Walt Knew

In that unitive condition, Walt Whitman experienced the deep peace that passes all understanding . . . Abiding in that peace, he knew that in reality nothing existed outside of it . . . He is kin with everything and everyone in creation, and always shall be, for that is how the world was made. The tiniest part of creation - a "kelson" of it - is love. Love is the nature of all things, Walt Whitman cries. And that is what you are: it's true! You are never for one moment set apart from the connective current of life. This is the great shout of joy that this poem sends out into the world. - Roger Housden in "Ten Poems to Change Your Life" (referencing Song of Myself by Walt Whitman).

Day 240. Just returned from a whine and wine with a close friend. The friend that tutored my son in Spanish following his coma, when, let's just say, memory was not his strong suit. Love manifests in such beautiful varieties.

Short blog tonight, because I am aching to read more Walt Whitman. I planned on blogging specifically about meditation last night, but the idea was supplanted when I serendipitously picked up Housden's book and randomly read Song of Myself and the commentary following it. Imagine my delight as I read this poem for the first time, a poem Housden describes as "the longest, most daring, most magnificent of all" the poems in Whitman's collective works Leaves of Grass.

The poem was published around 1855, long before Suzuki Roshi brought Zen to the United States. I don't know if Walt Whitman would have had occasion to study Buddhism. However he arrived at the truth he expresses in Song of Myself, it is the same truth I have encountered in my sitting practice. I was astonished last night as I read the poem and Housden's comments on it. My ego gurgled briefly as I realized that, without ever having read the poem, I had experienced and written about the same Truth, i.e. the Reality that we are "kin with everything and everyone in creation, and always shall be, for that is how the world was made." I silenced my ego with an instant awareness that most sincere seekers eventually fathom this Truth; it is not shrouded in secrecy; all great spiritual traditions say that this is so.

"Love is the nature of all things, Walt Whitman cries. And that is what you are: it's true!" Continue to be a seeker, for this truth cannot be acquired through a two-dimensional sphere. It must be lived, experienced, embraced from within. Felt with the soul. Poetry, dance, meditation, song - these are the vehicles through which this "unitive condition" is imparted. Meditation gave it to me. And I will never be the same.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Slices of the Pie

We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thought. With our thoughts, we make our world. - The Buddha in the Zen Calendar (May 11, 2006).

Day 239. The weather is so lovely, I wish I could be on my bike from sunrise to sunset. Alas, my miserly schedule permitted a mere hour to ride today. I wrung as many miles from the vanishing light as I could. The cooler temperatures are causing mountain bike thoughts to tickle the fringes of my consciousness. The switch from road to trail is always humbling. Sometime in early fall, just as I start feeling like a strong cyclist, the dirt beckons. There is nothing like those first excursions of fat tire pedaling to remind me that feeling strong is always a relative term.

During zazen last night, it occurred to me to pay attention to the content of the thoughts that incessantly distract me from my breath and my Buddha nature. Talk about humbling! I would love to report that my Monkey Chatter centers around substantive, provocative topics of world import. Not so much. When I honestly examined the subject matter of my mind during zazen, most thoughts fell under mundane and inconsequential topics. I envisioned a pie graph depicting proportion of time spent on various thought categories.

The pie distribution would look something like this: Roughly 50% of the 40 minutes were consumed with money thoughts. More accurately, lack-of-money thoughts. Another 15% was wasted on home improvement thoughts, all of which were rendered moot by the first category. The next pie slice contained non-here-and-now thoughts, comprising about 25% of total time. Within that hefty slice were thoughts about the past (several what-ifs, some reflections on summer rides, editorial comments on previous blogs) intermingled with thoughts about the future (errands to run, clients for tomorrow, arranging and rearranging weekend tasks, infinite trivial minutia). A paltry 5% of time was actually dedicated to some fairly decent inhaling and exhaling, leaving the remaining 5% accounted for by the 120 seconds required to redirect my focus back to my breath 120 times. Sheesh. After 238 consecutive days of sitting, I would have predicted a different graphic. Ah, such is zazen.

So, if we truly are what we think, last night's sitting session indicates I am a financially challenged, domestically frustrated zazen student who has great difficulty staying in the here-and-now. Terrific. If I had a Face Book page, I would be less than thrilled to post that as my status. (Though I am thrilled that I continue to refrain from having a Face Book page!) These are not the thoughts of which I want to make my world.

As I re-read the quote from tonight to inspire my conclusion, I had an epiphany. This quote has always confused me, because my understanding was that the Buddha was all about imparting a method to teach us how to NOT have thoughts. Why, then, would he say "we are what we think." My epiphany was this: The Buddha DID provide us with a way to practice emptying our mind of thoughts - that is his beautiful gift of zazen. The quote says our thoughts make "OUR" world, not "THE" world. It is only when we relinquish our thoughts (and the ego illusion that creates them) that we are able to apprehend the world as it actually IS: a perfect, loving Whole that envelopes and contains us.

Whew. Heavy stuff. I am headed to my cushion. With no aspirations. Other than a burning desire to redistribute my pie graph.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

False Flats

There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside them for reality and never let the world within assert itself. - Hermann Hesse in the Zen Calendar (March 6, 2003).

Day 238. I am glad that my practice is strengthening as the year goes on because sometimes allocating portions of every single evening to blogging and sitting is arduous indeed. The need to express this perception continues to diminish with time. It is what it is. Keep washing the cup.

On one of my training DVD's, Chris Carmichael refers to something called a "false flat." For the longest time, I couldn't figure out what he meant. During last Saturday's ride, it finally clicked, and a blog was born. A false flat is a section of road that, to the eye, appears to be a flat, even surface. However, the experience of actually traversing it on a bicycle provides evidence to the contrary. Depending on which direction you are moving, your body begins to emit signals indicative of sloping terrain. If you are pedaling in the downhill direction, speed picks up disproportionately to your perceived exertion, the jubilant "I love my bike" feeling wells up, and you temporarily benefit from the delusion of being an amazingly strong and fit cyclist. If moving in the uphill direction, confusion sets in as your heart beats curiously fast, your legs feel strained, and speed declines. You start wondering if you are sick, or fatigued, or not fully recovered from yesterday's ride. Either way, bodily sensation temporarily contradicts what visual input is telling you. In actuality, the seemingly flat section is a subtle and usually lengthy incline or decline - i.e. a false flat.

This experiential comprehension of the definition of "false flats" made me think of some parallels in my clinical work. Frequently, clients erroneously perceive that their life is proceeding along on even ground. This usually occurs in the absence of flagrant peaks and valleys like births, deaths, marriage, divorce, breakups, work lay-offs, moves, etc. Yet sometimes in the midst of these seemingly benign periods, the body and the psyche begin to emit signals that all is not well. The person may become physically ill, and/or the psyche indicates something is wrong through anxiety, depression, compulsiveness, or self destructive behavior. This is confusing and demoralizing for clients because they feel their symptoms are illegitimate and/or their emotional response is excessive. Their erroneous conclusion is that they are flawed and defective.

I am going to begin using "false flats" as a metaphor when helping clients make sense of the symptoms that bring them to me. It is true that I see clients with easily identifiable stressors, traumas, and transitions. The psychobabble term for the accompanying anxiety, depression, and/or behavior difficulty is "Adjustment Disorder." Prognosis is favorable, and treatment is generally short term. In the past few years, however, clients increasingly present with vague complaints that less readily lend themselves to a simplistic understanding of their cause. They believe they are pedaling on even ground. But when we look closely, we see that the even ground is actually a false flat. And it is usually sloping upward.

My hunch is that most of existence in these "modern times" is like riding across an incredibly long false flat. Visible culture contributes to the delusion that happiness is effortlessly attainable, and suffering is an affliction of the past. We buy into the illusion that our impressive technology and affluence makes life easier and better. Yet why am I so tired? Disenchanted? Disconnected? Hopeless? Burdened with a nagging sense of futility? It gets confusing. Like the befuddlement that arises when my legs become weak and shaky while pedaling along a street my eyes view as flat. I can't quite figure out what is making me hurt.

Zazen eliminates false flats. When focused and empty, I am able to accurately receive the reliable data my senses provide. That includes my psychological, emotional, relational and ethical senses as well as my physical senses. When there is a consensus across several modalities, I interpret the signal as truth. If I feel exhausted, disheartened, irritable, depressed, and lethargic, I am not pedaling on flat ground, no matter how level it outwardly appears. When I trust my sensory input, I can use the data to adjust accordingly. Usually, it means I need to pedal slower, ease up, grab a draft, or get off the bike entirely (I was speaking metaphorically, but this is also literally true). If the false flat happens to be sloping in the downward direction, usually no adjustment is needed; I just hang on tight and enjoy the ride!

Watch for false flats. Don't take the images outside for reality. Let the world within assert itself. That is where our truth lies.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Don't Expect. Just Bow.

Time after time, Master Obaku told his students: "Don't expect anything from the Three Treasures (the Buddha, the Dharma, the Sangha - roughly the enlightened one, his truth, and the followers)." Yet time after time he performed deep bows - so deep, in fact, that a large callus had grown on his forehead from where it bumped the hard floor. Finally, catching Obaku in the act of bowing, one of his students challenged him: "You always tell us to expect nothing from the three Treasures. And yet here you are, making deep bows. Please explain yourself!"
"I don't expect," Obaku said. "I just bow." - Zen Mondo from the Zen Calendar (June 25, 2007).

Day 237. Whew. Close call. On my first attempt to boot the dinosaur, I got nothing. Not even the dreaded Blue Screen of Death. I remained calm (we Buddhists are known for that), and administered several rounds of Hand to Power Button Resuscitation. Made empty promises like a thorough dusting and untangling the web of electrical chaos under my son's desk. Peak Experience! The current words are being produced on Old Faithful. The dinosaur is like most crotchety old beings. Things are done on his terms and at his pace. Since a laptop is nowhere in my budget's future, I comply. Who says I can't sustain a long term relationship?

In yesterday's blog I was so busy talking about how terrific it was to be hit with the stick, I didn't finish describing my experience at the retreat. To summarize: it sucked. On the drive home at six o'clock, I was mildly surprised to reach that conclusion. Tonight, I am flabbergasted I have chosen to write about it. That commitment I made to "honestly bog about my zazen experience for a year" comes around to bite me in the butt every once in a while. But I digress. I will write the "Be Impeccable in Your Word" blog another night.

Despite my effort to the contrary, I obviously carried some expectations into the retreat. They likely spilled over from the experience I had a month ago at the Metta Meditation retreat. I left that day feeling astonishingly centered, clear-headed, and grounded in a great and powerful love. The teachings by Arpita remain with me today, and very positively influence my meditation practice. No wonder I entered a retreat led by Nick with some preconceptions of what might occur. I harbor deep and forbidden attachment to Nick. Most of the attachment derives from my utter conviction that he is The Buddha. I realize we are all the Buddha, but somehow, in my mind, Nick is THE Buddha. Hmmm. Bet I'll be sitting with that for quite a while . . . .

I mentioned before that Nick's zendo is characterized by formal, traditional, Japanese Zen practice - much like my teacher Frank's. For me, sitting zazen with Nick in his zendo is like coming home. Like returning to all that is right and good and true. From my first bow as I enter the practice space, my Buddha nature blooms and flourishes. You can't necessarily tell from the outside; I just bow and take my place on a zafu. Inside, however, I am There. Even while recognizing there is no "There" to be.

I have no idea what I was expecting, but here is what I got. About a million opportunities to practice re-directing my Monkey Mind back to my breath, since I couldn't seem to keep my focus on breathing for two consecutive seconds. Pain in my knees and ankles that paralleled a century ride on hills with under-inflated tires. Swollen fingers (unprecedented!) from so many hours of holding a mudra. A belly ache after lunch from too much tofu in my soup. Bizarre thirst from unaccustomed long bouts of chanting. Dry eyes and prickly contacts from staring at the same gray speck in the carpet of the zendo. And I mustn't forget: Four loud smacks on my back with a stick. That was the good part. Kinhin went pretty well, although we spent precious little time practicing it. Seemed like we always stopped walking about the time feeling was returning to my legs.

So that was my day. No enlightenment, no insight, no Nirvana, no gratifyingly deep state of meditation. As positive time spent on my cushion goes - Zippo. As Zen time on my cushion goes - Perfect. Somehow, despite my physical torment and mental mania, I managed to approach each round of zazen with sincere intent. I bowed when it was time to bow, chanted when it was time to chant, walked kinhin when it was time to walk kinhin. Held a decent mudra and maintained a posture like I was holding the sky up with my head. Ate my lunch and washed my bowls. Drank my tea. Presented my back to receive strikes from my master. Sincerely tried to be a mindful Zen student.

Here is the best part. As I drove my aching body the 30 miles back home, I felt no attachment to the outcome of the day (though a little attachment to my lack of attachment seeped out around the edges. Damn my contumacious ego!) My sitting this year has carried me to the point of accepting (most of time!) What Is, even regarding something as significant as a whole day of sitting with Nick. I was there. I stayed the whole time. I learned and practiced some new things about zendo etiquette.

In the absence of any certain outcome, I sustained sincere intent. Over and over, in my (monkey) mind, I kept hearing the words of Suzuki Roshi: "The Bodhisattva's way is called "the single-minded way, " or "one railway track thousands of miles long." The railway track is always the same. If it were to become wider or narrower, it would be disastrous. Wherever you go, the railway track is always the same . . . We say "railway track," but actually there is no such thing. Sincerity itself is the railway track. The sights we see from the train will change, but we are always running on the same track. And there is no beginning or end to the track; beginningless and endless track. There is no starting point, no goal, nothing to attain. Just to run on the track is our way. This is the nature of our Zen practice" (from Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind).

It challenges every fiber of my being, but I am learning to just run on the track. At my next all-day sitting retreat, I won't expect. I will just bow.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Strikes From a Stick

Do not desire to become a Buddha; let sitting or lying down drop away. Be moderate in eating or drinking. Be mindful of the passing of time, and engage yourself in zazen as though saving your head from fire. - Dogen in the Zen Calendar (December 14, 2006).

Day 236. I attended another all day meditation at the Dojo in Oklahoma City. Zen Buddhism. Hard core. We sat zazen. And sat and sat and sat. Sat some more. Bowed a lot. Chanted in Japanese monosyllables. Ate a vegetarian meal in silence. Washed our three bowls in traditional Japanese style while seated at the table. And I got hit with a stick. Because I asked to.

There were seventeen of us sitting together, including our teacher, Nick. Nick also sits with my teacher, Frank. There were many similarities in the way they conduct zazen, and some important differences, too. Frank never swung a stick.

I am enamored with chanting. There is something primal and transcendent about joining voices in ancient, sacred sequences of sound. Other than the Heart Sutra, I am oblivious to the content of the various chants. Except for the ending one, they are all in Japanese. Doesn't matter. In fact, the absence of cognitively grasping the words aids tremendously in what I believe is the real purpose of chanting (not that we have purpose in Zen!) Like meditation, it can be a means for silencing the Monkeys, opening the path for mind and body to fall away. I lose myself while chanting to an extent that the Monkeys can't get a syllable in edgewise. Our unified voices become one sound. Same thing in kinhin. Walking mindfully, joining in step and rhythm with the person in front of you, Self falls by the wayside. I'm pretty sure I could engage walking kinhin from my front door to one of the coasts. It is that mesmerizing. It is also the best method ever for working the soreness out of my back and knees. Gassho to the monk who figured that out!

Chanting, singing, reciting. Meditation, prayer, salah. Bowing, prostrating, genuflecting. Common components across all forms of spirituality. During one of the (numerous!) periods of zazen today, my Monkey Mind chattered away about the similarities spanning methods of worship. Great works have been written on this subject. My thoughts on the matter clattered about rather simplistically, ending with a conclusion that is highly indicative of the way a psychologist thinks.

Acts of worship fall roughly into three categories: verbal, contemplative/reflective, and physical. I tested my theory across as many traditions of spirituality as I could summon in 40 minutes (the Monkeys refused to be silenced in this particular zazen session, hence the major hypothesizing). I applied the categories of expression in worship to Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Native American ceremony, Sufism. Voila! The tenants held. We join together to make sound when we worship, be it through chanting, singing, or recitation. We join together in silence when we worship, through meditation, prayer, contemplation, and reflection. We move our bodies when we worship, through bowing, dancing, genuflecting, kinhin, sitting down and standing up for the various parts of a service.

I am trying my best not to become attached to my theory, but I rather like it. It leaves me confused about all the bloodshed in the name of religion. Each of us arrives on the earth so perfect, so whole. We are so much more alike than different. So much more connected than separate. So filled with grace, not judgment. No matter where we look the elements are the same. Symbol, story, ceremony, celebration. Transcendence, resurrection, salvation. Buddha/Dharma/Sangha. Christ/Bible/Congregation. Allah/Qur'an/Ijtema. Different words, same truth: Divine Love/Written History/Connected Worshipers.

Oh, yeah. The stick. I was going to write about the stick. In some practices of Buddhism, the Jikijitsu (zendo officer who leads formal sitting practice) may pass by the students with a keisaku. It is a light wooden stick shaped like a sword. If the student wishes to receive strikes with the kiesaku, she places her hands in gassho (fingers and palms of both hands touching, forearms and hands at a 45-degree angle from the body), bows, then leans forward to make her back flat. During our fourth (fifth?) zazen session, Nick announced that he would be passing by with the keisaku. Without hesitation, I knew I would lean forward to receive strikes when my turn came. It wasn't a cerebral knowing. The certainty emanated somewhere between my shoulder blades and spine.

Right now, at this moment, check your associations as you read the former paragraph. What are your thoughts? Passive, loving, non-violent Buddhists hitting each other with sticks? What is that? Blasphemy! Hypocrisy! Absurdity! Volunteering to be struck upon the back with a sword-shaped stick? Craziness! Lunacy! Allow me to assure you that the experience was nothing like you may be imagining. Granted, the stick came down with a resounding Thwack! Twice on my left shoulder blade, twice on my right. Ludicrous as it sounds, ritual dictated that I then bow in gratitude. What, exactly, was I saying, "Thank you" for? Surprisingly, I felt genuine gratitude. The keisaku coming solidly into contact with my back instantaneously relieved my entire body of the tension and stress that accumulates during repeated rounds of zazen. I felt energized and awakened. Resumed zazen posture with renewed sincerity and focus. All of that from being whacked with a stick!

It was an eventful day. Chanting, theory development, getting hit with a stick. And sitting zazen as though saving my head from fire.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Tranquil Twilight

"I am of this." - Me, as I watched tonight's sunset.

Day 235. Cooler temperatures make everything right in my world. Attachment to weather conditions is so ridiculous - talk about something we can't control! I'll say it again: Cooler temperatures make everything right in my world.

My practice continues to infiltrate the essence of my existence. After a bike ride down the Middle Path (not too long, not too short, not too hard, not too easy . . . Just right!) I spent some time in the garage staining floor boards for the office. Stain on, stain off. It was very Zen. Mindfulness infuses tasks with meaning and flow. It also results in less spilled stain, which truly is meaningful when cleanup time rolls around.

It was such a lovely evening I decided to dine outside. I cooked another one of my Omelets of Many Colors, toasted an English muffin and slathered it with boysenberry jam, garnished my plate with decorative slices of succulent tomato, and stepped out onto my patio. Paused to express gratitude for the beautiful meal. Chose to eat mindfully, which was an exceptionally good call. I savored every bite of my veggie filled omelet, and the boysenberry was downright sensual.

The sun was setting as I ate my meal slowly and appreciatively. The air was that rare temperature at which it is impossible to discern where my skin ends and outside begins. A few birds called out now and then as though they, too, were grateful for the beautiful day. I looked to the west and caught my breath. The sky was an azure blue plaited with the wispy clouds that so perfectly absorb and reflect the palette of the sinking sun. I knew I was in for a spectacular show, and consciously elected to mindfully witness it. I hope I was a worthy spectator.

Absolute stillness. Even the breeze ceased to whisper. In unison, the birds abruptly hushed. I watched the glory of the changing colors. It had never occurred to me to notice the sequence of colors in a sunset. Pale yellow blended to creamy croissant which melted into metallic golden before my very eyes. As the sun sank lower, I was treated to a spectrum of the prism mimicking sun ripened fruit: peach to tangerine to vibrant orange. Briefly, I wondered at the mystical coincidence of how the words for those colors also labeled nature's tastiest desserts. The sunset climaxed with a momentary burst of fire bright magenta. If I blinked, I would have missed it. Suddenly, like blowing out a match, the burning pink was extinguished. A dusky purple remained. As if cued by a dropping curtain, the breeze kissed my face. A single cricket opened in song.

All that time on my cushion, and body/mind gave way, at last, to the brilliance of late summer twilight. As my gaze lingered in the west, a thought floated to consciousness in slow motion: "I am of this." I reveled for some moments in the certainty that I was not separate from such breathtaking perfection. Joy rained down from the soft summer sky, drenching me in gratitude. Let us be reminded: We all are of this.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Twenty

"I'm going to make a lot of money. And then I'm going to give it away." - My son, a few days before his 20th birthday.

Day 234. (The beauty of sequential numbers enchants me). Ruby is home. She has more stitches down one of her legs than my son did when they split him stem to stern for one of the surgeries during his second year of life. His surgeon joked that if he had to do one more operation, he was going to install a zipper to save time. I adored Dr. Tuggle. We had the same sardonic sense of humor, and a rather odd rapport considering he was the person who repeatedly saw my child from the inside out. Literally. I am not at all clear why the universe is so intent upon me developing wound care skills.

I found myself singing the same lullabies to Ruby that I did to my son during that protracted hospital stay 18 years ago. Numerous songs from the Olivia Newton John album she wrote for her daughter, Chloe. I still know all the words. Those songs got me and my son through many a long, dark night. Gassho, Olivia.

Today my son turned twenty. I had to surrender my parent-of-a-teenager card. I relinquished it readily, though disclosing that I was parenting a teen never failed to elicit sympathetic nods and murmurs of knowing understanding from other parents in the club. Now we just joke about our respective bursar accounts. Connection is our salvation.

My son spent his birthday preparing for, and participating in, an interview for an internship at a Big Four Accounting Firm. That's right. Public accounting. The only son of a Buddhist, liberal, vegetarian, feminist, psychologist single mom has declared a double major of finance and accounting. I have raised a suit. The only thing he could do that would be more rebellious is marry a Baptist. Of course, there's still time. At least he may procure a job. Americans and counting money have, historically, been a pretty sure thing.

It has been an emotional day. I realize I am probably not the first mother to wax nostalgic on her child's birthday, but I suspect the sources of our melancholy are highly individual. My son was not a planned event. Welcomed and celebrated, but not planned. Some beings are created with effort and forethought, and some burst into existence because the universe deemed it necessary. My son falls into the latter category. I chuckle at the planning and control exerted by many parental figures. Our offspring are not meant to be controlled. Marinated in love, but not controlled.

As if we can remotely control the twists and turns of plot following the birth of our children. I certainly didn't plan that my child would spend the bulk of time between years one and two in Children's Hospital. Never dreamed I would know how to keep a central line sterile, be able to reinsert a defective feeding tube, or learn to hook up an IV bag to feed my baby through a tube in his stomach. Didn't foresee, but appreciated the irony, of becoming a rather decent gluten-free cook, beginning in 1992 when gluten-free wasn't a household word. Couldn't have anticipated that I would be on a first name basis with the personnel in the emergency room at Norman Regional Hospital. In my wildest fears, I could not have imagined that I would traverse a snowy mountain pass alone to join my son on a surreal MediFlight journey while he was in a coma and intubated. It's probably a good thing parents can't see into the future. Otherwise, there would be a lot more babies for sale on Craig's List.

The miraculous thing was that I also had no way of knowing that my son, from the time he was three, would be poetry in motion on soccer and football fields. Or that his firefighter fetish would result in a three-year-old who dressed (complete with red suspenders and boots attached to his pants) as a firefighter every single day for around 15 months. Interestingly, this was juxtaposed upon an almost equal obsession with doctoring, which required me to assist with (approximately) 467 surgeries on Snowy, his enormous stuffed bear. I couldn't have guessed that his best friend would be the son of two psychologists who was born on the exact same day (Happy Birthday, Donald). Never knew my child would become a worldwide traveler, with a passport rivaling the Pitt-Jolie kids, as he accompanied me to several countries while I taught. What a delightful companion. Gassho to all of our splendid adventures.

For someone who considered remaining childless, I sure lucked out. I was gifted with the privilege of mothering the most amazing child on the planet. Smart (enough to get in to Wake Forest, but not actually go!), kind (except for a few days between ages 14 and 16), athletic (in between bonks on the head and smashed fingers), funny, fair, friendly, insightful, mature, brave, honest, loyal, cool beyond comprehension, and open. In heart and mind. My ego wants to believe that I had something to do with how remarkable this young man is, but I know better. He arrived in the world that way. He is who he is. I just loved him with everything in me, and tried to stay out of his way. Oh yeah. I also threw a gazillion wobbly football passes his way. No wonder he was such an astounding cornerback.

Now my child is studiously progressing toward a profession that potentially symbolizes everything I loathe. Suits. Ties. White males in white shirts. Money. Capitalism. Ego. Financial gain. Math galore. I suspect he will be very, very good at it. Meanwhile, Reality sits in the wings, calmly licking its chops (and undoubtedly chortling over this particular ironic twist). I'm chuckling a little myself, because I know for a fact that the accounting giants who will one day employ my son won't know what hit them. Especially during the interview, when he says, "I'm going to make a lot of money. And then I'm going to give it away."

I love you, Son.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Middle One

"This is the middle one. Don't hold anything back on the middle one." - Chris Carmichael in the Time Trial DVD from his Train Right Video Series.

Day 233. Full moon. Be kind to shrinks, clergy members, and E.R. docs. It has been a very long week.

For the record, I am cognizant of how frequently I reference my cycling training DVDs on the blog. It's a bit scary, since I only own three of them. They are well worn. Perhaps that is why my mind meanders into blogville while I spin the pedals at whatever cadence Mr. Carmichael is demanding. The videos are so familiar, I can keep up without paying any attention whatsoever. I go all out on my indoor trainer, so I am highly motivated for a distraction from my screaming legs. My thoughts inevitably end up in blogspace. It's a foolproof diversion from my pooling lactic acid.

The beginning segment of the Time Trial video includes three intervals of extremely rapid spinning. The goal is to go anaerobic, or as Chris says, " . . . beyond your lactaid threshold . . . at a pace faster than you could sustain in a time trial." During the first one, I have fresh legs, feel excited about pedaling a challenging workout, and the pain is bearable. During the last one, I know the pain is about to end, the bulk of the major suffering is behind me, and I feel smugly superior about my perseverance. During the middle one, I want to get off the bike, shovel in some ice cream, and turn on a sit com.

I am in the middle of my sit/blog year. The excitement, novelty, and anticipation of where the blog will lead has waned. The final push for completion, and whatever feelings accompany successfully reaching my goal, lie in the distant future - beyond the holidays. This is the hard part. The doldrums. Seventh inning. Three weeks left until Spring Break. Twenty-sixth week of pregnancy. Two and a half hours in to "Gone With the Wind." Mile fifteen of a marathon; mile sixty of a century ride. Hell, ages 45 to 60, as far as this analogy goes. The middle of things is difficult. It is a time to remain steadfast. To grapple with tedium. To fend off the legitimate urge to call it quits and jump ship. To sustain, weather, and endure.

It isn't fun right now. My keyboard hasn't smoked in a long time. Writing feels forced and efforted. Creativity gets displaced by a monotonous sense of duty. The avalanche of inspired ideas for my future cascaded over a ledge and dumped anticlimactically at the base of Mt. Reality, melting atop my mortgages and a certain college bursar account. I no longer get a rush when I hoist my thesaurus! Most nights, sitting is just that: Sitting. No thought no feeling no expectation. Even the Monkeys have mellowed. The middle part is trying, indeed.

As luck would have it, there is nothing that could better sustain me through The Middle of this year than zazen. I now know that there is no beginning and no end to my Zen practice. I suppose that is why it is called Practice. There is no Opening Night. The big game never comes. The season doesn't end. The championship will never be decided. I just continue to get my butt on the cushion. Day in and day out. Consistent, constant, continuous.

I suspect that on the evening following my 365th blog post I will bow deeply toward my cushion and away from it, sit down and fold my legs into a half lotus, side stretch three times in each direction, bow to the front, sound my chime, set my timer, fold my mudra, straighten my spine, and breathe. Lather, rinse, repeat. And the day after that, and the day after that. I won't hold back on the Middle One. Because, in zazen, there isn't one.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Sidebends and Mermaids

The truth dazzles gradually, or else the world would be blind. - Emily Dickinson in the Zen Calendar (December 24, 2002).

Day 232. Ruby was not discharged today, so I paid her a visit at the hospital. She moved a lot like I did four days after being hit by a car. Makes you a bit stiff. I took her for a brief walk outside, which made us both grin like Buddhas. The visit did us a world of good. Togetherness is the best medicine. She may get to come home on Friday.

Pilates is a constant in my life preceding blogging and sitting. I have been a serious student for three and a half years, and it has been intriguing to observe the ways meditation spills over into my movement in Pilates class. There is a lovely reciprocity in how the two practices influence one another. Breath work that frustratingly eluded me now seems like second nature. The erect posture that coincides with original Buddha nature is lengthened and strengthened by Pilates. These two sacred facets of my life beautifully compliment one another. Mutuality at its best. Like quilting and gossip. Darts and drinking. Mountain biking and first aid training.

There is a basic sequence in reformer Pilates class called Sidebends and Mermaids. It is as fundamental to early Pilates as dribbling in basketball. Sharin, brilliant instructor that she is, finds my ineptness on these moves incomprehensible. I am notoriously strong and coordinated at several of the more complicated maneuvers, yet in three years' time have managed to set a record in ways to botch a simple Sidebend. Too extended, too restricted, too slouched, too upright, too tight, too loose, too crooked, too straight. Ribs wrong, hips misaligned, pelvic floor unstable (a cardinal travesty in the Pilates world). The patience and tenacity of my teacher has been tested like an inner city middle school teacher on bus duty.

I know my problem. I over think things. Especially simple, uncomplicated, organic things that are best left to instinct and reflex. Stupidly, but sincerely, I try too hard. Like the myriad mental acrobatics I executed in my early search for enlightenment. Dripping effort from my pores in the quest for Nirvana. Excruciating exertion in the service of emptying my mind. Struggle, strain and arduous labor may be exquisitely useful in writing a dissertation and clearing 32 ice mangled trees from a newly purchased acre, but they are not a blanket panacea for all of life's demands. Sometimes a solution requires surrender. Relinquishing effort. Ceasing the struggle in order to become very, very still.

Yesterday I was exhausted and distracted by my Ruby worries. I went to Pilates and rather mechanically executed the first segment of class. I heard the cue for Sidebends and Mermaids. On auto pilot, I swung my body into position on my reformer. Stretched into a Sidebend. Attempted to register the breathing method Sharin suggested. Suddenly I heard her exclaim my first and last name. Next I heard her laughingly observe, "I just said your first and last name, didn't I?! That was the most beautiful Sidebend I've ever seen!" She was ecstatic. I played it cool, mumbling, "Better late than never." Secretly, I was ecstatic, too.

There are sublime moments in our lives when all the practice, effort, concentration, mistakes, flawed attempts, and bumbling suddenly coalesce into perfect execution. It usually corresponds with the exact moment we get our head out of the way. That's the "trick" of meditation. Since most of us have really big heads, removing them as impediments is no small task. It takes a whole lot of thinking to learn not to think. And a whole lot of bending to learn how to bend.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Look Under Foot

The lesson which life repeats and constantly enforces is "look under foot." You are always nearer the divine and the true sources of your power than you think. The lure of the distant and difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are. Do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is of the world. - John Burroughs in the Zen Calendar (November 19, 2007).

Day 231. There is definitely something to that 1970's phrase, "Tell it like it is." I've noticed, for the most part, that my "purge blogs" - the ones in which I surrender my attachment to writing something profound and critically acceptable - are consistently followed by a sense of release and a return to center. Tremendous relief accompanies actions that emanate from the Zen admonishment: "Just This!" I can't understand the uniquely American habit of fluffing things up so much. Raw and true requires far less energy. Ultimately, everything distills down to raw and true anyway. Seems much more efficient to just go there in the first place.

Early signs indicate that Ruby's surgery went well. I will bring her home tomorrow. A long journey to recovery awaits her. I have surrendered to my role as caretaker for ill and injured beings. There are far less honorable occupations.

As I thumbed through my Zen calendar pages, tonight's quote seemed to summarize the past twenty-four hours. When I experience life through the lens of my sitting practice, I clearly see that the divine is, indeed, right under foot. The source of my power is as close as breath in my nostrils and my sitting bones in contact with the cushion. This power originates from the reminder that we are all of the One Great Love. There was a time when the reminder was delivered in verbal or cerebral form. As my practice deepens, I find that I do not "talk about" or "think about" the One Great Love. I enter it. I dwell in it. I AM it. This truth is right under foot. We do not have to seek it, or conjure it, or grasp it. There is nothing to pursue, because we never left it in the first place. We are not outside this Great Love, trying to get back on board. We never left. The truth is that it is impossible to be separated from it.

The lure of the difficult is deceptive. Our culture awards bizarre value to greater degrees of suffering and higher levels of complexity. Something other than Reality is always waiting in the wings, calmly licking its chops. I am continually astonished by the depth and breadth of distraction that derails me from my cushion-derived certainties. The Monkeys' stream of chatter is incessant: "You shouldn't travel. Why didn't you provide better care for Ruby? How could somebody hit a dog with their car and not stop? You can't afford another vet bill. How will you care for Ruby and not miss work? What about upcoming bike trips? You shouldn't be a pet owner. Is she in pain? Will the leg be saved? Just when meditation was going so well, here comes another interruption! Why can't you maintain the calmness you've worked so hard to achieve? You are a lousy Buddhist! What's all this sadness and despair - you're not supposed to be attached to anything! You lost your blog focus. You're writing like crap. . . . . " Ad infinitum. The Monkeys in my mind are ruthless.

I did not have the words last night, but the above quote expresses what I experienced: Sitting stopped me from despising my place and hour. The emotional pain of wrestling with Ruby's wounds did temporarily make me want to be elsewhere. But, according to Reality, this is where I am: balancing care for an injured pet with work, parenting, sitting, blogging, and riding my bike. Thankfully, there is divine power just under foot, and a reliable cushion just under my butt.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Off With Their Heads!

No thought, no reflection, no analysis,
no cultivation, no intention;
Let it settle itself. - Tilopa in the Zen Calendar (December 8, 2007).

Day 230. I am grappling with the ongoing dilemma of maintaining the original parameters I established for my blog. The parameters focusing on blogging about my zazen experience. The temptation to use the white space on my computer screen as a general life chronicle and emotive dumping group is compelling and seductive. Especially when there is a lot to dump.

I walked away from the screen for a while, came back and read the opening paragraph, and, despite the laps I am currently swimming in the Despondence-Sea, smiled the tiniest Buddha smile. Dilemma resolved. There ARE no parameters in writing about my experience with zazen. Zazen permeates every cell, every atom, every molecule of my being. It is becoming the foundation from which my life germinates. Whew. That's a relief. I can write about anything on here. Anything at all. This reminder certainly puts the "Big" back in Big Mind. Room for everything.

Ruby was not in a fight with another animal. The vet is certain that she was hit by a car. The dogs' usual care provider wasn't able to watch them this weekend, so they were watched by a neighbor. When I didn't come home Friday night, I suspect she went out looking for me. That's who Ruby is. My protector. Obviously, the driver of the car didn't stop and read her tag or offer assistance. Somehow Ruby made it back home and waited for my return. And waited. Tried to nurse her wounds on her own. The vet said one of the injuries is quite serious. She operated today and we will have to wait and see if blood flow will return to that leg. My attachment to Ruby is profound. I have great difficulty understanding why loving, caring, implicitly good and loyal beings have to suffer so deeply. Oh yeah. I don't have to understand this. Just accept it. And be there for Ruby.

I struggle with degrees of disclosure on the blog. Odd, because sometimes accurately describing what has occurred on the cushion entails revealing intimate and vulnerable experiences. I am in my element if honest disclosure is wrapped in layers of polysyllabic words, abstract intellectualizing, and academic distance. My comfort zone becomes even more plush if I sprinkle in a dusting of impressive moral aspiration and imparting gratifying lessons through provocative metaphors and engaging anecdotes. It all goes to crap when genuine expression obligates me to say a version of, "I suck." Revealing personal frailty is definitely not my forte. In fact, as capabilities go, admitting I am human is right up there on the list with applying eye liner. I suck at both.

So here goes: I am leveled by Ruby's pain. Sad and frightened and distracted and furious (at myself, the neighbor with whom I entrusted Ruby's care, the car driver, the universe). I want to withdraw from life, shirk all obligation, and crawl into her crate at the animal hospital and whisper nurturing sounds, stroking her until she can frolic at the lake again. I don't want to learn from this or grow from it or blabber inspirational nonsense about how zen helped me cope. I don't want to accept it, and I sure as hell don't feel like relinquishing my attachment to the idea of her full recovery. I don't feel empty and centered; on the contrary, I feel an overflowing consumption of grief and hopelessness.

I am sick of caring for injured beings. I am resentful that the universe, with some perversely sick sense of humor and irony, repeatedly doles out this role for me and simultaneously has rendered me so ill equipped to respond. I am not naturally nurturing. My reaction when faced with physical infirmity - in myself and others - is to say, "Get over it!" Interesting, because I have infinite patience with psychological woundedness.

I haven't previously told the story of when me and my friend Ginny were forced by our kindergarten teacher to spend some time playing in the "house" area of the classroom during free time because, when left to our own preferences, we always chose blocks or trucks. We retaliated by promptly decapitating all of the baby dolls, resulting in a cacophony of wailing from the gender appropriate five-year-old females (their requisite time in therapy was surpassed only by the eternity I spent on the couch resolving the origins of my decision, at the innocent age of five, to behead the very dolls with which my peers were so tenderly playing mommy). Clearly, my lack of maternal proclivity dates far back indeed.

So there we have it. Honest disclosure of some current truths. With due respect for the decade spent with my analyst, I am going to approach these painful feelings differently. No analyzing. No processing. Precious little vocalizing. I feel no imperative to make sense of this nonsensical thing that has happened. I don't know yet if some form of resolution will appear on the blog. Ruby got hurt and I feel like crap. Pretty straightforward. Like sitting on a cushion and breathing. I don't need to make it more complicated than it is.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

The Dreams That Tear You Apart

Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and broken hearted - Bruce Springsteen from "The Promised Land."


Day 229. I returned from a tandem rally tonight. I thought I had plenty to write about. My psyche, however, seems to have twisted into overdrive. I would blame it on hormones, but that old faithful excuse as the etiology for all the ails me doesn't feel applicable tonight. Strange. My endocrine system is usually in such reliable chaos that I can attribute almost everything to it.

I came home from the rally to a traumatized dog. I don't know what got to Ruby, but she has clearly been in a fight with something that wounded her. Physically and emotionally. We left both dogs in the care of the next door neighbor, who couldn't provide detail other than she "heard something" Friday night. It is breaking my heart. In the almost three years that we've had her, Ruby has never been an aggressor, though I suspect she would defend me to her death. The thought of her protecting the house and land without me to protect HER from the trespasser is almost more than I can bear. Will take her to the vet tomorrow. No doubt the external wounds will heal quicker than her amygdala. Same here.

The fact that Ruby's well being brought me to tears, whereas my captain's bad day on the bike Saturday did nothing but enrage me, has left me seriously questioning where on this compassion boat I am currently sailing. We think we ARE many things we are not. We think we are NOT many things we are.

To further complicate my emotional status, I came home to a heart stopping Bruce Springsteen concert on TV. It was filmed during a concert in Barcelona following the release of his album "The Rising." I have seen Bruce three times in concert (all in the U.S.) and, as earth shattering as those performances were, they bore only a trace resemblance to the man in Spain. He was on fire. So was the crowd. Something was stunningly different. Sometimes I believe that Europeans live closer to their souls than we in the U.S. I recognize that is a gross generalization. Tonight I don't care. I just wish I could see Bruce in Spain.

I must be on my cushion. I don't expect it to soothe or clarify or enlighten or solve anything. It's just the least worst place to be when my heart is broken.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Say What You Mean, Mean What You Say

Cliches. Good ways. To say what you mean. Mean what you say. – Jimmy Buffet from "Cliches."

I have dictated a blog to my son. It is the delightful story about his response to the first time I told him, “No.” The full version will be posted when I return on Sunday. Just as soon as I retrieve it from cyberspace.

Gassho,

CycleBuddhaDoc

Unfiltered Fear

The only thing that we can know is that we know nothing and that is the highest flight of reason. - Leo Tolstoy in the Zen Calendar (June 8, 2002).

Day 227. I apologize for smoke spewing from the keyboard as I write today’s blog. My captain is honking the horn from his Republicanmobile, anxious to hit the road for the tandem rally. Hopefully seven months’ practice at composing grammatically correct sentences will manifest today, because I shan’t have time to proofread. Next time I commit to blogging every day for a year, remind me to own a laptop. Or travel less. Or both. Ah, well. If nothing else, this year has taught me perseverance.

While fathoming fear on the blog over the last couple of days, I have been reminiscing about the times I was most frightened. The singular time I was legitimately terrified for my life occurred in Seoul, Korea in the last 1990’s. The incident taught me a lot about myself, namely that we cannot know for certain how we will respond to some situations until they envelope us.

I had just completed a teaching assignment on the Air Force Base at Osan and was in route to my next assignment at Anderson AFB on Guam. Due to the infrequent buses traveling between the base and the Seoul airport, I arrived for my departing flight several hours early. In line to check in, a man struck up a conversation with me. He revealed that he was, literally, “escaping” prematurely from a contract to teach English in Korea. “Escaping” as in furtively fleeing the home of his employer in the wee morning hours after shaping the pillows to look like he still lay in his bed. While checking our baggage, we met a graduate student from UC Berkley who also had some time to kill. Pleased with our serendipitous meeting, we boarded the subway and headed downtown to have a last bowl of kim chie.

After sipping a beer and impressing one another with our chop stick dexterity, we emerged from the subway level hotel lobby into the Seoul sunshine. My first impression was the loveliness of the city. My second was a visceral adrenaline flush as my body registered the dissonance of what looked to be hundreds of Seoul police officers, uniformed in full riot gear, positioned strategically up and down the block. The Berkley student, ever so casually, suggested we retreat back down the stairs to the subway station and head for the airport.

Wordlessly, the fugitive English teacher and I agreed. A subway train magically appeared at the platform, and we quickly got on. The train silently accelerated and glided down the rails. I felt the train’s momentum slow as it braked for the next stop. Gazing out the subway window, I watched a scene unfold in the uncontrollable slow motion that accompanies surreal moments. The first thing I saw was two young women balanced at the farthest end of the platform they could reach without spilling onto the tracts. They were hunched over, holding handkerchiefs over their nose and eyes. Riot police officers were clubbing a throng of other young people, who were clamoring about in a chaotic jumble on the platform.

The train slowed to a stop. The doors automatically slid open, and the toxic stench of pepper gas flooded our car. My skin, lips, nose and eyes stung as though I had been dipped in acid. Quickly, the doors shut and the train sped from the station. Though nobody boarded through the doors to our car, my new friends and I watched in horror as two armed men entered the subway two cars back. Waving automatic weapons, they shouted in agitated Korean. I choked down terror as they rapidly advanced up the aisle and entered the car just behind mine. Continuing their furious tirade, they forced open the door of my car and strode up the center.

We were the only Americans on the train. Somewhere in my whirling brain, it occurred to me that my blonde hair and blue eyes must be screaming “Convenient American Hostage.” The angry young men paced up and down the aisle, brandishing their weapons and scolding the passengers in a language from which I couldn’t decipher a single word. The Koreans in our car remained silent and motionless, staring at the floor.

We were standing because there had been no unoccupied seats when we boarded the train. I instinctively shrunk within myself, avoiding all eye contact and turning to face the windows of the subway. I stood absolutely motionless, willing myself to be invisible. The Berkley guy appeared to be in his element, observing the unfolding drama with alert interest. I raised my eyebrows at him as we slowed for the next stop. He whispered that we should probably stay on the subway, because there was no way of knowing what chaos was transpiring at street level. I held my breath and stared at the subway route posted above the door. Four more stops until we transferred to the airport subway line. The menacing young Korean men continued to swagger up and down the aisle, cocking their guns from their waists and repeating what sounded to me like incoherent protestations. I kept my back turned and remained stock still.

After the eternity of three stops, we arrived at our transfer point, the doors slid open, and I bolted from the car. The gunmen remained on the subway as the doors shut and the train sped down the track. My comrades caught up to me, and we caught the subway to the airport. We arrived there safely, and though additional security measures had been implemented, I made my flight to Guam. Sinking gratefully into my cramped coach seat, I wetted a tissue and swiped at the pepper gas residue that still stung my face. Calmed myself with the pragmatic reminder that the beaches at Anderson would be an ideal place to recover from my near death experience.

I have not returned to Korea. Even before my brush with rioting University of Seoul students, I wasn’t that fond of Osan. The experience taught me a lot about myself. When my sympathetic nervous system was activated by life threatening danger, it chose “freeze” over “fight” or “flight.” This proved to be adaptive. I can’t say what my response in different circumstances would be. The only thing that we can know is that we know nothing.

I also learned what I am most afraid of. My thoughts and emotions were not for my own safety. Perhaps it was just too incomprehensible, but I did not have concerns about being shot, or captured, or tortured, or injured in some unforeseen way. The only emotion I registered was agony for my son if his mother was killed. I was consumed with regret over my decision to venture into downtown Seoul when I could have remained in the security of the airport. I feared for my son’s suffering. I was infused with anguish in every fiber of my being at the thought of his pain if I died. Leaving him while he was so young was unbearable.

This is the fear at my core. Being separated from those I love. Severed connection is what frightens me most. In some areas, I remain very, very attached.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

P.S. I will edit and proof and embellish this blog when I return from the wilds of east Texas!

Filtering Fear Two

To people who think of themselves as God's houseguests, American enterprise must seem arrogant beyond belief. Or stupid. A nation of amnesiacs, proceeding as if there were no other day but today. Assuming the land could also forget what had been done to it. - Barbara Kingsolver in "Animal Dreams."

Day 226. What a conundrum. Blogworthy thoughts are marching through my mind like Texas fire ants at a chili cook-off, and I need to be packing for a tandem trip. Yup, that's right. Tandem trip. With my captain, nay, (former) partner. Fact is stranger than fiction. It will be a great twist to the movie plot.

I've read research concluding that stupid people do not know they are stupid. For real. Published research derived from sound methodology, written by credible authors in professional journals. The word "stupid" carries such negative connotation (not to mention associations to the movie "Forest Gump"), we reflexively recoil from it as though the police of political correctness are lurking nearby, pens poised over a citation with our name on it. In the articles I read, stupid wasn't necessarily a derogatory term. It referenced specific impediments to approaching tasks in a "smart" way, including lack of knowledge, ignorance, inadequate education, limited exposure, difficulty with problem solving, poor observational skills, and deficient abstract reasoning abilities. The research emphasized that if stupid people were aware of their stupidity, they would do something about it like ask for assistance, increase their education and exposure, practice new reasoning skills, etc. Unfortunately, a characteristic of stupidity is the inability to recognize it. Stupid people stay stupid.

Before you predict that Buddha will be kicking me out of his club, let me elaborate. There are connections between stupidity and fear. Helplessness and vulnerability fertilize the soil from which fear sprouts. I am formulating a theory about why fear - the irrational, dangerous version - is permeating our culture like the words "whole grain" on cereal boxes. Bear with me; these ideas are so fresh the dopamine between my new neural pathways is still moist.

There is more to be stupid about today. Whether we anticipated it or not, the complexities of the world compounded exponentially while we were watching the first television Reality shows. Ordinary undertakings that used to require a phone call (answered by a live person on the first couple of rings), an address, and (maybe) an account number have turned into lengthy, challenging ordeals. We have to pay attention (to the annoying computerized voice directing us to eight different options for hearing the next computerized voice). We need organizational skills rivaling IRS secretaries to produce the receipt, account number, expiration date, and bar code for the priority club, coupon, frequent flier, warranty, guarantee, rebate, and/or preferred customer number that is relevant to our transaction. We are asked questions to which the response requires vocabulary words that haven't yet made it to a printed dictionary. We have cable this and cell phone that and I-pods-phones-pads and all manner of other electronic devices to research, purchase, program, personalize, maintain, keep charged, replace and upgrade. Indeed, there are infinitely more things to be stupid about.

Smart and capable people get overwhelmed with the status of modern society. Imagine the befuddlement of individuals that are not graced with average or above average intelligence (we know basic IQ is highly heritable). It is impossible to navigate the myriad complexities of today's world without occasionally (frequently?) feeling confused and inferior. Meanwhile, the cultural dictate that we outwardly APPEAR to be confident and capable is ever more strident. It is to all of our detriment that everyone is consumed with broadcasting the illusion of effortless expertise while inwardly experiencing ongoing terror that our weakness will be exposed. So we behave arrogantly. Disingenuously. Mean spiritedly. All in the service of fear. That is, masking fear.

A great deal of the malicious behavior we observe in others emanates from fear. I am formulating a solution. It is grounded in Buddhism. I think we need to compassionately accept that dwelling in the society of today implicitly requires us to be vulnerable. We CANNOT know everything, we CANNOT independently and competently navigate the complicated systems required for us to function in the world; we CANNOT expect to get things right on the first time (and keeping astride of technological advancement constantly demands we do things for the first time); we CANNOT indefinitely maintain the illusion of effortless perfection.

If we relinquish our attachment to the ridiculous notion that we have to appear as though we know everything, compassion could flourish like ragweed in late summer. How would our lives be different if we could say, with no fear of recrimination or judgment, "I need some help with this"? "I've never done this before, could you please show me?" "This is new for me, I'll need to take it slowly." "I don't know what 'pixel' means. Could you explain?" "I don't know how. Would you please walk me through it?"

The flip side to developing our own capacity to unabashedly reveal our vulnerability is to cultivate patience and kindness for others when they show theirs. "Oh, okay. Thanks for letting me know. I'll show you." "Take your time, and let me know if I can help." "I remember the first time I tried that. It took me a while to figure it out." "Yeah, it's almost impossible to find that on your own. Here's where I went to learn more about it." There is a lot we can do to reassure someone when they feel fearful. It is our nature to react with mutual kindness when we receive empathic understanding from another.

So, in my early attempts to filter through fear, here is what I know: Ignorance breeds fear which fosters vulnerability which necessitates (in a culture that shuns vulnerability) arrogance and malevolence. If we trusted that exposing our vulnerability would routinely prompt kindness and assistance in others, we could display it without trepidation. There would be so much less fear. And so much more compassion.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Filtering Fear

"Sometimes I still have American dreams. I mean, literally. I see microwave ovens and exercise machines and grocery-store shelves with thirty brands of shampoo, and I look at these things oddly, in my dream. I stand and I think, 'What is all this for? What is the hunger that drives this need?' I think it's fear . . . ." Words from the character Hallie in "Animal Dreams" by Barbara Kingsolver.

Day 225. I have been thinking about fear a lot lately. American fear in general; my partner and his peers' fear in particular. I lay awake at night while ideas about fear pop around my cranium like those multicolored balls in the old fashioned push toy that every child in the '60's got for their first birthday. There is a great deal of psychology underlying fear. I think I am getting a handle on it. I have a great deal to say about fear and the bedrock from which it springs. I will have to break it up in several pieces because I am strung out with exhaustion from the weekend's bike melee. If only I could find someone to pay me to ride my bike! I would quit my day job and write obscenely long blogs!

We are frightened of pain. I don't think it matters whether the pain originates from a physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual, social, or relational source. At a fundamental level, we don't want to suffer. We fear vulnerability, helplessness, and exposure. We fear the unfamiliar, the unpredictable, and the unknown. We fear being caught off guard. We fear being found out. We fear what we don't understand. We fear being wrong. We fear growing old. It seems almost unavoidable to be afraid of death. What surprises me is how deeply people seem to fear life.

The magnificent irony of this mushroom cloud of fear enveloping our nation is that everyone goes to such great lengths to appear as though they are not afraid. There are numerous versions of these costumes of courage. Most of them are cut from the cloth of capitalism. Apparently, there is an infinite array of materials with which the fearless facade can be constructed: fancy cars, cavernous homes, endless variety in furnishings, apparel and accessories, age-defying products and procedures, security devices, identity protection schemes, and an incomprehensible arsenal of weaponry. If material objects prove insufficient to thwart our fears, less tangible methods are available for supplementation. We can always reach for arrogance, selfishness, exclusivity, overachieving offspring, lavish travels, and hefty portfolios to fortify our feigned fearlessness.

This shield of false bravado is as fragile as an eggshell. As unsubstantial as particle board. It doesn't protect us from anything. Extravagantly rich, impeccably dressed people with high-yielding investments still suffer. In fact, they may be the most fearful of all, because they are under the illusion that they have the most to lose. Buddha was right: Attachment causes suffering. Hallie was right: Fear fuels needs that feel like a hunger we attempt to feed with Things. I suspect, however, that Things ultimately don't satisfy what we are truly hungry for.

I need to sift fear through a filter of understanding. I am curious about what will emerge. But not tonight. I'm afraid I am just too tired.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Good Things Don't Get Lost

You're thinking of revolution as a great all-or-nothing. I think of it as one more morning in a muggy cotton field, checking the undersides of leaves to see what's been there, figuring out what to do that won't clear a path for worse problems next week. Right now that's what I do. You ask why I'm not afraid of loving and losing, and that's my answer. Wars and elections are both too big and too small to matter in the long run. The daily work - that goes on, it adds up. It goes into the ground, into crops, into children's bellies and their bright eyes. Good things don't get lost. - Barbara Kingsolver in "Animal Dreams."

Day 224. Peak Experience! Two new followers! Gassho, and Welcome to APoxOnMyBlog!

I don't know Barbara Kingsolver personally, but her knowledge of me cuts straight to my soul. She is saving my life from the inside out. Validating, affirming, and - most precious of all - putting concise, provocative words to the jumble of thoughts and feelings reverberating in my breast. Ms. Kingsolver strings words together with such astonishing beauty that sometimes I weep while reading her novels. Guffaw at others. Connect at the molecular level. Yearn to construct one sentence in my life that comes close to her artful mastery.

The above quote was penned by the character Hallie in Animal Dreams. Hallie is a female embodiment of my friend Tom, and I suspect of Greg Mortenson, author of Three Cups of Tea, as well. Some people simply stride out into the world and do good things. Build schools. Nourish crops. Pull teeth and fill cavities and teach tooth brushing to the world's most impoverished children. These are my models and my heroes. They are giving me the tools I seek to inhabit this planet in the manner to which I aspire.

Barbara Kingsolver didn't represent Hallie as Buddhist, but she clearly is a Bodhisattva. Walking the earth in loving kindness while engaged in Right Action. Her observation that wars and elections are both too big AND too small to matter in the long run resonated deeply. The cost, energy, ego, and futility of both these absurd maneuvers violates all manner of reason and logic. Meanwhile, some people get up each day (or most days) and take action that has a positive impact. Actions that count. Actions that don't get lost. Actions borne up by reality and truth and substance.

Zazen is grounding me in the clarity necessary to live like Hallie. Most mornings I wake up and move into the day with intent to take Right Action. I no longer aspire for Save the World Action, and I never was one for Get Lots of Attention Action. I just try to show up on time. Be present and attentive and compassionate in my therapeutic work. Return my phone calls promptly. Keep my home and office organized enough to complete tasks efficiently and allocate my energy mindfully. Yield to cars entering traffic from the on ramp. Park my shopping cart where it belongs. Tuck my ego away so that I can peer around it and focus outside myself.

This is my beginning place. The visible world portrays the illusion that everything must be larger than life to matter. That is not true. Unreasonable aspirations fuel disappointment and self loathing, which is paralyzing. The Great Truth emerging from this year of sitting and blogging is that Doing Right - on any scale - DOES matter. Occupying the world with sincere intent for good is our truest nature. Trust this. Act upon it. Good things don't get lost.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Roy & Dale

The world is ruled by letting things take their course. - Lao-Tzu in the Zen Calendar (July 12, 2002).

Day 223. The nation is teeming with bloggable issues. I am certain that the cyberwaves are buzzing with observations, opinions, and attitudes regarding upcoming elections, controversial building sites, and zealous preachers being rewarded by disproportionate media attention for pathological demonstrations of ignorance. Almost makes me yearn for the days when calculations of oil spillage was paramount. Almost. I have elected to keep my blog focused on pedaling my bicycle and sitting zazen. I'm probably the teeniest bit biased, as I have concluded that if more people would center on similar antics, some bloggers would have nothing more to write about.

My mom accompanied me on a visit to see my son at college yesterday. This is the woman who recently celebrated her three-quarters of a century birthday. Though none of her ancestors survived past the age of seventy and her back is shaped like a cursive "S," she clips along quite nicely. Delights my son by discussing the football draft and memories of her and grandpa in Germany during the 1950's. Every day is precious, even one that involves sharing long turnpike mileage. Daughters gain a much greater appreciation of their mothers when they have raised a teenager of their own.

On the drive home, Mom waxed poetic about traveling to Buffalo, New York to attend my son's wedding (I abstained from mentioning that he has only dated the Buffalo girl for six months). I laughingly replied that, knowing my luck, they would have five daughters. I never wanted to mother a daughter because I am such a tomboy. I knew that if I had a second child, the universe would get a kick out of granting me some ultra girlie girl that adored pink and preferred playing with dolls over Tonka trucks. Ewwww. Wasn't worth the risk. No doubt the universe will balance my decision to have an only child by spewing granddaughters my way. I am resigned. Ultimately, we can't escape karma.

This talk of daughters and tomboys prompted a tender memory for me. The Christmas before I turned five or six, my best friend Kim and I had fallen in love with western costumes featured in the J.C. Penney Christmas catalog. Those were the days when parents were granted a two week reprieve from entertaining their children, beginning with the day in mid-November when that blessed Wish Book arrived. We literally spent hours leafing through the colorful glossy pictures of toys and games at the back of the book. The next day we'd pick it up and peruse again as though we'd never seen it before. In the 1960's, moms probably got a lot done during the last couple of weeks in November.

Kim and I fell in love with a couple of black and red, fringe-trimmed western outfits. The only difference was that she wanted the Dale Evans set - complete with twirly black skirt embossed with silver thread stitched in swirling patterns along the hem. True to form, I coveted the Roy Rogers cowboy outfit pictured next to Dale's feminine attire. The pants were black, the chaps tan, the shirt a classic western style with pearl buttons and silver tips on the collar. Jet black cowboy boots (not included) completed the rugged cowboy look. I just knew I could conquer the entire wild west if only I could dress like Roy. I wanted that Roy Rogers costume more than most little girls wanted a Dressy Bessie. I had serious doubts, however, about Santa bringing a cowboy outfit to a girl.

I can't remember what Santa brought that Christmas, but I can tell you this: My mom still has a picture in the family album with Kim standing, dainty and ladylike, in her twirly Dale Evans skirt. Right beside her, wearing a macho cowboy grin, I am standing in Roy Rogers grandeur. Happy as a wrangler with a fresh wad of chew in his cheek. Ready to wander out on the range and rope whatever crossed my path. Dale and I played cowboy and cowgirl nonstop until sometime past our seventh birthdays. That pearl-buttoned shirt is probably wadded up in the bottom of the cedar chest at my parents' house. Right next to a couple of well-worn Tonka trucks.

My mom never questioned my preference for the cowboy outfit. If you recall, this is the mother who waved from the driveway as me and my dad left for the dump and she attended a wedding alone. She never - not once - said absurd and obvious things like, "Don't you want the Dale Evans costume? It has a skirt!" Or, "Little girls don't wear cowboy pants." She just bought me what I asked for, wrapped it up, put it under the tree, and helped me button the shirt and fasten the chaps on Christmas morning. What an extraordinary example of good parenting. My mom had grown to know and accept the Reality of me and my nature by the time I was five, even though her favorite girlhood pastime was dressing paper dolls.

I think I turned out okay. I still prefer pants over skirts. I still would rather ride a horse than bake a pie. I still prefer a trip to the dump over attending a wedding. I also favor the color pink, have a paint swatch fettish, and appreciate having doors opened for me. My Roy Rogers phase ran its course. As did my Saturday Night Fever phase, my Madonna phase, and my California Punk Rock Windsurfing phase. The world is ruled by letting things take their course.

Our world would do well to remember this wisdom. To relax, sit back, and observe rather than fret and worry and intervene. To trust the natural order of the universe, even at the moments we can't comprehend what that order is. We effort too much, expending valuable energy over things which will unravel perfectly if we just let them alone. Most things run their course. Including little girls who prefer to dress like cowboys.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

O.K.L.A.H.O.M.A.

We know we belong to the land (yessir!)
And the land we belong to is grand (you bet!)
And when we say, "Yeow! Aye-yip-i-o-ee-a!"
We're only saying, "You're doing fine, Oklahoma,
Oklahoma - O.K.L.A.H.O.M.A. - Oklahoma - OK! -- Rodgers and Hammerstein from the Oklahoma State Song

Day 222. How is that for symmetry?! No wonder I had such a great day! For the first time in my cycling life, I rode back-to-back 100K's. That adds up to a whopping 124 miles in two days. I've done that mileage before, but it was distributed between a longer ride and a recovery ride. We averaged over 18 mph on both days on routes that were extremely hilly. It's a good thing I don't have an ego, because it would have been bursting through my skin.

Seven months ago, if someone told me I would be quoting the state song of Oklahoma on my blog, I would have assumed an official psychologist posture and diagnosed them as actively psychotic. Ah, impermanence. Things change. Even rigid, obsessive-compulsive neural pathways like mine. Zazen is powerful stuff indeed.

As my captain and I pedaled through the rolling hills east and north of Edmond on the Streak Ride this morning, I marveled at the loveliness of the landscape. Recent rains have renewed shades of deep green in the fields and pastures, and the homes - Oh, the homes! - that reigned from the midst of those meadows like royalty on holiday. WHAT do the inhabitants of those houses do for their day jobs?? I'm hoping they began as writers of daily blogs, but I have my doubts . . . .

Somewhere between the 30 and 40 mile mark, I found myself singing my state's song. Gassho to Rodgers and Hammerstein for gifting us with such a jaunty musical tribute. Drivers on those less traveled roads were patient and courteous, dogs were behind fences, nary a piece of trash blighted the landscape. It was cycling at its best. I chewed and swallowed many past negative comments about Oklahoma as I rode along. Practiced loving kindness for the place of my birth. I planted myself squarely in the here-and-now, forfeited habitual biases and criticisms, and kept my focus peering through the lens of Reality. Voila! Instead of red-neck pickup drivers tossing Bud cans out their windows and running cyclists off the road, I saw meticulously pedicured gardens, lush meadows, beautifully landscaped entrances to well-planned housing developments, and (gasp!) a mile or so of dedicated bike lane.

Rain poured down beginning around mile 50, deterring many riders from completing the full 100 kilometers. My captain and I pressed on, sodden and determined, finishing the course with a sprinkling of equally obsessive souls. Scarfing down pasta in the picnic shelter, we greeted several soaking friends from the Oklahoma cycling community. Not a peep was uttered about the soggy ending to the ride; we simply watched the deluge and exchanged our favorite rainy day riding stories. Good times.

Sloshing back to the car on the tandem, I wondered just how expansive this Compassion thing may turn out to be. The thought was accompanied by a faint tune that sounded awfully close to "aye-yip-i-o-ee-a!" That must have been my answer. Apparently, the compassion pool is bottomless.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Knowing It

The more faithfully you listen to the voice within you, the better you will hear what is sounding outside. And only she who listens can speak. - Dag Hammarskjold in the Zen Calendar (August 11, 2002).

Day 221. That is a marvelous quote for many reasons. I love that I have been saving pages from my Zen Calendar for over eight years. Eight years ago, I had no idea why I was saving the pages, and now: Voila! They are appearing on my blog. It is also a great quote because it utilizes the "she" pronoun. So many of the Zen Calendar pages are written with the "he." Usually, I am (overly?)sensitive to gender and pronoun usage. Regarding the quotes from the Zen Calendar, I try to practice nonattachment and acknowledge that many of the quotes originate from a time prior to gender equality. Still, it's cool that Dag said, "she."

I will blog briefly tonight because we have ambitious goals for early tomorrow morning. My captain and I decided to bust out the tandem to ride in the Oklahoma Bicycle Society (OBS) Streak tomorrow. It is a wonderfully organized event with a long history in Oklahoma City. The Streak is sentimental for me, because in 2005 it was the first time I rode a 100K. We rode 60 fast miles on the hills this morning, so adding another 62 miles in the hills of the Streak tomorrow should be interesting. I am pumped.

As I sat upon my cushion last night, I experienced a deepened dimension of zazen. I believe it is because I am re-reading "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind." When I think of Suzuki Roshi teaching my teacher, and my teacher teaching me, I am filled with the most profound sense of love and gratitude. Simply gazing at the picture of Suzuki Roshi on the back of the book fills me with a sense of adoration I cannot comprehend. It feels like I am looking upon the face of a beloved ancestor. My dharma ancestor. In a strange way, he feels like a grandfather - the major influence of my major influence. Roshi's words, lifting off the pages of the book quoting his teaching, fill me with an unfathomable sense of grounding and contentment. It cannot be captured in words. His essence permeates my heart.

I have been meditating on Roshi's reminder that assuming the posture of zazen IS our Buddha nature. It is sufficient in and of itself. Last night, breathing quietly on my cushion, my mind relinquished its hold. On everything. I sat and drew breath. Surrendered. Felt in my core the perfection from which we are born. Bodily knew - KNEW! - that my suffering and distress was utterly an illusion. We are born to be happy. We are meant to exist in love and unity. We are not separate; never have been, never will be.

It is impossible to portray in words what is occurring as I approach seven months of daily meditation. Each night, as I assume the posture of zazen, I try to listen so that I might truthfully speak on my blog. Words cannot capture it; this truth must be lived to be understood. Our essence is joy. We are irrevocably loved, and inseperable from the source of all goodness. Believe it. Trust it. Find it within yourself.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Whatever it Takes

Day 220. I saw Deepak Chopra in Oklahoma City today. I have not read anything he's written, but evidently everyone else has. The Civic Center was almost full. Encouraging to see so many Oklahomans turn out for a talk on mind/body/spirit. Mr. Chopra spoke for just under an hour. The two things that stood out for me were: (1) He explained what a quadrillion is (remember the blog in which I puzzled over really large numbers?) A quadrillion is "a 10 followed by 15 zeroes." There you have it! (2) He also informed us that humans share 98% of our DNA with monkeys. That explains a lot. No wonder my head is always full of their prattle. I felt strangely relieved and validated upon hearing this bit of scientific data.

The talk centered around the growing body of accepted scientific proof regarding the interconnectedness of the universe. Buddhists had that figured out about 2,500 years ago, so it is nice to see that "modern" science is catching up. I enjoyed hearing a comprehensible explanation of how atoms and the protons, electrons, and neutrons that comprise them are connected to spirit and consciousness. My atoms light up like the state fair midway when I contemplate the intersection of what can be seen (with really high powered microscopes) and what cannot (no matter how sophisticated our technology). I passionately believe that grasping connectivity with our eyes, hearts, brains, and spirits is where compassion - and therefore the healing of the world - lies. Mr. Chopra talks and writes about the same idea; he just gets paid a whole lot to do so!

A clever segue from the Chopra talk to what I want to blog about has not presented itself, so I won't waste time waiting for one to wisp across my brain. In a session on Thursday, I was speaking with a client about the creative ways children attempt to stave off fear, helplessness, and overwhelming situations. I recounted a tender story shared with me by another client. This client was fathered by a scary, angry, volatile man. Her mother was chronically ill with a plethora of physical maladies. She recalled, in vivid detail, a ritual she had developed to help her cope with the dual ordeals of her father's temper tantrums and her mother's impending demise.

When frightened, this child would go into the guest bedroom and slither underneath the antique four-poster bed. The box springs rested on old fashioned wooden slats laying across the bed frame. My client would tuck her fingers and toes under the slats and hang, flush with the box springs, suspended above the bedroom floor so that she couldn't be seen under the bed. The longer she could hang there, she promised herself, the longer her mother would continue to live and the longer the time span between her father's outbursts.

Imagine the strength - and pain - of that little girl, with her toes pinched between wooden slats and a prickly mattress, her tummy taut, leg muscles stretched to capacity, heart hammering in her chest. Imagine the emotional trauma igniting her amygdala, ricocheting down her limbic system, necessitating such an elaborate ritual designed to ward off danger and incite miracles. As adults, it is almost impossible to remember the sheer helplessness and utter dependency inherent to childhood. We forget as soon as we can - especially the terrifying parts. We feel confused when snatches of early memory float to consciousness because we analyze them with our adult mind and superimpose alternative solutions and explanations that our child mind could never have offered.

I understand little girls suspended from wooden slats under the bed. I had several rituals of my own. To exit a swimming pool, I lingered by the ladder and required myself to go under water and hold my breath to a slow count of ten. I had to do the whole sequence ten times before I could leave the pool. To this day, I picture the puzzled expression of the local lifeguard as he watched this odd little girl repeatedly bobbing up and down at 10-second intervals. Then again, he probably never noticed, as long as I eventually popped back up to the surface. Little kids do all kinds of weird stuff in pools, though I'll admit only a precious few of us did it through bizarre, compulsive rituals.

My point is that coping is coping. We do whatever it takes to ward off assaults of our physical and emotional selves. We are all doing the best we can. When you put a little being who has not been on the planet for very long under enough duress, she will resiliently and ingeniously find a way to survive it. If that traumatized brain is graced with enough obsessive compulsive genes, the coping strategy will likely involve an elaborate and precise method of suffering. Better to initiate painful rites upon yourself than wait for injury to be randomly inflicted upon you by an out of control adult.

Surviving the tumult of childhood, with its chaos of triumph and tragedy, creates thick ropes of connection that tether us to one another. We all begin as vulnerable little ones endowed with a remarkable instinct for survival. Compassion is cultivated when we deepen our understanding of the creative acts of bravery required of us to make it to adulthood. Even when those acts appear to make no sense whatsoever. Look for the foundation underlying seemingly odd behavior - both in yourself and others. I bet you find a person trying to cope. With whatever it takes.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

This One's For Me

The whole world is you. Yet you keep thinking there is something else. - Hsueh-Feng in the Zen Calendar (August 18, 2007).

Day 219. I rode alone this evening. Two horrid, careless, dangerous drivers came terrifyingly close to running me off the road. They are always driving pickups. Large, American-made pickup trucks. I desperately want to have this particular prejudice challenged, but it never, ever is. I will not be doing Metta meditation for them tonight, since it wasn't loving kindness that cursed through my veins as I swerved to avoid tumbling into a ditch. I know if there was an ethical way to execute the methodology, results of a survey would indicate at a statistically significant level that these drivers have smaller than average penises. This would, perhaps, be a socially relevant dissertation topic, though I doubt you could get the proposal through an Internal Review Board.

I cannot concentrate because I am still seething with anger and adrenaline from my bike ride. After feeling fast, strong and light during rides over the past couple of weeks, I was disappointed with how I rode today. I felt sluggish and weak. I could not seem to summon an iota of physical or mental energy. The humidity and bug density were particularly annoying. The Monkeys chattered incessantly, maintaining a steady stream of fury, negativity and criticism. It was a relief to pull into my driveway.

At some point during a lengthy, cool shower I issued a mild directive to the profane primates. To be exact, it was worded, "Shut the hell up." Without consciously deciding to do so, I began an internal monologue of gratitude and appreciation toward myself. It went something like this:

"So far this year, you have done an amazing job with your commitment to sit zazen and write a blog every single day. It hasn't been easy. On the contrary, some days have been incredibly tough. You never tossed your timer, somehow managing to hang in there each and every evening until it sounded. You honored the schedule you established to gradually increase the time allocated to meditation. The tasks have been daunting, yet you brought sincere intent each time you approached them. You remembered your bows. You've chanted. You've read. You've attended a new sangha. You sat through loud hotels, the Xterra jarring along an interstate, leg cramps, numb feet, an occasional wretchedly stiff spine, collapsing mudras, profuse Monkey distraction, and the sound of mice scurrying behind the drywall a foot from your face.

"You have endured fatigue, rage, boredom, senselessness, fear, bewilderment, skepticism, grief, hopelessness, confusion and despair on that cushion. You sat through it. Kept breathing. Tried to write honestly (and in grammatically correct sentences!) about it. You continue to tango with your obstinate ego, and more frequently challenge its mischievous tenacity. You've tenderly nursed the dinosaur, and hoisted your thesaurus and dictionary so many times they may name a new form of carpal tunnel syndrome after you.

"All this while simultaneously living a life. Parenting a child. Owning a business. Maintaining intent and commitment to be an ethical and effective psychologist. Recovering from heat stroke, and battling back on the bike to become a damn respectable cyclist. Participating in friendships. Driving less; walking more. Wasting less; recycling more. Clearing clutter. Donating mindfully. Bringing action into balance with values. Clarifying goals. Being in the moment. Wringing the guts out of here-and-now."

At the Sunday sangha meditation, Arpita repeatedly reminded us that compassion begins with loving kindness toward Self. All compassionate acts originate from establishing an internal love. We cannot direct healing outwardly if we are contemptuous within. This state of self love is vastly different from narcissistic ego. It is validation and acceptance of our highest self, which is the necessary precursor to expressing loving kindness to others.

Send an outpouring of love and kindness inwardly. It is the greatest gift you can offer. To yourself, and to all of the world.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc