there is a parallel fixation on improving my home in Norman. Inside and out. Meditation and yoga room, Japanese garden complete with pond. Siding, new garage door, spraying for vermin. What's up with that? I am supposed to be planning to sell this house soon, not priming it to be the dwelling of my desire.

I was interrupted while writing, and then discovered myself sweeping my front porch. There weren't any cups to wash. Ah. Much better. Engaging in the finite (it's a small porch), the concrete, the tangible, is always good for me. As grounding - almost - as getting my butt on my cushion.

I had much more to blog, but the interruption was a long one. A timely one. Not anything upon which I will elaborate. I did want to mention that Elizabeth Gilbert's book Eat Pray Love is being made into a movie starring Julia Roberts. Has Elizabeth arrived, or what?! Her blog-to-book-to-movie came to pass. I still think Kate Hudson would be terrific playing me. I wonder if she rides mountain bikes . . .

More importantly, I should be wondering what she looks like perched on a sofa cushion holding a mudra. That's where REAL looking occurs.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

You Can't Hold Back the Dawn

In the midst of nothingness, there is a road that goes directly to my true home. - Gesshu in the Zen Calendar (September 5, 2006).

Day 145. No cycling today. I saw a fairly good movie. It wouldn't have mattered if it was good or not. The theater had air conditioning and I watched from a seat you didn't have to straddle. The only sweating was done by the actors on the screen. Bliss.

In the past few days I have discovered the magazine Outside. My partner has them lying all over the house. He has never opened one. He says he "hates it . . . and doesn't know how (he) got a subscription." I know for a fact he doesn't read it because most of the articles are by writers guilty of the "L" word. And I don't mean Lesbian. Hey - you can't work on an Air Force Base in Oklahoma for over twenty years without getting tainted.

I, on the other hand, am enjoying the articles immensely. Outside is definitely targeted at edgy 25 to 40-year-old men with a predilection for extreme sports. In other words, it's right up my alley. I've been reading about rock climbers hooked on benzodiazepines, arctic swimmers, Lance Armstrong and his rival, Alberto Contador, and singers from genres of music I had never heard of. Good stuff.

Trouble is, I'm also reading about the life I never led. My life. The one my True Self would have elected, had she not been so profoundly impacted by influences including an alcoholic dad, the Poster Mom for Codependency, and becoming the Hero Child who had to make straight A's and get a Ph.D. at the ripe old age of 27. Don't get me wrong; I love my parents and my career deeply. I'm just pretty sure that, left unimpeded, I would have chosen a slightly different path.

I would have been a competitive mountain biker and maybe triathlete. My passport would have looked like an action photographer's from National Geographic - in fact, that may have been the profession I chose. There is a high likelihood that I never would have married, and almost a certainty that I wouldn't be a mother (though that actually worked out well). I would have procured my diving certification a long time before 2001, and by now I would have logged hundreds of dives in my logbook. I'd still have the accumulation of rock climbing equipment I owned in the 80's, and my logbook of climbs would be thick, too. The sailboats I've owned would contain more brands than Hobie, and my wind surfer would have seen a lot more surf. I would speak more than a smattering of French, German and Spanish. The number of beaches I've meandered would be exponentially larger, as would countries I've lingered in. And I would never, NEVER still be in Oklahoma.

I realize that sounds like a list of regrets, or woulda shoulda coulda's. That's not how I intended it at all. Funny thing is, I've managed to do fragments of every single thing I listed. The real me, the truest me, periodically burst forth despite the endless life circumstances that kept trying to smother me. One of my favorite undergraduate professors used to look at me as we sat in his office under the eves of the oldest building on campus, swapping stories and contemplating academia and say, "You can't hold back the dawn." He had a twinkle in his eye, and - looking back with the wisdom and maturity of a woman nearing half a century on this earth - there was something else in his eye as well. I was a slender blond in my early 20's with sparkling blue eyes and enough zeal and intellect to stop a train. He never crossed a line with me, and for that, I am grateful. I remember his look and his mantra to me. You Can't Hold Back the Dawn. Though I didn't recognize it at the time, it was the highest compliment I have ever received.

My professor was right. My Self is dawning. The longer I sit, the more I sense an Awakening. The heart of zazen is WAKING UP - to truth, to life, to the infinite goodness of the One. Sometimes I sit on my cushion positively buzzing with an aching, yearning restlessness. Yet I continue to remain absolutely still. Watching and waiting. Accepting. Detaching. Sitting in the quiet, motionless and alert, I feel myself being born. Clearing the clutter and fog from my congested brain is like seeing a sunrise for the very first time. This dawn is clear and uninhibited. The colors are radiant. And I know - I just KNOW - that with this dawn I will sail - and dive - and climb - and ride - and fly - and write - as much as my heart desires.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

EZ Rider Bodhis

You owe it to everyone (including yourself) to find pockets of tranquility in your busy world. - Georges Bernanos in the Zen Calendar (July 1, 2009).

Day 144. We had a cycling event today. I rode like complete and utter crap. I felt like complete and utter crap. I'm fairly sure I looked like complete and utter crap. What did I expect? The date has two of "that number" in it.

Except for me, the EZ Riders strode out in fine style. Our blue and yellow jerseys blended spectacularly with the summer sky and early morning sun. A color coordinated, symmetrical, single line of 10 led out at the Tour de Cure in Mustang - a fund raiser for diabetes. I registered the exact moment I began to feel ill. When I glanced down at my computer, the timer read 13 minutes and 2 seconds, which was gristly premature for a metric century (62 miles) ride.

My partner was pulling; he pulled and he pulled and he pulled. There was a beastly south wind (duh) and it was simmering hot by eight a.m. Even with the best draft in town and no more than .025 centimeters between his back wheel and my front, I quickly felt exhausted, overheated, and in pain. I hung on for about ten miles until a mild ascent left me feeling like the contractions in my seventh hour of natural child birth. Not a good sensation. I pulled off and watched the EZ Riders disappearing over the hill. It's the most demoralizing feeling imaginable.

As I slowed from 20 mph to around 14, I looked up and saw Ted waiting for me. Hmm? Turns out he had been traveling on temporary duty for three of the past four weeks, had not been riding, and was feeling pretty rotten himself (though I suspect his analogy did not contain memories of child birth). My morale lifted a fraction. He sized up my condition based on monosyllabic replies like, "Crap. Sucks. Hurts. Bonk." Ted's one of the sharper tacks in the cork board. In a heartbeat, he elected to pull. We modified our metric century distance to the humble route of 30 miles.

As we labored up a long hill with a blasting headwind (how can there POSSIBLY be so many occasions of that combination on any given Saturday in Oklahoma?), Ted casually queried, "Do I have a flat?" Reluctantly, I assessed his back wheel and sure enough, it was getting soft. We stopped; he confirmed the inevitable and elected to continue up the hill to a rest stop at the top. I sucked it up and pulled him to the top. Figured it was the least I could do, being as I had nice hard tires and all. When we pulled into the stop, his tire was squishy indeed. Gassho to the Buddha! A mechanical upon which to blame our disappearance.

Ted quickly changed his tire (how is it that the back tire is ALWAYS the flat one? Statistically, shouldn't there be a 50/50 split between the two?) I gulped salt tablets, and we headed for open road, carefully following the directional arrows painted on the asphalt reading "All." Thirty miles. Piece of cake. Piece of chase-it-with-a-gallon-of-PowerAde cake. We were over half way. With properly pressured tires, Ted was more than willing to continue dragging my pathetic ass ever southward. The sun climbed. The temperature climbed. We climbed.

I succumbed to temptation and checked the mileage on my computer. It read just over 25 miles. Rather than jubilation at the nearness of the end of our 30-mile jaunt, however, I felt a gnawing hunch that those arrows saying "All" meant "All of you riding 48 miles or further." Somewhere jumbled amongst the OCD neurons comprising the bulk of my cortex, I also house a pretty durn accurate sense of direction. And that sense told me we had ridden waaaaay further south of the finish line than five miles. I shared my suspicion with Ted, and he confirmed: we had to be on the 48-mile route. Yippee. Sure enough, we came to an intersection with only two directional indicators: straight for the metric; right for the 48-miler. We were a long way from home. I wondered if there was a record for miles ridden while feeling like you're going to puke without actually doing so. If such a prestigious accolade exists, I was in contention.

Ever the optimists, me and Ted immediately acknowledged that we had a heckuva tailwind to push us northward. We also had newly smoothed blacktop beneath our wheels. Clicking along at 28 mph is a terrific morale hefter, even when you are seriously gastrointestinally challenged. I'd felt ill for so long it was starting to fade from my awareness. A beautiful byproduct of sitting zazen for 143 days is that I no longer feel crappy over feeling like crap. It is what it is. This ride bit from the beginning. I pulled. Ted schemed, formulating a way to cheat the 48. The miles fell beneath us. Every one over 30 gouged Ted deeply.

Ted's single-mindedness and my sense of direction combined to get us to the finish line at just over 41 miles. We were elated at avoiding the final three-mile lurch into a straight south wind. We passed Tracy, the other female EZ Rider, sitting in the shade of her open hatch. She had experienced heat problems and rode back alone along the same 41 miles we had traversed. We deemed ourselves "free lancers" and pronounced the ride a success. Ted headed home. I waited in the shade with Tracy for the more robust members of our team.

My partner arrived first and alone. He had a great ride, completing the metric with an average speed I won't mention here because my competitiveness forbids indulging it. Mike, Jackie and Randy also completed the metric with speedy times. As impressive as their riding was today, my gratefulness and appreciation toward these talented teammates has nothing to do with their cycling. It's their Buddha Mind.

We all sat together at the luncheon given on the riders' behalf. Guzzling iced tea and pasta, we analyzed our separate rides in detail. My description was a minimal mumble about how crappy I rode and how miserable I felt. I didn't hide my discouragement and despair over the incontestable remnants of heat illness. It was especially disheartening in lieu of my strong and promising performance on rides before temperatures soared. The EZ Riders just listened. Nodded their heads. Listened some more. No smarmy attempts at making me feel better. No sugar coating the suckiness of a setback. No empty promises of things getting better in the near future. No comparisons, judgment, criticism. Like a bunch of sweaty and sun tanned Bodhisattvas, they just patiently listened, bearing witness to my bad day on the bike. It is what it is. No need to make it anything else.

I love my EZ Riders. Without even sitting zazen, they are terrifically enlightened beings. Find some Bodhisattvas in your life. They are pockets of tranquility in a really busy world.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Lid of a Sippy Cup

You should let go and make yourself empty and quiet, clear and calm. - Ying-An in the Zen Calendar (May 7, 2004).

Day 143. I am headed to a wedding. I'm wondering if the bride anticipated 99 degrees and 65% humidity when she picked out her veil.

This was a particularly amazing week to be a psychologist. I am graced with extraordinarily high caliber clients who continually renew my faith in human beings' capacity for courage, change, and healing. That, or staying exactly the same and not caring as much! I am still caught off guard when clients express a perception of stigma attached to being in counseling and/or taking psychotropic medicine. It's been my observation that most people who voluntarily seek counseling are generally higher beings. A lot of the time they are there because someone in their lives - the one who REALLY needs to change - is unwilling to receive counseling of their own.

Without going into a lengthy description of Personality Disorders (Google it, especially Borderlines - makes for interesting reading), I will say with utter conviction that all of us are, have been, or will be greatly pained by a Personality Disorder at some point in our life. A person this damaged is almost inevitably at the center of what ails my clients. The essence of a Personality Disorder is their desperate need to "house" their pathology in the people around them. The closer you are to the Personality Disorder, the greater the potential to be used as a vessel for their emotional rubbish. That's usually because, early in the damaged person's life, circumstances necessitated they develop a psychological defensive fortress in which everything that goes wrong is the fault of someone else. From this perspective, the individual makes sense of painful life events by attributing their causes to others. It is impossible for the Personality Disorder to take personal responsibility; to own their faults without self loathing; to objectively examine themselves. Thus, they utilize extremely regressed defense mechanisms such as distortion, projection, and denial to maintain an internal sense of equilibrium. In other words, "it's always your fault and I am always the victim." Trying, to say the least.

Enter my "Sippy Cup" metaphor. When I detect a Personality Disorder underlying at least some of my client's difficulty, I ask them to recall that TV character dressed like a huge pitcher filled with red Kool Aid. In the commercial, he bursts through a fence yelling, "Oh yeahhhhhh, Kool Aid's here, wearing a smile . . . " Instead of red Kool Aid, however, the pitcher is filled with glowing, green toxic ooze (toxic ooze is always lime green in my imagination). The ooze is symbolic of the all the psychological poison the character needs to pour into the people around him/her. I next describe those sippy cups with the twist-on lids designed to help toddlers transition from bottles to cups. Metaphorically, therapy helps clients "put the lid on their sippy cup" so that the pitcher can't pour ooze into them. It's an image to remind them to maintain psychological boundaries. We discuss how they can't stop the Personality Disorder from attempting to "pour" accountability and pathology into others, but they CAN stop themselves from being a human container of ooze that isn't theirs.

My clients get this. After a time, they come into session with big grins, bragging, "I kept the lid on my sippy cup!" In other words, "I didn't house emotional baggage that isn't mine." The sippy cup metaphor is a liberating and empowering treatment metaphor. It reminds me of the zen (non)aspiration of being empty. For Buddhist principles, I may modify the metaphor to an image of the cup with a big hole in the bottom of it. When I envision my sippy cup like that, it is a reminder to let "baggage" of any kind - whether mine or belonging to someone else - to keep flowing on through me. That way, nothing accumulates. I really dig emptiness!

My cushion calls; I'll likely meditate on Monkey chatter just rattling through and out of me. An empty sippy cup with no lid and a big hole in the bottom. There's an inspiring image indeed!

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Snowing on a Stove

Once the mind is clear, the very word clarity is like a snowflake on a red hot stove. - Zen Saying in the Zen Calendar (December 10, 2006).

Day 142. My gimmes have turned into the donwanna's. I donwanna ride my bike; I donwanna clean my house; I donwanna be outside; I donwanna mow the lawn; I donwanna blog. I wonder if there is a Berenstein Bear book about this. It must be a common theme.

Not that wanting to (or not!) matters when it comes to zazen, but in the midst of my obstinate objection to - well - just about everything, I don't feel overly oppositional when it comes to plunking my butt down on my cushion. It is, after all, near an air conditioning vent. If the air is on, I focus on its soothing sound blowing from the vent. If it is off, I focus on the silence from the vent, trying not to get attached to when it next begins to emit cool air. As an emptying my mind technique, this is right up there with counting Ham Sah's.

Paging through my quotes this evening, I couldn't summon the energy to write about any of them. It's too cliche to say I have writer's block, or blogger's block, or any other cutsie excuse. I just don't frickin' feel like writing. I'm concerned that the blog screen white space will be reduced to a dumping ground for my inertia. I'm still slightly attached to being profound. Or at least mildly interesting. As soon as the temperature climbed to 98 or so, funny was no longer an option.

For many weeks, I didn't select tonight's quote because I am very fond of it and wanted to attach it to a super good blog. My fondness derived from the words, however, not an experience. While sitting last night, I lived what the quote is saying. At some point deep into my thirty minutes, there was a wisp of a second when my mind cleared. It lasted about as long as a snowflake on a red hot stove. The Monkeys immediately began to analyze what had occurred. I shushed them by literally (and gently) saying, "Shush" in my mind. I wanted to reenter the cleared space. More breaths, and (for some reason) a brief thought about the arbitrariness of my name, and my mind sank back into emptiness. Like another snowflake on the stove, it vanished. More monkey puzzlement. More breaths. A lightening quick reminder that I am not my name; what was my face before my parents were born? Into the abyss of empty. My consciousness felt like the ball in the Chinese finals of table tennis. Empty; chatter. Empty; chatter. Empty; chatter. The clear mind never lasted longer than snowflakes falling on a red hot stove.

Something real and true and genuine is happening in my practice. It doesn't happen often, and it certainly doesn't last long, but it is there. Or not there. The nanosecond of empty is unlike anything I've known before. Simultaneously compelling and benign. My cushion calls. And I have to admit: I'm hoping a little bit for bigger flakes or a cooler stove.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Getting the Gimmes

If we go down into ourselves we find that we possess exactly what we desire. - Simone Weil in the Zen Calendar (Mounted on my refrigerator for many years).

Day 141. Triple digit temperature. It was only a matter of time.

On the way home from dinner with a friend, I listened to a program on NPR discussing the budget crisis in New York and the partisan discord that was stagnating problem solving. "This is not news," I thought, "Budget crises are as pandemic as bipartisan agreement is rare." The quote from a New York budget official was equally impotent: "Year after year we spend more money than we take in." Ya think?

I was reminded of one of my son's favorite books from the time he was three to...uh, about now. It was titled "The Berenstein Bears Get the Gimmes." The Berenstein Bear books were very psychologically correct stories about a bear family grappling with common dilemmas and conflicts encountered within families. In this particular story, Brother Bear and Sister Bear get a bad case of "the gimmes" - the insatiable illness of "I-Want-Gotta-Have-Right-Now-itis that is the inevitable product of a capitalistic society combined with effective marketing to children combined with indulgent parents. It's a creative and accurate portrayal of themes of selfishness, lack of gratitude, acquiring things you don't need or even like, and the burdens of accumulation. The other titles to the trilogy are "The Entire Planet Gets the Gimmes" and "We are Really Screwed Now."

There is a subtle but growing trend, smack dab in the midst of our conspicuous consumption, toward buying less and having less. Obvious indicators are lagging retail sales and other "bad economy" indexes; I think the plethora of "Clear Your Clutter" and "Simplify" books is reliable evidence as well. When I listen to conversation around me, I usually hear the "gimmes" referencing the latest electronic thrill and whatever "_G Network" we are currently on. Interestingly, the other common "gimmes" I hear center on immaterial things. "Gimme time. Gimme relaxation. Gimme privacy. Gimme quiet. Gimme sleep. Gimme attention. Gimme love. Gimme safety." As a culture, I think we are awakening to the fact that, despite our incessant buying, products don't satisfy these needs - at least not for very long.

The longer I sit, the less I want to own. Though my gimme list isn't diminishing, the content is changing. Gimme emptiness. Gimme patience. Gimme clarity. Gimme understanding. Gimme endurance. Gimme compassionate. So that I may give it back.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

A Fork in the Path

A roshi is a person who has actualized that perfect freedom which is the potentiality for all human beings. He exists freely in the fullness of his whole being. The flow of his consciousness is not the fixed repetitive patterns of our usual self-centered consciousness, but rather arises spontaneously and naturally from the actual circumstances of the present. The results of this in terms of the quality of his life are extraordinary - buoyancy, vigor, straightforwardness, simplicity, humility, serenity, joyousness, uncanny perspicacity, and unfathomable compassion . . . " - Richard Baker quoting Trudy Dixon in the Introduction to Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind.

Day 140. I am stuck in the fixed repetitive pattern of my usual self-centered consciousness. I would trade it for buoyant vigor in a heartbeat.

I have been meditating and blogging for almost five months. The month after that will be my half-way point. In Hollywood movie timing, this is when the plot is thickened by excessive conflict and turmoil designed to make us wonder if the protagonists can possibly triumph. Caring about the outcome usually requires the willful suspension of disbelief.

Internally, I feel like my plot is thickening. Sitting zazen makes me wonder what size mind I have. What size heart? How much courage, authenticity, hope? What to doubt? What to accept? Where to commit? What if I slam or sneak or stammer my way into Buddha mind and it requires me to change? There is a fork in my path to enlightenment. One path stops abruptly at a sign reading, "This is it. Just this. You are here. You have always been here. There is nowhere else to go." The other path twists and winds up and up, disappearing into a mist. I can't see a sign, but words are dropped like stones along the way: "Move. Explore. Grow. Learn. Challenge. Change. Expand." Sometimes I sit stock still on my cushion, breathing into the moment and basking in Just This. Other times I zoom about the cosmos, curious and thrilled and urgent. Google Maps rejects my request for directions. All roads lead back to my cushion.

In concrete terms, I am questioning everything. Where do I want to live? What do I want to do? With whom do I want to do it? I want beauty; I want nature; I want intellectual stimulation; I want travel and music and culture. I want to do kind things with substantive impact. I want to sit with other Buddhists across the globe, watching and chanting and learning.

Then I stumble into the pages of my Zen Calendar, which remind me that every acorn contains an entire forest of oaks. Huh? I have everything I desire within me? Then why the constant yearning? Why is emerging restlessness and taunting confusion the byproducts of sitting? If I model a roshi and my consciousness arises naturally from the actual circumstances of the present, I fear I will be conscious of a middle-aged woman with a sinus infection and mosquito bites who loathes the Oklahoma heat. I'm not sure this is the quality of life I am seeking.

There is only one way to tolerate this gnawing, itching restlessness. I must sit. Sit and watch the yearnings come and go. Sit for clarity. Sit for sanity. Sit in the absence of any motivation or reason at all. Unbelievably, for 140 days, my zazen has not faltered. At least there is one thing I'm not confused about.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Not Guilty Pleasure

"I always look at any event from a wider angle. There's always some problem, some killing, some murder or terrorist act or scandal everywhere, every day. But if you think the whole world is like that, you're wrong. Out of six billion humans, the trouble makers are just a handful." - The Dalai Lama (Time Magazine, June 14, 2010).

Day 139. When I started my morning reading the Dalai Lama quoted in Time magazine, I knew it was going to be a good day (even if the reading was taking place in my doctor's office). It's Summer Solstice - the best day of the year for us Lovers of Light!

I am completing the perfect Monday: I got off work at an unprecedented hour; scampered to the book store and bought five new books; scooped up ice cream for dinner (Neapolitan - the greatest concoction EVER!); watched two hours of worthless TV (on the Lifetime and Family channels, no less); the dinosaur booted on the very first try. And that's not the best of it - I still get to blog, sit and read. Life is beyond precious!

The Dalai Lama quote was timely for me. I was feeling mired in the muck of the quagmire I call the state of Oklahoma. This is an erroneous phenomena in which I commit one of my pet peeves: overgeneralizing a critical judgment based on insufficient and biased data. I mistake a lack of evidence to the contrary as supportive data for my preconceived conclusions. The judgment is this: the state I call home (or at least the state of my birth and locale of the majority of my life experience) is almost entirely populated by (in no particular order) conservative, fundamentalist, evangelical, provincial, incestuous, fearful, ignorant, regressed, unworldly, judgmental, stagnant Red Necks. Thanks to the Dalai Lama, I am reminded that in actuality, this demographic comprises only a handful. A really BIG hand, perhaps, but a handful nonetheless.

This is not the cross section of Oklahomans who attended the Solstice dance on Saturday night. I was struck by the atmosphere of ease, acceptance, contentment, openness, and joy engulfing me as soon as I parked my car. People of all ages, many races, the gamut of socioeconomic status, a variety of spiritual backgrounds, and several ways of being both single and coupled attended. A commitment to Mother Earth, healing, and unconditional regard for one another seemed to be the commonality. Along with a willingness to dance, shout and sweat in each others' presence.

My business partner's husband, Rocky, a brilliant and compassionate man, was asked to give a brief talk before we began the dance. He explained that the dance was about healing; about creating a space where positive energy could descend upon and surround us. Rocky emphasized that getting lost in the dancing and the energy was more important than performing perfect dance steps. Like zazen, the idea is to get out of one's mind -- to not think. We were divided into the dances of Deer, Eagle, Bear and Hummingbird - each with its own meaningful steps and rhythm. The four dances occur simultaneously and are juxtaposed one upon the other in the same arena. Each group of dancers interweaves with the other three in a stunning choreography of grace and purpose. Our dancing began at a moderate pace, accelerating as the dancers moved from thinkers to feelers to be-ers. The dance took on a life of its own. It was easy to get lost in it. I danced Eagle between Eagle warriors Sharla and Tom. It was bliss; like coming home. Damp and satiated, we then shared a meal in the golden-pink sunset.

As handfuls of demographics go, this is mine. My spirit soared; my soul was sated. I needed a reminder of these delightful inhabitants of Oklahoma. Just the other day, I was explaining a term championed by our Monday night group. It's a descriptor we affectionately refer to as a "DV." It stands for "Dry Vagina," and is used to categorize the multitude of women who congregate to criticize, ridicule, exclude, and gossip about any woman who is living a life of risk, freedom and joy. Sexist as it sounds, I coined the phrase in response to the common theme in the therapy group of members' being crushed by the judgments of other women in their workplace, church, school and community.

DV's are easy to recognize by their frown lines, upturned noses, wagging tongues, crossed arms, closed minds and constricted sphincters. It occurred to me that these hurtful women clearly aren't engaging in their own lives and happiness (including hot sex and plentiful orgasms); if they were, they would be incapable of rendering such pain to others. I have not yet had a client who didn't utterly resonate with the term (I don't mention the term to actual DV's; my hunch is that they wouldn't be receptive or find it the least bit funny). DV's are probably dry all over. This is a tragedy because vital women drip with the moisture of life: blood, sweat, tears, and other delectable juices of our bodies.

Not sure how I got from the wisdom of the Dalai Lama to delectable juices of the bodies of women. Ah, the beauty of writing. The beauty of sitting. You never know where it will take you!

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Hide and Non-Seek

A Buddha is one who does not seek. This is the principle of non-seeking: When you seek, you lose it. - Pai-Chang in the Zen Calendar (September 28, 2006).

Day 138. Oh, yeah. This blog was born to focus on my year of zazen. How effortlessly I can veer off, chasing life's distractions. So many shiny things.

My cushion has been a happening place of late. It would probably spew sparks if Buddhism allowed for such frivolity. Oh, wait. It does. There is room for everything. I hope I don't burn my butt.

I'm tempted to calculate the correlation coefficient representing the relationship between deeper sitting and shorter blogs. Alas, as soon as I defended my dissertation, I vowed never to calculate my own statistics ever again. That's why we have ESPN. I have noticed, incontrovertibly, that my blogging brain goes mushy following deeper experiences with meditation. Tickling my keyboard can't compare to some really stellar cushion time.

Unlike practicing the piano, where (optimally) there is evidence of cumulative improvement, every day is a new day as I bow deeply and nestle in behind my mudra. Quite like practicing the piano, paying attention is invaluable. I've discerned that paying attention and seeking an outcome are entirely different processes. I'm learning not to seek. Last night zazen took me somewhere new. My hands sustained a respectable mudra and simultaneously felt weightless - almost as though they were no longer attached to my arms. My spine was erect, supporting the broad expansion of my ribs with each breath, yet it felt as though my head was suspended in space, requiring absolutely no effort to balance it on my neck. The floaty, distant bodily sensations were accompanied by a profound sense of emptiness in my skull. That's probably why it felt like my head was levitating a few inches off my shoulders.

The cerebral emptiness felt ancient yet familiar. Oddly, I had a sense that images from the Hubble telescope were swirling around where my brain used to be. Sort of intergalactic, Milky Way, Auora Borealis images. Lots of black space at the edges. I stayed with it much longer than in past sits. It was tempting to swagger off into analysis and speculation, but I resisted without resisting. Meaning, I just passively kept sitting, being mindful of what occurred.

Yup - when you seek to describe it, you lose it. It's as though I'm breaking some sacred rule when I try to reduce these new and unfathomable experiences to words. There is nothing to do it justice -- not to mention it sounds weird and dangerously similar to the rants of crazy people. I don't feel crazy. I feel like my practice is widening and deepening. I would highly recommend it. This is the best game of hide and non-seek I've every played.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Who's Minding the Store?

For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself. From within, I couldn't decide what to do. Unable to see, I heard my name being called. Then I walked outside. - Jalal-Ad-Din Rumi in the Zen Calendar (January 25, 2009).

Day 137. I just returned from dancing Summer Solstice with my business partners and 50 or so other dancers: Eagle, Bear, Deer and Hummingbird. We were in Newcastle, on the sacred land of a revered medicine man and his wife. I danced Eagle. So much goodness. Gassho to summer. Gassho to every dancer under the sun. Which includes us all.

Brief blog tonight; I want to savor the after dancing glow. I started the day mindfully and will end it mindfully. At 6:15 a.m. I went out to the garage to prepare for another solo ride. My brain, ego, and the Monkeys were all still asleep, which was highly conducive to mindfulness. For reasons unfathomable, I was particularly mindful of sound: the hydraulics when I opened the Xterra hatch; the almost inaudible sound of rubber touching concrete as I lovingly unloaded my bike; the whisk of velcro as I fastened my cycling shoes; the click of my helmet strap; the swishing of ice water in my Camel Back. Focusing on sound proved to be a perfect sensory channel for staying grounded in the now. God truly dwells in the details.

Something fleeting and memorable is occurring when I sit. It's happened the past couple of nights and seems to be related to something that was mentioned in the Thursday mindfulness workshop. The presenter spoke briefly about our "name" - noting that, after all, it was really an arbitrary sequence of letters bestowed upon us, usually by our parents. She talked about how attached we become to our name, and reminded us that it is separate and truly not who we ARE. I found this strangely liberating. When I sit, I have this awareness of growing distant from my name, and the realization that it is not me. I then fall out of my "self" for the briefest of moments. Last night, as I focused on my breath, a thought flickered across my consciousness saying, "Who is breathing this breath?" An answer floated in from way off in the cosmos: "We all are . . . ." and then: "Noone." Intuitively, they both seemed like fine answers.

The sensation of breath as breath, not as anything being breathed, was a new one for me. Talk about dodging the ego - for a moment there, I am certain there was nobody minding the store. And yet - my breath kept coming. Wait a second - not "my" breath -- just breath. Just breath moving in and through and out. It felt really good.

Again, I lose it when I try to talk about it. Actually, these are my favorite blogs - lousy attempts at writing about something real and experiential that utterly defies written expression. A lot like dancing Eagle.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Magnify

"That which we pay attention magnifies." - Mary Nurrie Stearns on 6/17/2010.

Day 136. I have been sitting here for a very long time contemplating an opening sentence that does not reference the heat. I have failed. It is hot.

It was a pleasure to take part in the Yoga and Mindfulness workshop yesterday. Much of it was experiential. I must admit that I abhor typical touchy-feely audience participation in most psychological seminars (yes, my occupational testing scores pointed me to engineering rather than the helping professions). My zazen practice rendered me primed and open to receive that which was offered by the workshop's talented presenter. We meditated and practiced yoga poses and learned new methods for being mindful. Everything meshed beautifully with my 135-day-old practice.

Two things stood out. The first was a simple breathing method I found mysteriously effective in quieting thoughts (and we all know I have particularly robust Monkeys!) She taught it to us in four simple steps: 1) Take a nice breath in; 2) Blow it out with pursed lips like blowing out a candle; 3) Gentle inhale through the nose; 4) Gentle exhale through the nose. That's it. That's all. We did the four-step sequence about five times in a row. A palpable difference in the energy of the room followed. Audience members glanced at one another wonderingly. The presenter asked us to pay attention to Step #3 - the gentle inhale following "blowing out the candle." When I paid attention, it felt like a unique breath. The blowing exhale seemed to clear the way for a cleansing and pure inhale that could then be released through an exhale through the nose. The technique doesn't differ significantly from other strategies for breath focus I've learned in the past. I think it was just novel enough to detour my brain's characteristic over involvement. I incorporated the breath into zazen last night, and experienced moments of deep meditation. Good stuff.

The second thing begging for blog expression centered around a story told by the presenter about gratitude. She described a traumatic experience while snorkeling in the ocean in which she had to be rescued from drowning. The event catalyzed a subsequent terror of returning to the water, even though she greatly enjoyed snorkeling. The presenter, a mental health professional, put herself through several types of desensitization (e.g. wearing her snorkeling equipment in the safety of her swimming pool) with no result.

A year later, she risked a beach vacation in a group setting. The group received snorkeling instructions on shore, and headed out to deep water to practice their new skills. She hung back, saying she planned to wade in the shallow water. A man in the group whom she did not know volunteered to stay back with her. Without a word, he had comprehended her fear. He asked if they could practice snorkeling together, and if she would mind just touching her pinky finger to his when they went underwater. The presenter movingly demonstrated how she placed the side of her left hand to the side of his right hand, barely lining up their pinkies as they tentatively put their faces in the water. As the morning progressed, they swam into deeper water, and she was able to resume her love of snorkeling with him by her side. The barely discernible touch of a kind stranger was all she needed to conquer her terror.

I'm guessing this guy, whom she described as a tall Texan with a deep southern accent, may be kin to Everett, the EZ Rider who gave me the Perfect Push on my bike a few nights ago. The story resonated because of the emotion with which it was told. Loving kindness is powerful medicine. When we pay attention, it magnifies.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Alone and Not Lonely

Don't ask if I've ceased my wanderings;
already I've trampled all over the south.
Understanding should be what you yourself understand.
Mind is not someone else's mind. - Ch'I-Chi in the Zen Calendar (May 18, 2006).

Day 135. I spent the day at a workshop titled "Yoga & Mindfulness: Clinical Interventions for Anxiety & Depression." How cool is that? My profession granted me 6.5 hours of Continuing Education Units for something I do everyday anyway. Life is sweet.

The workshop was amazing, and I have some stuff to blog about it, but it will have to wait because my bike ride is on my mind (so much for nothingness!) My body's heat tolerance cutoff point appears to be 93 degrees Fahrenheit (plus or minus some humidity percentage points); unfortunately, daytime temperatures are now exceeding that crucial number. I explored my options and came up with: a) stop riding; b) move north; c) ride alone and start earlier or later in the day. (A) was not really an option; (b) would require leaving my psychology practice, which I adore; (c) was selected by default. I think it's going to work out fine.

Due to variables including winter and the tandem, it has been quite some time since I've ridden by myself. I frequently rode alone last spring and summer as I was gradually returning from the heat illness. The team rides 30 fast, flat miles on Thursdays, so I took myself out to the lake and decided to ride 30 miles, which is just over two laps around. My goals were to - uh - ride for 30 miles and finish by sunset. Sounds lofty, I know. Aim high!

After parking at the marina and unloading my spiffy pink T-Mobile bike, I turned south, where I was immediately slammed by strong winds and a hill. "No worries," thought I, "I'm alone." I stayed in my little gear and leisurely pedaled up the hill. The heat was surreal. I was pretty careful with my exertion, and - after all - I was alone. After cresting the hill, I shifted into my big gear and picked up speed. I even got into my drops to be less of a target for my nemesis the Wind. Away I went, pedaling the exact cadence I felt like at any given moment. I rode down the hills like a bandit, and sloughed up them like a slug. I sat up. I dropped down. I spun fast. I spun slow. My heart rate skyrocketed, then slowed to the lowest number of my aerobic zone. I was erratic as hell. It was a blast.

On the east side of the lake, with a steady tailwind, I got in my drops, shifted down, and settled into a rhythm. I sailed along between 22 and 25 mph. There was a bit of shade as the sun sunk lower, and I dowsed myself drippily with ice water from my front bottle. Just before the huge climb on 74th Street, I took a big ole drink of Cytomax and drew a few breaths parked in the shade by the little cemetery (the one I often consider checking myself into when we're on the hill route!)

I blasted down the hill, with only fleeting thoughts of how much faster the tandem plummets, and pedaled like mad up about 80% of the other side. Strangely, that was the point where I abruptly felt like ending my exertion. Might have been better if I reached that point 20% further up, but that wasn't the case. No worries. I shifted into my little gear up front and pedaled like a toddler taking her Big Wheel out for the first time. Glanced down at my computer as I topped the hill. The speed screen read a whopping 8.4 mph. Hmm, I thought. I waited for the Monkeys to express an opinion about this lousy excuse for hill climbing. They didn't utter a word.

The end of that first lap required almost two miles straight into the wind. Hmmm, I thought. I pedaled as the mood struck me. At one point, into the wind and up a hill, I clocked myself at 5.4 mph. I wasn't even sure my bike stayed upright at that speed. I waited to see if the Monkeys registered remarks in absentia. Silence. Strange. I began my second lap.

I turned on my tail light as my legs grew heavy and my water bottles light. There were fewer bikes on the road this time around. No worries. I was riding alone. I felt light and liberated and a little bit giddy, though not from the heat. The ride was feeling a whole lot like a couple of weeks ago when I first sat zazen for 30 minutes. Anything goes. Room on the cushion for everything; room in the saddle for everything. Room for coasting and stretching and pedaling hard and not pedaling at all. Room for sprints and rests and a stop in the shade. Room for wonder, humor, sarcasm and joy. Room for some mild foot cramps and a sore left calf. Room to mock the wind mightily because I couldn't care less how hard it blew - I could stay upright at 5 mph. That inner cycling critic - the tyrannical guy with the stopwatch and the scrunched up forehead who demands speed and distance and rapid ascents of hills - was not along for this ride.

It was brilliant to experience my zazen practice off my cushion and in my saddle. Even without a draft in sight, riding alone has its merits. I had a great time with myself. I finished my two laps. With at least four minutes this side of sunset.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Keep It Clean

Simplicity is the most difficult thing to secure in this world; it is the last limit of experience and the last effort of genius. - George Sand in the Zen Calendar (April 30, 2009).

Day 134. It should not take 2,400 keystrokes to get to my blogging screen. This dinosaur I used to call a computer has embarked upon its own process of extinction. I would like to say that the laptop fund is steadily growing; however, a certain bursar account at a certain private college where a certain walk-on football player is supposedly salvaging a scholarship deems any other fund contributions unlikely. I haven't thought about my future book deal in a long time, but - Dang! It would be nice to buy a laptop.

The title for tonight's blog is not a reference to anything Green, nor is my son's social life being implicated. It's okay to keep reading, because I am not going to type a tirade about the Gulf. The phrase came up during a session with a client today when I suggested she make a bumper sticker that says "Keep it Clean" as a reminder of our discussion.

The client is newly divorced and attempting to re-enter the dating world. After much therapy, she has an accurate awareness of historic events that influence both her selection of who to date and how she interacts with him. On the one hand, insight into fathering issues, stepfather conflict, and what went awry in past marriages is useful and relevant information when it comes to starting a new relationship. On the other hand, excessive psychological analysis tends to clutter the present, make a person over think herself and the other, and prime a potential partner to be projected upon. Most of us have been on the receiving end of behavior influenced by factors originating way before the person even knew us. It's frustrating and confusing, leaving us with the instinctive feeling that "this isn't about me."

I explained the potential for damaging projections from past relationships to be levied upon the new man in her life. That's when the "keep it clean" idea came to me. We laughingly clarified that the recommendation was not referencing sexual decisions. I grounded the idea in a Buddhist conceptualization of living in the here-and-now and keeping interactions psychologically "clean" from baggage belonging to other times and other people. We discussed how "strategic" relationships have become, with both parties constantly volleying for the position of least risk and vulnerability. In weaving these tangled webs of assumption and speculation, we seem to have lost the ability to be authentic and straightforward. It's unfortunate, since authenticity requires much less energy and usually cultivates genuine intimacy.

I've written previously about this idea, but never with the slogan, "Keep it clean." The phrase is most useful if we understand it to mean "dwell in the moment, keeping it free of hypothetical debris." I like the simplicity of the phrase. It is a reminder to stay grounded, strive for objectivity, and be on the lookout for projections and assumptions. It applies to zazen, too. I think I'll practice it right now.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

A Push From Behind

The forces which move the cosmos are no different from those which move the human soul. - Lama Anagarika Govinda in the Zen Calendar (May 25, 2006).

Day 133. Wow. When I read yesterday's blog, it sounded like a pulpit was standing between me and my keyboard as I wrote. That wasn't intentional, but I'm going to let it stand because I reframed it for myself as "passionate, not preachy."

I rode my single bike tonight for the second time this year. Steering, shifting gears, and braking for myself are a whole new bike ride. Not to mention remembering to put a foot down at stop lights - the bike doesn't balance itself when it's not rolling. I am writing a short blog because sitting upright is requiring more energy than I can sustain, and my keyboard won't reach to the floor, on which I will soon be supine.

The ride went well, though the EZ Riders - not known for their sense of delicacy - emitted loud protesting noises at the absence of the tandem (it is, after all, the best draft in town). I was more than ready to hang the tandem tidily on its hooks in the garage for a while. There is such a thing as too much togetherness. To recall the Foyer Lesson, there is also such a thing as allowance for transition. It will take a few more rides to regain my confidence as a single rider. We ride the hill route on Tuesdays, and the downhills were far less thrilling without a 220-pound captain evoking the laws of physics surrounding momentum. The climbs are much more challenging when they begin at 20 mph rather than 40. I would swear that they were each a quarter mile longer than when we rode them on the tandem last week.

As the only female on the route, I feel like I represented my gender respectably this evening. I don't have a Garmin on my bike to officially document the details, though I do have a regular computer which flashes a bunch of numbers that I never register. The absence of a Garmin is fine with me because it wouldn't have registered the most noteworthy event on the ride anyway. We ride a service road along I240 during the last six miles or so. There are a few inclines but no steep hills, so my teammates usually bust out a really fast pace in their hurry to get back to the parking lot (read between the lines: home to dinner and a beer).

I had managed to stay in the general vicinity of the group through the hills, and found myself on the wheel of Fast Mike, who has an irritating habit of accelerating when he pulls because he is just that strong. My legs, accompanied by a lagging spirit and sinking morale, grew heavy and recalcitrant. I pulled off, indicating that the riders behind me should pass while I sank to the back. Three EZ Riders whizzed past, and I heard Everett (the elder on the team with a riding pedigree known throughout the state) say from behind me, "Where do you think you're going?" I was just squeaking out, "I need a rest" when I felt a hand on my back and a gigantic push forward. "You're all right," Everett said with utmost authority, "Get back up there."

And I did. It was magic. That kind, powerful push worked a miracle. It was a panacea; an elixir to my legs and lungs and spirit. I pedaled back to my place on Mike's wheel and stayed there. We rode 20 mph, then 22, then 25. I hung on. He sped up on the inclines. I hung on. They sprinted at the usual spot on 66th Street. I hung on. Knowing that Everett was behind me, that he believed in me, that he knew I needed one quick reminder of my strength and stamina and was willing to deliver it, made the difference between being dropped and finishing the ride like a champ. When the light at Shields turned green, Everett and I bolted to the front of the pack and led them to the stop sign before our last turn south to home. I will never forget his hand on my back.

Everett was a Buddha tonight. Attentive, compassionate, mindful, present. He was the force that moved my soul. He reminded me that, literally and metaphorically, a kind push from behind is a compelling show of support. Tonight, I was the receiver of the push. Tomorrow, and the days after, I am watching for occasions to deliver it myself.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

It's Complicated

How did things get so complicated all of a sudden? I've done my best to avoid complication, to avoid even thinking about complication, and all the same I'm confronted by a set of difficulties that won't go away by ignoring them. - Greg Garrett in "Cycling".

Day 132. Logging on to the website tonight was an arduous process to say the least. I've boldly been to screens I've never seen before. Somehow I got to my White Screen of Blog, so - mission accomplished. It still startles me that novices such as myself can traipse around in cyberspace in absolute confusion and still end up at their destination. Though they say it's about the journey . . .

When I read I turn down corners of pages and underline passages (if there is a pencil handy) and write down phrases that stand out for me. I am enamored with words strung together well. I was looking for the quote I wanted to use tonight, knowing it was somewhere in the novel I'm reading. As I looked it up, I realized there are a dozen or more dogged-eared pages with words strung by Greg Garrett that I wanted to remember. Very cool. I will be reading more of him.

I suspect I am not the only person saturated with news on the BP oil spill. It is heartbreaking, devastating, infuriating, and incomprehensible. I am irritated with the redundant repetition of the reporting. This many gallons leaked, this particular method for stopping the leak failed, this many jobs lost, this many claims filed, this much money spent on cleanup and payment on claims, this many birds and animals and acres impacted, these safety precautions dodged or minimized, this many lies and defenses and rationale told, these sanctions being considered.

It reminds me of the way obesity and the associated medical complications are reported in the U.S. This many people overweight, this increase in diabetes, stroke, and heart attack, this much money spent on weight loss programs and products, this congressional study and that latest report from the ADA, this newest diet promise, that new exercise regime, those new supplements and fat burners, this new school lunch program. Numbers and statistics don't tell the story, and they certainly don't solve the problem.

All phenomena involving human behavior is complicated. Period. It is impossible to avoid complication, whether or not we are comfortable thinking about it. I have treated eating disorders for over twenty years. If recovery from disordered eating, including obesity, was as straightforward as telling people how much they should eat and how much they should exercise, a third of our population wouldn't be obese and one in five young women wouldn't have disordered eating. We spend billions of dollars on nutritional and exercise information each year; it's not that there is a lack of information about how and what and when and how much we should eat. It's more complicated than that.

Eating is human behavior, just like running a business for profit is human behavior. The current buzz in understanding the etiology of disordered eating is grounded in the BioPsychoSocial model. That is, there are biological, psychological, and sociological variables that interweave and interact with one another to produce complex behaviors. To further muddy the waters, these variables operate as predisposing, precipitating, and perpetuating influences. That means things that affect us do so by rendering us biologically vulnerable, by triggering or catalyzing a reaction aimed at adaptation, and/or by creating circumstances that reinforce what we're doing so that we keep doing it. We no longer explain eating disorders as rich young white girls with controlling mothers striving to be exceptionally thin. It's more complicated than that.

The average citizen doesn't tend to comprehend things determined by such complex causes. Media reporting is aimed at condensing information to simplistic, understandable reductions. The problem with this is that we get lazy in our comprehension and reductionistic in our conceptualization of solutions. Then we get angry and look around for who to blame when the simplistic solutions fail. Most of us are too busy calibrating the color scheme on our high definition TV's and streaming the latest Tweets to bother with a more thorough analysis of daily events. That's too bad, since thorough analysis is often the precursor to effective problem solving.

The BP debacle is obviously a catastrophic environmental, social and financial event. It is about so much more than spilled oil, ruined wetlands, and failed attempts at capping the leak. Underneath the obvious implications and consequences is a terrifying reminder that horrific risks are taken in the quest for financial gain. That profit overrides safety and adherence to rules and complying with standards of professional conduct. That individuals in positions of enormous power and influence believe they are above being policed and receiving consequences. That the emerging level of moral decision making comes down to, "Let's do it if we don't get caught." Congruent with current culturally-sanctioned values, business is increasingly being conducted with the absence of accountability, responsibility, and ethics and the presence of flagrant ego-driven, profit-centered disregard for the well-being of the planet and its occupants. What's mine is what matters. What's right isn't even considered.

I'm going to stay Buddhist. I'm going to keep studying the Eightfold Path, which provides guidelines from which to live. I'm trying to remember to care less about what's mine and more about what's ours, and how do we take care of it. The interrelatedness of all events and people on earth is indisputable. I hope it rises in the collective consciousness. Whether we like it or not, we are being confronted with a set of difficulties that won't go away by ignoring them.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Best Medicine

Me: "Headed now to Nirvana. If I get there I will pick up a T-shirt for you!"
Son: "Cool! Can't wait. Blue brings out my eyes!"
Me: "They didn't have anything in blue in your size but at the Middle Path Gift Shop I ordered you something in a lovely shade of gray."
Son: "Hahaha. I love your sense of humor. It keeps you off my list of people I hate (which is a very select few.") - Text conversation with my son on 6/12/2010 before and after zazen.

Day 131. One of my favorite Buddha figures is Hotei - the laughing Buddha with his hands extended over his head. He's always reminded me of Santa. Laughter truly is the best medicine. I try not to forget that.

I DID forget, just a little, last week. I have innumerable excuses for my seriousness and sourness: fatigue after the tandem rally, the absence of my two office mates - both of whom are also good friends, my partner's immersion in the absurdity of Tinker AFB, miserable heat and humidity, the bottomless money pit of a kid with a used car and proclivity for a fancy private college rather than the public one that was paying him to grace their campus with his presence. Remarkably, even after four solid months of meditating, I also get testy and disgruntled when large segments of the population fail to behave as I prefer. If everyone would simply comply with my bidding, I would be unceasingly cheerful.

There is nothing like a college sophomore - optimally a tall hunky one with big football muscles and a wickedly dry sense of humor - to realign perspective. Yes, I'm speaking of my son and a few of his friends. Yes, this is very Freudian. Yes, I've been to analysis longer than any one else on the planet, so I'm pretty clear on boundaries (a word that psychologists overuse as much as Oklahomans say "blessed"). There is something irrepressible about the male brain in the last of its teenage years. High school is a not-so-distant memory, and the remainder of college, with its promise of a few more years of ducking under the safety of the parental financial umbrella, shines brightly in the foreseeable future. Nineteen-year-olds (at least the ones in my perimeter) exude a witty blend of idealism and sarcasm, nuance and flagrancy, worldly knowledge and utter naivete - all expressed with a mixture of bravado, posturing, and an exceedingly colorful vocabulary. This last blessed teen year is an enchanting time to be a parent indeed.

From the beginning, my son has been incomprehensibly supportive of my blog and meditation (even as he grudgingly muted his music that night we were blasting east on I40 in the Xterra). I don't know the specifics of his personal spirituality; I am certain, however, that he is a very old soul. Though sometimes his brain isn't cooked when it comes to tasks of everyday living, he demonstrates an uncanny wisdom and compassion eerily reminiscent of the Buddha. Like Katy the Border Collie, this kid couldn't quiet his mind to save his life, so he must come by it naturally. I've known him from the womb; he just was created that way.

I'm always wary of becoming one of those mothers that babbles cheesily and excessively about her offspring. My friends say not to worry. These are the people that recall my inability to remember to carry a diaper bag or have a photo of my son in my wallet. I mentioned him tonight because of his effortless knack for making me laugh. I just may buy him another T-shirt. In a lovely shade of gray.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Fifty-Four Years

It's nice to have articles of faith, no matter how small, to cling to. They are a comfort when the rest of the world seems arbitrary, mysterious, or downright cruel. - Greg Garrett in Cycling.

Day 130. Today's ride was downright cruel. Sixty-two miles of windy, hot, humid misery. Sweat pouring out as fast as water from my Camelback could go in. My body started hurting at mile three. I think it was longing for Tennessee.

My parents reaffirmed their marriage vows today as part of centennial celebrations at the church in which I was raised. It is a beautiful Methodist church near downtown Oklahoma City, built in turn-of-the-century splendor with huge stain glass windows and a large, elegant nave. My mom was baptized there, as were me and my brothers and all of our boys. About twenty couples who were married in the church were there to renew their vows. My parents have been married for 54 years; four of the couples had been married for over 60. Joining hands, my parents tenderly repeated their vows to one another. Two sentences in, tears trickled down both their cheeks. I cried like a baby.

The pastor performing the ceremony was a delightful woman - warm, gracious, and lively. She spoke with refreshing lightness about love that endures, about the reality of sharing life with a mate, about the church community's role in enfolding couples within a greater love. I looked around at the aging couples in the pews. Most of them have known me from birth; we spent countless Sunday mornings together well into my 20's. My mom has gone to the church for over 60 years; my dad since they were married. When the pastor was blessing their union, she asked if they had met at the church. My mom replied, in front of God and everyone, "No, he was a Baptist when I met him." The pastor replied, in front of God and everyone, "Oh! That's a real success story!" I burst out laughing. Laughing in that formal, sacred sanctuary felt right somehow.

I taught a Sunday school class when I first moved back to Oklahoma from Washington in 1991. A man who had been in my class named Jack, now in his 80's, reaffirmed vows with his bride of three years. She, a young thing not a day over 79, was wearing high heels and a flouncy mini skirt. I love Methodists! One of the couples celebrating over 60 years together approached the altar, she navigating a streamlined scooter that she drove like a seasoned Formula One driver; he tall and erect in a blue linen suit. After their blessing, he moved to return to their pew. She sat solid and said, "I'm not leaving without a kiss." He bent over and planted a kiss on her upturned lips that put most first wedding kisses to shame. No wonder they've been married 63 years.

At the reception in the renovated dining hall, we ate three different kinds of cake decorated with fresh flowers, and admired wedding dresses from 50 and 60 years ago displayed on the walls. The punch was awful. I drank three glasses. My partner and I sat at a white-linen covered table with my parents and two couples they've known since before they were married. Conversation was disjointed, since everyone seated around the table is deaf. Didn't matter. Words aren't really necessary to convey such obvious feelings of love, connection, history and survival.

I hugged my parents good-bye, thanking them for the love that sustained them through 54 years of marriage and triumphed over my dad's alcoholism. It was a good day. My Buddhist faith wraps right around my Christian upbringing, continuing and expanding a spirituality based on love, compassion, and enlightenment. Best of all, the occasion yanked me out of my quagmire of Nothingness back into the world. What a beautiful world it is.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Too Much of a Non-Thing?

Any fool can be fussy and rid himself of energy all over the place, but a man has to have something in him before he can settle down and do nothing. - J. B. Priestley in the Zen Calendar (October 26, 2003).

Day 129. I am definitely not ridding myself of energy all over the place.

I have fixated on this concept of Nothing. Like when I was grappling with Attachment, some Buddhist teachings require an awful lot of sitting and trying not to think. It is useful to filter all the teachings through a coke bottle thick Middle Path lens. Buddhism must have invented the original Shade of Gray.

For the moment, Nothingness coats everything in my life like humid summer dew on Bermuda grass. Anything that isn't Nothing seems superfluous, excessive, annoying. Thought. Feeling. Talk. Movement. Reaction. Interaction. Swallowing, blinking and breathing are resting okay with me - at least for the moment. Nothingness has usurped meaningfulness and purpose and action. My bizarre preoccupation with it is making me implode. I just may disappear.

Instinct tells me that grasping Nothingness is not a license to retreat, withdraw and avoid. Yet that is precisely what I'm doing. I suspect being around me is exasperating to say the least. I emit semi-appropriate responses when required, but in a remote, abbreviated manner steeped in vexation. I feel narcissistic and selfish in my cloak of Nothing, but the garment prevents any inclination to act differently. This is not good Buddhism. I hope it is just a phase.

Every word I construct feels like a violation of my preference for Nothingness. Each click of a keyboard letter runs counter to my being, and I am increasingly chagrined as the black print fills the recently beautiful blank blog screen. I edit and delete and omit and shorten, and there are still far too many words. This is odd, indeed.

I wasn't sure what to expect as the year of the Sit/Blog unfolds, but my current state is beyond bewilderment. I only know to sit. And blink and swallow and breathe.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Heating Up For Nothing

The way of Buddhas is wide open, without any stages. The door to liberation is the door of nothing. - Husan-Sha in the Zen Calendar (December 11, 2006).

Day 128. I understand why, historically, "progress" (as measured in Western terms) moves very slowly in countries near the equator. Hot, humid weather is conducive primarily to languidness. As the heat index in Oklahoma City exceeds 100 degrees, I am advancing towards the door of nothingness. When it opens, I am walking through.

I have made great progress in relinquishing my attachment to making progress (I adore Buddha Babble!) in my writing and my sitting. I find it significant that blog titles rarely rip through my brain at a rate of ten or twelve per second the way they did during the first few months I sat zazen. Since I increased my sitting time to 30 minutes, Nothing has been a more frequent visitor to my cushion. I don't think Nothingness and Enlightenment are synonymous; my mind and body - damn them both to hell - are still ever present. The Monkeys are by no means gone; rather, they mull around in the wings of my consciousness - no doubt reminiscing about the days they occupied center stage. I can't help but suspect that, on the path to Enlightenment, Nothingness may be at the trail head.

Nothingness seems to thrive on summertime like the Monkeys thrive when I ingest caffeine. The hotter it gets, the more sluggish my neurons fire. Writing gets shorter; naps grow longer. The production of words in my brain is slowing from a torrent to a trickle. During zazen last night, I heard only sporadic Monkey murmurs. The rest of the time I pretty much sat there. I think it's a safe assumption that I continued to breathe because time passed and I didn't find myself gasping or toppling over.

Zazen ended in a hilarious fashion. I am periodically engaging in brief dialogue with the newly discovered Voice of Reality. In the midst of nothingness last night, desire for the timer to go off floated up to consciousness. I watched the feeling for a few moments, and the Voice of Reality calmly noted, "A preference for zazen being over is floating through. All right. It's fine for that preference to linger here on the cushion a bit. I must point out, however, that having the thought and preference for time to be up in no way impacts the reality of 30 minutes taking 30 minutes. Keep sitting. The timer will go off when it goes -

Beep, beep beep! The timer sounded and I burst out laughing. Take that, Voice of Reality! Last night my preference for zazen ending and the reality of zazen ending DID line up. Coincidence? Maybe. Buddha chuckling? Absolutely. The beauty of Nothing is that there is room for Everything. Including those magic moments when ego slips through and Reality plays along.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

F.E.C.'s

I know what I have given you. I do not know what you have received. - Antonio Porchia in the Zen Calendar (November 10, 2006).

Day 127. Sometimes I wonder what precipitated the psychotic break from which I formulated the absurd idea of blogging and meditating every single day for a whole friggin' year. Oh, well. Too late now.

I seem to be carving out a new relationship with the Monkeys. I sit; they chatter. I am aloof, slightly amused, and non-attached. They escalate, becoming belligerent at my indifference. I remain impassive. They engage in a few half-hearted provocations and then quiet down. I continue to sit. They retreat to sulk. The new terms are working for me.

In the midst of a heavily flowing therapeutic stream, I had the opportunity to revisit a favorite phrase with a client today. She was describing a visit to her parents' home for her mother's eighty-plus birthday. My client, a delightful woman of 57, had expressed dismay when her mother, expressing "concern for your health," had handed her an advertisement for a weight loss program. My client (who, incidentally, has already lost 45 pounds without her mother's "support") had not solicited advice or "encouragement" on this particular topic from her mother.

This was a perfect segue into educating my client about a characteristic often found in mothers of clients with disordered eating. I informed her that she had been on the receiving end of a Failed Empathic Connection (FEC for short). FEC's occur when a person misses an opportunity to genuinely connect with another. They can be intentional or unintentional; they are acts of both commission and omission. An FEC can be as blatant as handing your daughter a weight-loss ad exactly when she is feeling proud of recently loosing weight. They can also be subtle disconnects like ignoring a friend who tears up in a conversation or refraining from placing a gentle hand on the shoulder of a loved one who is in pain. Often, FEC's emanate from narcissism: a person is so self-centered that they can only offer what they would like to receive, rather than what would be most meaningful for the other. When I am speaking about FEC's at eating disorders conferences, I give an example of the mother who ordered a glass of wine for her daughter while at dinner celebrating the daughter receiving her one-year sobriety chip. That is, amazingly, a true story.

Mothers, of all people, should have the ability to communicate "accurate empathy" to their children. After all, these beings were once housed in her body. Good parents, like good friends, mates and lovers, have the capacity and desire to transcend their own perspective and needs in the service of delivering a response that is individually tailored to the recipient. Accurate empathy is compassion that hits the bull's eye; it is well delivered loving kindness. When receiving the gift of accurate empathy we say, "She gets me." It feels really good.

I thought all evening about FEC's and Buddhism, concluding that a good practice greatly reduces Failed Empathic Connections. When we are grounded in Reality, unobstructed by our own projections and distortions, we are much more likely to both recognize occasions for - and kindly deliver - accurate empathy. Compassionate acts that hit their mark are good for us all.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Flight Into Reality

This is it. There are no hidden meanings. All that mystical stuff is just what's so. - Werner Erhard in the Zen Calendar (May 13, 2006).

Day 126. I sure needed today to contain more than 24 hours. Protracting time is something I have not yet mastered.

I just spent two hours perfecting - and I use the term lightly - a Power Point Presentation for a conference on Thursday. I concentrated so deeply, the Monkeys couldn't get a word in edgewise. This would be a beautiful thing if I wasn't absolutely certain that they are lurking in the wings of my consciousness, waiting to pounce the moment my butt hits the cushion. Tricky creatures, those primates!

This week stretches before me like Route 66 beckoning the Joads westward. I feel about as prepared to go the distance as they were. When I committed to be the keynote speaker at this conference about a year ago, I'm pretty sure I didn't anticipate that it would come on the heels of kicking major butt at a tandem rally. I know for sure that I didn't plan on being the only clinician at my practice this week. Perhaps my colleagues and I should revisit the ramifications of two or more of us vacationing together. It is a little daunting to be the one left minding the store.

My analyst used to call appropriately responding to the demands of a week like this a "flight into reality" (as opposed to the more common psychological terms of "flight into fantasy" or "schizophrenic flight.") At the time, he probably didn't know he was describing a good Zen practice - i.e. stay grounded in reality and deal with it accordingly, rather than spinning out into the emotional stratosphere. I think there are times when it is extremely adaptive to take an aisle seat on the Reality Flight. It is a ticket to clear-headed focus and efficiency that is conducive to getting a lot done. Sometimes a week comes around asking for an extraordinarily large hunk out of us. I recommend keeping these weeks to a minimum. When they occasionally creep up, however, catch the Flight into Reality rather than taking a ride on the Crazy Train.

Today's flight is about to land for me. It's been a bumpy ride. Luckily, I always have a cushion.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Thread of Existence

I should never have made my success in life if I had not bestowed upon the least thing I have ever undertaken the same attention and care I have bestowed upon the greatest. - Charles Dickens in the Zen Calendar (August 8, 2006).

Day 125. Back home in Oklahoma City. Serious case of post-rally blues. Even more serious is the bone-crushing fatigue that follows major physical exertion. The ultimate seriousness is the frazzled status of my brain. We introverts pay a high price for four days of social shenanigans. It was totally worth it.

It has been very difficult to shift energy from leg-churning rpm's, laps around a former NASCAR racetrack complete with 15-degree embankment, and sweat soaking ascents to laundry, phone calls, e-mails and my appointment book. I keep thinking about my foyer and the importance of transition time. Unfortunately, my time is up. I must quickly transfer from the "Cycle" to the "Doc" persona of my screen name. I honor them equally, and they are certainly not mutually exclusive. It's just more difficult to transition when my immersion in cycling has been so complete. Back to Balance. Always back to Balance. At least until Cannondale discovers me and offers lucrative sponsorship. The Voice of Reality that I've been hearing so distinctly lately says, "Don't quit your day job."

I like the idea expressed by Dickens in the quote I chose today. It is a succinct reminder that, nestled in between blogging and doctoring and sitting and pedaling, my mundane daily undertakings still deserve my attention and care. It helps me refrain from resenting them as distractions and drains. As I prepared to sit zazen in the hotel room over the past four days, it occurred to me that, since beginning this endeavor, skipping a night of sitting never crosses my mind. If I entertain the thought even briefly, a profound sense of betrayal to my Self overcomes me. Zazen interweaves the otherwise disjointed facets of my life. Sitting has become the thread that weaves the tapestry of my existence. Without it, I may come unraveled.

I may come unraveled anyway, but the idea doesn't bother me near as much as it used to.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Ghost Writer

Day 124. This is Hayden. Mom is MIA so she is dictating her blog to me on the phone... cheater. The rally went better than she could have dreamed. They never thought they would ride on Sunday... but they did, hence my immaculate ghost writing. She claims there are no computers on I-40, I say excuses are like a certain body part. . .

She asked me about purchasing a laptop. Buddhists use laptops?

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc'sSon


Post Script added on June 7, 2010:

I was going to add to this blog now that I am back in Oklahoma City. After reading it, however, I think it is perfect exactly as written (even though it doesn't remotely resemble what I "dictated" to my Ghost Writer from I-40)! Gassho, Son. Thank you for your support!

Fixed in My Mind

But you know how it is: we fix people in our minds, and to us, they will always be a certain age. - Greg Garrett in "Cycling."

Day 123. Third day of the rally. I am blue about going home tomorrow. We are seriously thinking about retiring in Tennessee. We passed a lot of homes on the route today with garages in which I could easily imagine my bikes hanging. One of them was Cheryl Crow's. I'm pretty sure that one is out of our price range.

The "business center" of the Embassy Suites in Franklin, TN is presently filled with teenage boys, all of whom are teetering on the cliffs of despair because the hotel computers won't allow access to Face Book. Normally, I am in my element surrounded by teenage boys. When my son's football friends used to come over and hang out in our 1,050 square foot home, it was durn cozy. Most of them were varsity defensive players. To quote the legendargy Traber (the kid has biceps bigger than my thighs, which are not exactly petite since becoming a cyclist), "I am a large man." A large man(child) and a LOUD man(child). Peak experience!! I was just getting ready to write about how hard it is to concentrate on my writing because these kids are even louder than Traber, and danged if we didn't strike up a big ole long conversation about high school football. They play 3A for Page High School in Franklin. You gotta love the universe!

It was a spectacular day of cycling. I am ecstatic over our performance. There is no way I could blog about it without my ego doing grave injustice to my practice of Buddhism. Suffice it to say, we rode with the big guns. My bliss is complete because, even with temperatures in the 90's and no cloud cover, I didn't overheat. My captain is rewarding our success with lofty goals for upcoming races. I plan on basking in the present glory for at least a week. He is basking in the attention our Cannondale received after today's performance (men in his age bracket talk about bike components with the lust previously reserved for the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated). We are the new kids on the block, and I realize that our nine second allotment of fame will fade like a Tenneesse sunset. For now, the moment is exquisitely sweet. I'm grateful to dwell in the here-and-now.

We visited the Arrington Vineyards after the ride. Our new friends Stew and Nancy were there, and we joined them for wine and cycle talk. Only fellow cyclists could endure rehashing in intricate detail a ride we had completed only two hours before. I chose the quote for today from the novel I am currently reading because Stew and Nancy will forever be fixed in my mind as they were today. We spent a couple of hours on the shaded deck of the vineyard, swapping cycling stories and looking out across the rolling hills of Tennessee. It was one of the best afternoons of my life. I will lose it if I talk about it, so I won't write any more. I want to remember today for a long, long time.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Represent!

Quote will be here in a couple of days!

Day 122. Wah Hoo! I am one third completed with my zazen/blog adventure. I ADORE fractions. I'm certain than whoever invented them had a generous serving of OCD genes in their bloodline. Hell, she/he was probably one of my ancestors.

We just finished our second day of the Tennessee Tandem Rally. Gassho to teams Carla/Craig, Brenda/James and Nancy/Stew for all you've done to make this a most amazing weekend. I plan on writing extensively about the rally in the iminent future, but will wait until my exhaustion isn't bordering on collapse. I'm not sure whether track racing in the simmering 93 degree heat AFTER riding 38 miles this morning or that third piece of cake at the desert reception pushed me over the edge. Probably the combination.

The EZ Riders are spread thin this weekend. Everyone scattered to attend different events. During a training ride a couple of weeks ago, we were telling Randy, our team captain, about the tandem rally. He asked a bunch of questions, thought it sounded cool, and gave a one word request: "Represent." I love men of few words. From the moment he first spoke it, that one word from Randy stuck in my mind.

Represent. He, of course, was referring to representing the EZ Riders, hoping that we would ride well and do our club proud. Over the past couple of weeks, my associations to the word have broadened and deepened far beyond Randy's reference to cycling. Sure, I want to ride well. Yes, I'm one of the most competitive persons on the planet. Agreed, my captain and I combine for a higher testerone level than the Dallas Cowboy d-line. That said, I've realized there are some other things I want to represent that extend way past how far and how fast I pedal.

Specific to my cycling club, I want to represent sportsmanship and teamwork and knowledge of bicycle etiquette (e.g. when riding a pace line, who's job is it to squirt the vicious dog with a water bottle? What is the proper sentiment to verbalize when the host team makes a navigation error and 12 people have to ride 18 extra miles?) I want to contribute to the safety and well-being of my fellow cyclists. I want to represent the sport of cycling as fun and healthy and good for the planet. I want to participate in rides that raise funds for worthy causes. In all honesty, I also want to increase awareness of cyclists in the collective psyche of all motor vehicle operators so that they smush us a lot less often.

Represent. I can't speak to all regions of the country, but in Oklahoma there is a lot of misinformation regarding Buddhism. I want to be a worthy representative of my spirituality and lifestyle. I don't feel invested in others becoming Buddhists; I just want to represent the core principles of loving kindness, non-attachment, surrending ego, and the Middle Path in a way that is understandable to others.

When I read over the previous two paragraphs, it didn't exactly diminish my fatigue. It sounded like a tall order. I usually don't like smarmy slogans you hear in the worlds of athletics and motivational speaking, but "Walk the walk. Don't just talk the talk" comes to mind. Clarifying values in theory and living them in daily life are vastly different tasks. Some days I'm walking more of the Walk than others. I guess that's why they call it "practice."

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Thirty More Good Ones

Quote will be added after my return from Tennesse.

Day 121. Today we rode our first ride of the Tennesse Tandem Rally. Actually, the official rally starts tomorrow. Today was the "Challenge Ride" - 69 miles through the hills outside of Murfeesboro, south and east of Nashville. The fact that only six bikes out of the 50 teams rolled out for the ride should have been a clue about what lay ahead. Ignorance, truly, is bliss. Two of the six teams turned around at mile 16 (after a stop at Cripple Creek Farm to pet ponies and stare at the kangaroo family). That left four teams to hammer out the next 53 miles together.

I will state the obvious: Hills in Tennesse are MUCH steeper, longer, and fraught with humidity than those baby bumps we call "hills" in Oklahoma. Gassho to Cannondale bike makers for constructing a machine that not only sustained the 370-pound load of my captain and I as we lumbered up those monster climbs; it also stayed upright without collapsing as we hurtled down the back sides at up to 50 mph. I'm pretty sure I have a new facial expression as of today. It's the face I make while riding blind behind my captain as he catapults us down unfamiliar, curvy descents on country roads resplendent with savage dogs and random spills of gravel. It probably resembles Brett Favre's face just after he's released a 50-yard rocket and just before a defensive end from the Steelers sacks him. Kind of a combination jubilation/grimace/this-could-really-suck face.

I may also have a new expression during zazen. It would resemble a serene and enlightened Buddha. I am digging this change to 30 minutes of sitting, and I have no idea why. First, hotel sofa cushions make the best zafus EVER. Firm but not hard, and just the right height. Our room borders the huge Embassy Suites hallmark atrium. This one is about 12 stories tall. With the acoustics of the open center, you can stand outside your room on the fourth floor and easily hear conversations held INSIDE the rooms on floor 12. In other words, it is NOISEY! The big group of skate boarders that never left their chairs during the complimentary (and extended!) Happy Hour in the lobby probably made a disproportionate contribution to the decibel level. Normally, I am a bad-tempered and inpatient cramudgeon when it comes to hotel noise (remember my attachment to ear plugs?) Last night, I was shockingly unaffected. I just Buddha-smiled through the hubbub.

My infant mastery of non-attachment has me all fired up. I am like a child with a new toy that doesn't even require batteries. I am sitting zazen as if my head was on fire. It is hard to describe, but delightful to experience. I think last night my mind and body may have fallen away for about a hair's breadth of a split second. My ego promptly joined me on the cushion, gloating over how great the zazen was going and how wise I was becoming. The Critical Primate didn't utter a word. Instead, I welcomed my ego to zazen, and experienced a comical image of an Ego Entity sidling up beside me on the couch cushion and there we sat - like two shipwreck survivors balancing on a plank. Not very many moments later, the Ego bailed and I continued to sit while my Buddha smile widened.

As a psychologist, I often speak from the Jungian perspective of incorporating ALL of the facets of Self into consciousness without judgment. This includes negative aspects, which, according to Jung, get relegated to the "shadow" - a place in the psyche where unfavorable personality characteristics (jealousy, rage, sexuality, fear, etc.) are kept from awareness. Good therapy facilitates a client's ability to integrate these "disowned" attritubes into the conscious mind, so that psychological energy is no longer wasted on keeping them at bay. This is how a person becomes "whole."

This is exactly the concept that is emerging while I sit. I am amazed that it took me three months of zazen to make this connection. While perched on my cushion, I can allow ALL the aspects of my experience equal space in my awareness without passing judgment - positive or negative - on any of it. I quietly observe, and it passes. In my marrow, I believe in this same orientation to therapy. The beginning of healing is accepting what is and what has been. Marsha Linehan, the creator of Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT), calls this radical acceptance (Dr. Linehan, by the way, practices Zen Buddhism.) I am a big fan of DBT, and now I know why. It is rooted in Non-Attachment. As Buddha taught, suffering originates in attachment. When we release our hold, suffering is alleviated.

I'm going to predict that the next few blogs are uncharacteristically short because I will be on my cushion. Playing with my new toy.

Gassho,
CycleBuddha Doc