I Will Buy the Muffins

I am searching for the quote.

Day 271. I have, literally, rode hard and will be put away wet (as soon as I get out of the shower). My hunch is that I will not write long this evening. I want to use the here-and-now to process the past couple of days' worth of heres-and-nows. I recognize the idiocy of that statement, but somehow, as I typed it, it made a strange and perfect sense.

There is nothing like participating in a group endeavor to be reminded of how far I have yet to go regarding my practice and the principles that form its bedrock. On our return trip from Tyler this morning, we had ridden less than five miles when a team with whom we had not previously had the great and good fortune to ride threw down the gauntlet during the first major climb. It did not require astute powers of observation to recognize them as Alphas. Clearly, they were accustomed to being the first tandem to top each hill - regardless of who they were riding with. I suppose our presence as newcomers necessitated an (undoubtedly biologically based) display of dominance. Ah, such is sport.

To me, it seemed a bit early in the day for gauntlet throwing, but I am not the person at the controls of our tandem. As the other team rocketed down the descent prior to the first climb, leaving the rest of us in their distant wake, me and my captain momentarily observed them. "Hmmm," we thought, "What's this? They seem to be riding a bit aggressively." There was the tiniest pause in my captain, as though he were weighing the decision to give chase. A (fast beating) heartbeat passed. I felt my captain shift his position on the bike, moving into the tight tuck that signals MY tight tuck, which results in an extreme acceleration on the downhills. "Hmmm," I thought. "Appears as though we are going to chase them."

There are infinite subtleties in cycling technique, and I don't presume to know a fraction of them. What I do know is that there comes a point at which two slender, cardiovascularly superior people who can spin really fast cannot keep up with two not-so-slender, incredibly strong people who spin a little less fast in a much larger gear. On a good day, when we are both on our game, my captain and I are freakishly strong. We combine our strength with an obscenely efficient pedal stroke and a couple of well-conditioned (and well worn) blood pumpers. Long hills are our specialty. The longer the climb, the better we pedal. Needless to say, we caught the Alphas and dropped them like frat boys hurling pumpkins from an overpass.

We were far classier than frat boys, however. We weren't showy, or arrogant, or excessive. We just held our momentum, and steadily, soundly outperformed them to the crest of the hill. Didn't look like we were exerting especially hard as we did it. Watched them throw another gauntlet as they sped past us on the descent (we weren't yet pedaling), then soundly beat them again. Repeated the scenario over four more hills. Consecutively. It felt very different from the spirited, good-humored hill competitions we engaged in with our friends the day before, in which we shouted out encouragement and complimented one another. At least to the other team, the stakes seemed pretty high. Alpha battling at its most intense. I had visions of those humongous bull elk on the Discovery Channel - gnashing their antlers in fierce battle for the prize of the alpha female.

After the fourth hill victory, my captain grew weary of reacting to hurled gauntlets. I'm pretty sure he, along with all the other teams observing the competition from a safe distance, knew who was going home with the prize. He checked in with me to see how I was feeling (I was on an adrenaline high and could easily have pedaled to the moon - just like ET). I said, "Great!" and we blasted away, riding the final 12 miles to the half way point alone. There wasn't a tandem within a quarter mile of us. We reached the rest stop at the bakery in Edom, stripped off our helmets, gloves, and CamelBacks, and posed the bike for a photo op. In the world of cycling, that is a LOT of elapsed time before the rest of the group rode up.

Before long, the entire group of tandem teams collected at the bakery and we chomped on muffins and cookies in great fellowship. Discussed the lovely weather and route options for the remaining fifty miles. The Alphas caught up with us on the wide veranda of the bakery. We talked bike parts and muffin texture. That's all. As for cycling ability, there was nothing left to be said. At least for today.

I have much to learn regarding the juncture at which Buddhism intersects competition. Sport is a vital part of my life, so I will aim my practice at reconciling loving kindness with thrashing the occasional tandem team on hills. I am feeling hopeful. Sports history is resplendent with gracious winners. New year, I will buy the muffins.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Racing in the Non-Race

As I grow to understand life less and less, I learn to live it more and more. - Jules Renard in the Zen Calendar (December 13, 2007).

Day 270. I am posting from Tyler, Texas. Rode the tandem 58 miles today with 11 other teams. Though not a formal "race," the racers all seem to find each another and engage in an interesting form of "non-racing," which feels, curiously, a lot like being in a race. Our EZ rider captain, Randy, who tells us always to "Represent," would have been proud. We decidedly won the non-race against a few prestigious teams who were non-racing with us. I had the strangest feeling I was in a parallel universe with the one I inhabit when I am grappling with my attachment/non-attachment conundrum. Similar to the way my practice of non-attachment facilitated my ability to form deep and meaningful attachments, my attitude of non-racing enabled me to perform spectacularly on the bike. Go figure. My zazen practice manifests in so many facets of my life. There is no way it couldn't, since it permeates my entire being.

I am typing on the single computer of the hotel's "business center" (read: a computer stuck just inside the lobby). Apparently, several teens lurking around my periphery are at risk of spontaneous combustion if they can't get on the computer to check their Facebook status in the near future. In the interest of loving kindness, I will post this blog and continue it in longhand in the privacy of my room. No worries. It gives me more time with the dinosaur when I get home tomorrow.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Translating from Longhand: Hmmmmm, I can't much read my writing. I guess, at last, I have arrived as a doctor -- we are known for our illegible penmanship (penwomanship?) I know I chose the quote for tonight because of the inspiring time I spent with two particular tandem teams today. They consist of two couples slightly older than my captain and I: intelligent, kind, inclusive, evolved people who have tandem cycled throughout the world. It was a privilege to ride alongside them through the lush green meadows of eastern Texas. In addition to being exposed to their cycling expertise, I received another great gift. These four individuals (the four of them are close friends who share extensive history both on and off the bike) model Living Life. They are all professionals with impressive careers and achievements, but their zest is primarily prompted by bike riding and the traveling that accompanies it. The energy that surrounds them is light, playful, fearless and benevolent. From them and others like them, I am learning to Live Life. More and More.

Gassho for the Second Time,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Back in the Saddle Again

To set up what you like against what you dislike - this is the disease of the mind. - The Hsin-Hsin Ming in the Zen Calendar (December 20, 2006).

Day 269. I am in complete and utter Nirvana. Who would have guessed I would arrive here via Mabank, Texas? I know! I am plunked down in the middle of a Texas prairie field (quite literally - the sign by the road to the hotel said "Prairieville") at a brand spankin' new Comfort Suites. There is nothing within five miles of the hotel, except for a vibrant orange Texas sunset. I just race walked a couple of laps around the hotel, breathing in the freshest, cleanest, country air of which my lungs have gulped since . . . I'm not sure . . . probably Durango! I am contemplating ranking the caliber of the computer on which I am currently typing (at approximately 150 wpm) as a Peak Experience! The keyboard is so plush, the monitor so humongous that I can read the words as I type them WITHOUT reading glasses -- I may stay and bust out my novel right here and now. At 150 wpm, four hundred or so pages shouldn't take long at all. The only drawback is that I am perched in a highly visible spot in the middle of an enormous lobby. Everything's bigger in Texas!

There are DQ's on every corner, and I dined at a Mexican restaurant that had soft serve ice cream -- for FREE! I just finished a Texas-sized twist and am feeling resplendent and content. When it comes to ice cream that is self-dispensed, the Middle Path is a tough road to follow.

I am here with my captain to take part in the Halloween tandem event sponsored by the Dallas Area Tandem Enthusiasts (DATES). Exactly one year ago, this was our debut into the world of tandem racing. It was an enjoyable, impeccably planned event. The weather is expected to be lovely; the routes are expertly detailed and pre-ridden, and the company spectacular. Should be an amazing weekend!

I want to write something profound and stellar to do this computer justice; however, I am ever mindful that I have 65 miles to stoke tomorrow, and I still need to sit. I have no idea how being a stoker for a captain cum former partner will be, but this much I do know: 1) I have a strong zazen practice; 2) Life is best lived from the here-and-now; 3) We are all borne of the One Great Love; 4) Everything is impermanent; 5) I will avoid setting up what I like against what I dislike.

I love being Buddhist. It provides an answer for everything.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Ripping the Stuffing Out

Every day you must say to yourself, "Today I am going to begin." - JeanPierre de Caussade SJ in the Zen Calendar (May 9, 2004).

Day 268. I am glad I chose to begin today. When the alarm first went off, I almost chose not to.

Yesterday was an exceptionally challenging day. In anticipation of leaving for a tandem event tomorrow, I had scheduled myself far beyond my long established "rules of engagement" for any given day. The outcome of these strenuous therapy marathons varies. My status depends on the day's client constellation.

I have noticed that when I am deeply immersed in my practice, I tend to think in metaphors. Last night, as I lay on my couch, dishrag limp and too tired to press the buttons on the remote, an image of Ruby flickered behind my eyelids. As you may recall, Ruby is our serious, contemplative, Buddha dog. Her IQ exceeds that of most registered voters; her work ethic exceeds them all. I have watched her concentrate on her Kong (Ruby's reason for living is anything digestable) for, literally, almost an hour. She can extract treats from it faster than it took me (with two opposable thumbs) to insert them. Ruby will not abandon the Kong until it is definitively empty. Doesn't matter if there is one stubborn biscuit remnant in there (the one I crammed in with the palms of both hands) with a perfect dog's leg (pun intended) that restricts its exit. She will ultimately prevail. Her perseverance rivals my slinkie untangling fixation.

Ruby applies this same single mindedness to removing the stuffing from any and every toy she has ever been given. She sincerely believes that the sole purpose of receiving a new toy is to eliminate every shred of synthetic foam occupying its innards. Once "assigned" a new toy, she undertakes her job with somber intensity. Watching her reminds me of the shots of assembly line workers the auto industry allows to be aired on commercials. Systematic, methodical, efficient. Utter concentration. No motion wasted. Not one iota of misdirected movement. Stuffing extraction at its finest.

Imagine the remains of the toy after Ruby has satisfactorily performed her stuffingectomy, and you get a vision of me after work yesterday. We call the leftover fuzzy, barely recognizable, formless material scrap a carcass. There is a whole box of them in the hall closet (I grieved the warthog casualty most keenly). After collapsing on my sofa last night, I felt like I had been gutted and quartered like Ruby's warthog. More like sixty-fourthed. Chewed up and spit out. An empty carcass, left with my innards strewn about in great poofy piles of white foam. Methodically used and cast aside. Like the surgeons on Gray's Anatomy following a particularly absurd day at Seattle Grace.

That feeling does not happen often. I have practiced for over 20 years, and experience has built stamina. Like all Perfect Storms, I never saw this one coming. Nothing I could do to prevent it, so I just tied a knot and hung on. Stayed in the moment. One excruciating moment after the next. If ever I felt gratitude for the certainty of impermanence, it was yesterday. It didn't fail me. The day came to an end.

I considered elaborating on the details of my stuffing extraction, but that is not the point of the blog. If ever there was a day when I wanted to skip my blog and sitting, it was yesterday. I sat down at the keyboard, and the image of Ruby's carcasses flashed. As my fingers tickled the keys, however, the windsurfer story poured out. I don't know from whence it came, but the longer I typed, the easier the words poured forth. Unlike Ruby's thoroughness with her barren toys, there must have been a bit of stuffing remaining in me. A little something hidden in a far corner of my blogging bin. Wedged in tight, like a dog-legged shaped treat stuck in a Kong.

After posting the blog, I realized I was spent. Stuffingless. I considered sleeping at the desk because the walk down the ten foot hall to my room required energy I couldn't summon. It was at that moment that my mushy brain issued the stark reminder that I had not yet sat zazen. Forty minutes on the cushion awaited me. Straight posture, symmetrical mudra, bows and breathing would be required. I wanted to sob.

I thought about the number 266. The number of consecutive days, out of my goal of 365, I have sat so far. I thought about Suzuki Roshi, my teacher Frank, and the millions of monks over centuries that got their butts on their cushions at five a.m. and stayed there a lot longer than 40 minutes. So I got my butt on mine, bowed, formed a mudra, and remained conscious and upright. Somewhere during the next 40 minutes, "me" fell away and "no me" joined the cosmos for a few of the ecstatic, connected Breaths of the One that occasionally come during zazen now. The timer sounded and I bowed with gratitude and benediction. The number of consecutive days of sitting grew to 267.

When the alarm blasted NPR this morning, my carcass arm reached out to silence it. My first waking thought was I couldn't have been asleep for more than nine minutes. Excuses for remaining in bed pinged through my brain like a high scoring ball in a pinball machine at Arnold's. Somehow, I chose to begin. I had a really good day. Apparently whatever got ripped out, zazen stuffed back in. Gassho to my practice. All 267 days of it.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Ode to the Water Start

When you feel disagreeable it is better for you to sit. There is no other way to accept your problem and work on it. Whether you are the best horse or the worst, or whether your posture is good or bad is out of the question. Everyone can practice zazen, and in this way work on her problems and accept them. . . The awareness that you are here, right now, is the ultimate fact. This is the point you will realize by zazen practice. In continuous practice, under a succession of agreeable and disagreeable situations, you will realize the marrow of Zen and acquire its true strength. - Shunryu Suzuki in Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind.

Day 267. I wonder what the opposite of "peak experience" is? Would that be a "valley experience"? The state of equanimity I rather boastfully alluded to recently was transient and fleeting. Bummer. It was good while it lasted.

I feel extremely disagreeable. The fact that I feel disagreeable because I am steeped to my eyeballs in Zen makes it particularly difficult to comply with Roshi's advice that it is best for me to sit. To my mind, hair of the dog has never been a logical remedy. It seems crazy to feel solid and grounded in my practice one day and erratic and uncertain the next. My usual panacea for the contradictions in my practice - "Such is Zen" - offers no solace tonight. Efforts at applying Zen during my daily existence, with all of its trials and mundane redundancies, have resulted in little other than a heightened sense that the world at large is a ridiculous and trying caricature of chaos. Few people seem to be adhering to the rules by which I am attempting to live. Makes me want to chuck it all in the recycling bin and drag it to the curb.

I am reminded of learning to windsurf. In the early 1980's, I was among the wetsuit clad pioneers frequenting Point Four at Lake Hefner with our short boards. Amongst the twenty or so guys who regularly sailed, there were three girls: me, Fran and Teresa. For several consecutive seasons, as the number of boy windsurfers increased exponentially (and our short boards got lighter and faster), there remained three girls. Me, Fran and Teresa. I think I know why.

Learning to windsurf at Lake Hefner is not fun. The wind blows hard and gusty. Balancing on a teetering piece of fiberglass in choppy, unpredictable water as I tugged on a rope hand over hand to bring up the sail that a gust had just ripped from my grasp and dumped me in the lake demanded a level of perseverance I hadn't demonstrated since my brief stint of untangling Slinkies when I was seven. The booms and sails on the boards of the '80's were heavy, and dragging a sail up by the uphaul - time after time after exhausting, infuriating time - was grueling. Particularly when there was a high likelihood that the reward for my effort would be to move no more than two yards across the water before wiping out and starting the entire process over again. The ratio of strenuous energy expenditure to wind-in-your-face planing across the water was, in the beginning, about 44,000 to 1.

Most sports have their turning points. That specific milestone that distinguishes the beginner from the intermediate, the novice from the experienced, the worker from the player, the "This sucks, why would anybody do it?" from the "Oh, my God, what a blast, I Rock!" In cycling it is when you can ride clipless. In water skiing, maybe mastering the slalom. In snow skiing, probably learning to parallel. In windsurfing it is the Water Start.

A successful water start means that all the upper body agony of hauling up your sail and balancing precariously on a wobbly board while you slowly, carefully, reach for the boom and sheet in the sail is replaced by the exhilarating feeling of sliding your feet snugly into the foot straps at the very back of the board, lying beneath your sail, lifting it up so that the wind slides underneath, and - Whoosh! You are lifted onto the board by the sail, and away you go! Skimming along the waters' surface at breakneck speed while the shore blurs behind you. Once the water start is mastered, the sport is never the same. The impossible becomes the sublime.

The promise of the water start holds little meaning when you haven't yet experienced its thrill. Few women are willing to endure the agony of the prerequisite skills that culminate in it. There is no shortcut. Those of us that crossed over all paid our dues. You begin with uphauling that frickin' sail. Over and over and over again. Until your hands are chafed raw and the muscles in your back and forearms scream for mercy. The initial effort and pain, in the absence of any discernible payoff, deters most females (because we generally have proportionately less upper body strength) from advancing to the best part of windsurfing. They get discouraged and give up. Tragic, indeed. In 1982, the phrase "Paying it forward" hadn't entered mainstream consciousness. So the inescapable requisite suffering at the outset of learning to windsurf deprived countless women of the bountiful glory awaiting on the distant shore. The one that could only be reached through a water start.

I am approaching nine months of sitting zazen every day. So many times sitting on that cushion feels exactly like precariously balancing on a teetering piece of fiberglass. I've discovered that vast amounts of effort at not efforting must be expended, at least during the beginning (which, for me, appears to constitute upwards of thirty years). Fairly often, my psyche and my ego and my Mind Monkeys scream for mercy. Mostly, there has been no discernable payoff. Clearly, I haven't yet mastered the zen equivalent of water starting. Yet every once in a while, I glimpse its marrow. Beckoning from a distant shore.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Space Mountain

When we are not sure, we are alive. - Graham Greene in the zen Calendar (August 3, 2007).

Day 266. Multiple Peak Experiences!! (that's the most sexual thing I've ever printed on my blog, which may explain why I have only 22 followers - Gassho to each and every one of you - after eight months. ) Peak Experience #1 was spending time on the Tassahara Zen Mountain Center web site and Lo! and Behold! Finding downloads of many of the chants I did while sitting with my teacher, Frank. I just spent half an hour chanting my favorites, including the Heart Sutra and Maka Hanya Hara Mita. Peak Experience #2: While on the same site, I downloaded the application for a work/study program during the summer of 2011. I hope to spend about 10 days working at Tassahara, studying Zen, and sitting zazen. Peak Experience #3: I have been surfing sites on Trinidad in preparation for a trip with my friend Lorene (her mother is a native and we graciously volunteered to escort her to her homeland). There is a killer mountain bike outfit on Topago, the sister island to Trinidad. I must finish the blog/sit year prior to this trip, because if the mountain biking is, in Reality, as good as the posted pictures, I will probably stay! Peak Experience #4: A wonderful comment on the blog from a couple of days ago. Gassho, Delbertino, and thank you for sharing your thoughts. Comments on the blog are a precious gift to me.

Whew. If I was a smoker, I might need a cigarette about now. I'll sip my chamomile tea instead. I've always thought it tastes like dirt, yet I really like it. Probably acquired a taste for it from all the trail I eat while mountain biking. For some reason I haven't the foggiest idea of what I originally intended to write about this evening. Something about sitting zazen. Yeah. That narrows it down.

While keeping my mind on my mind (a very odd thing we Buddhists do), I've noticed that I spend much less time "brain blogging" during the day. I think this is a result of a concentrated effort to dwell in the here-and-now. This has always come easily for me during work with clients, because I love engaging in therapy. It is intrinsically absorbing. Lately there are other areas of my life during which I am able to stay in the moment more frequently: When I chop vegetables, I chop; when I'm in Pilates class, I do Pilates; when I walk with Chylene, I'm fully present with her; when I drive, I actually operate my vehicle, so as not to be a dumbass (partially due to fear of return karma after blogging on the subject!) When I sit down to blog, it is then that I blog. My blogging radar (bloggar?) remains ever vigilant because material is Everywhere; however, I seem better able to rein in my blog-o-mania during times my attention is best focused elsewhere. Like on the car in front of me.

My sitting practice continues to astound and perplex me. It's like Space Mountain at Disneyland: You're in for a wild ride, and you can't see where it is taking you. Which always made Space Mountain one of my favorite attractions. A roller coaster is much more exhilarating when you can't anticipate the ups and downs, twists and turns. It keeps you in the moment. You can't prepare for what comes next; you just have to trust that the coaster stays on the track and takes you where you need to go. During any one ride, you can love it, hate it, fear it, enjoy it, want it to be over, and want to stay on forever. If you're like me, you keep going back to ride it again. Over and over. The thrill is never completely gone.

I thought I had more to say, but I reread the last paragraph and realized I inadvertently described a perfect metaphor for my practice. So I'm headed for the cushion. Or a ride on Space Mountain. Same thing.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Waiting Properly

Zen practice is thus not a set of operations designed to achieve an external goal. In Zen, the effort and the result are not two different things, the means and the goal are not to be separated, the finding occurs in the very seeking itself. - Bernard Phillips in the Zen Calendar (August 30, 2003).

It may take you three minutes, it may take you thirty years. And I mean that. - Hasegawa, on being asked how long it takes to obtain an understanding of Zen. In the Zen Calendar (September 1, 2007).

You must learn to wait properly. - Eugen Herrigel in the Zen Calendar (April 12, 2004).

Day 265. Unbelievable. A mere 100 days of blogging left. How time flies. For about a nanosecond, I felt a little pressure to say something profound about this significant milestone. For another nanosecond, I felt a need to up my profundity for the next 100 days. In the nanosecond after that, I experienced worry that a mere 100 days is not time enough to express all the wit, wisdom, and wavering I need to impart. And then - Voila! I remembered what an advanced Zen student I have become. I am no longer attached to any of those outcomes. I simply have to get my butt on my cushion with sincere intent. Piece of cake. Grain of rice. Sip of tea. Whatever appropriate Zen cliche fits . . . .

In actuality, I have a growing realization that 265 consecutive days of sitting zazen has been anything but a piece of cake. Almost everyone replies, "I could NEVER do that!" when they hear about the goal I set for this year. The only thing that bugs me more than people saying "Why?" (in response to THEIR question about how far I rode my bike on any given day) is when people say, "Oh, I tried meditation once. I couldn't turn my mind off," or "I just get too bored," or "I can't hold still for that long," or "Nothing happened." Well, no shit. As though that is somehow unique to them rather than exactly what happens to EVERY sentient being who has ever attempted to meditate since the dawn of time.

I suppose if I am the advanced Zen student I (quite recently) proclaim myself to be, I should exhibit a little compassion here. I'll give it a shot. Meditation is extraordinarily difficult. Not because, in reality, it actually IS challenging and complicated; rather, because our Monkey minds wreck havoc upon our initial idea of what is "supposed" to happen when we try meditation a few times. Surrendering our desire to achieve an external goal is the antithesis of the great American way. Doing something for the sake of just doing it contradicts our deepest beliefs about effort and reward, exertion and payoff, getting a gold star, and keeping our eye on the prize. In zazen, there is no prize. And even if you do happen to stumble upon that pot of gold at the end of the enlightenment rainbow, you still have to get your butt back on your cushion. Sitting is a thankless, eternal process. The only thing to find is the seeking itself. Seeking in the absence of finding is difficult to sustain, indeed.

I can only speak from my experience over the past eight months, but relinquishing ideas about what I am going to "get" from all this meditation has been one of the most daunting aspects of the whole endeavor. Last night as I performed my first bow, a feeling resembling "I'm tired. I don't want to do this" flickered across my consciousness. Meanwhile, I turned around, performed my second bow, and took my place on the cushion. Stretched three times to each side, set the timer, bowed again, formed a mudra, and drew a breath. Exactly like I have done for the past 263 days. Nothing remotely astonishing.

Except for this: even as the thought fumbled for a foothold in my mind, I never once - not for a nanosecond - considered not sitting. Somehow, some way, in the past 264 days, I have grasped that sitting is possible in the midst of every imaginable thought and feeling I can summon. This is huge. I used to confuse my thoughts and feelings with Reality. One good old, firm footed negative thought could derail me from just about anything. Any remnant of feeling resembling, "I don't wanna" threatened to curb my plans. Now, I distinguish the Reality of getting my butt on the cushion from the delusion of thoughts and feelings to the contrary. Let me assure you: the thoughts and feelings continue to beleaguer me, if not every night, at least many nights a week. I have grown in my practice to a point at which I proceed with sitting because that is what I do. No other reason. Even when I don't wanna.

This fledgling capacity is not restricted to my meditation practice. It spills over into household chores, running errands, completing paper work - even turning in treatment plans. I don't wanna do any of those, but I do them (most of the time!) with much more equanimity and calm. Other times, I do them with grumbling and reticence. But I do them. Usually with an acute awareness of the difference between Reality (the treatment plan is due) and illusion (not being in the mood actually has the power to render it impossible to do the task). I have mastered doing MANY things when I am not in the mood. It is fascinating to discover that the task can be done anyway. Initially, the mood FEELS as though it is Reality, but zazen practice has shown me otherwise. Probably through those countless minutes when I thought my legs had separated from my body, and I managed to remain still until the timer sounded. It FELT like I couldn't last another second while the pins and needles shot through my calves but, in Reality, I kept sitting. And so far, my legs remain attached.

I do not mean to imply that one should ignore important signals emanating from within the body. Rather, I've learned that sometimes, through mindfulness, gathering a little more data may result in a decision to carry on. The catastrophic thing I expected didn't occur. The reflex to bolt was premature. I have discovered strength and stamina and courage I never would have known existed had it not been for my daily practice. This sounds strangely like a reward for my sitting. Perhaps it is. But I think I've almost reached a point where I would sit anyway. My finding occurs in the very seeking itself.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Isn't Life a Terrible Thing?

Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God? - Dylan Thomas in the Zen Calendar (April 18, 2003).

Day 264. Today I bade my British friends farewell. We managed to say good-bye the proper English way: Stiff upper lips were maintained by all. I promptly got in my car and sobbed like a baby. Life can be a terrible thing.

Strangely enough, the quote for tonight is from my "favorites" pile. It never fails to reverberate deeply when I come across it each night as I peruse my collection, looking for an appropriate quote. I couldn't imagine what subject matter would warrant it, until now, where it seems perfectly applicable.

I thank the Buddha for the terrible ache in my breast and melancholy in my veins that accompanied bidding cherished friends good-bye. I remembered the words of my analyst as I grappled with terminating ten years of laying on his couch: "Our sadness at saying good-bye lets us know how deeply attached we've become." I say this often during painful endings with my own clients. This difficult parting is an occupational hazard unique to therapists. The good ones are constantly putting themselves out of business.

The Buddhist concept of letting go of attachment is a curious one. After 263 days of sitting, I actually do feel exorbitantly less attached to most material possessions, to the outcome of innumerable situations in my life, to lauding myself as a professional via the countless forums that request it, to the idea that something will be attained through my daily zazen practice. Yet many attachments, or fractions thereof, remain. I struggle with attachment to how I perform on the bike, to the idea of evolving in the direction of being less judgmental and egocentric, and - especially - to the people I love.

The curious part of this attachment/non-attachment conundrum is that my practice of Buddhism is smack at the center of an increasing capacity to love deeply. To connect wholly. To trust rather than fear. To risk rather than avoid. In short, to develop deep and meaningful attachments with the loved ones in my life. It doesn't feel at all dissonant with the principle of non-attachment. I suspect that when attachment is a segment on the continuum of acceptance, connection, and love, it takes on a different meaning. Practicing non-attachment is, paradoxically, a perfect means through which I am learning how to be attached. Such is Zen.

The idea that attachment underlies all suffering is gradually making more sense to me. Attachment to thoughts and ideas and expectations and opinions about how Reality should unfold are bound to result in disappointment. Attachment to loved ones can hurt, too. A lot. Especially when you live on different continents. Caring deeply for others inevitably requires suffering. It is a terrible thing. Thank God.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Rain Washed Air and A Soft Pink Sky

To demand "sense" is the hallmark of nonsense. Nature does not make sense. Nothing makes sense. - Ayn Rand in the Zen Calendar (April 9, 2003).

Day 263. I just finished a twilight walk. The day's rain provided a long overdue rinsing of the muggy, smoggy atmosphere. I walked and breathed. Breathed and walked. Witnessed another brilliant sunset. It broke apart the heavy rainclouds, shredding them into lacy pink swirls that looked like soft pink cotton gathered in an east Texas field and strewn across the western sky.

I am empty of words after yesterday's purge. Wrung from reflection on the Jefferson trip. Saddened by my friends' departure tomorrow. Blogging sometimes fills me with words, while sitting fills me with emptiness. Blogging helps Do; sitting helps Be. It has turned into a really good combo.

I fear that if I continue, I may write something smarmily fluffy, filled with bunnies and roses. Fortunately, my friend is waiting for me. The one consumed with passionate despair over separation from her husband. My desire is to sit her down on the cushion next to me and teach her to breathe. To connect with the spirit of love that pervades the galaxy. To renew her hope and restore her soul. To help her make sense of a man abandoning her for alcohol.

She doesn't want to sit on a cushion. She wants to hear nurturing sounds interspersed with foul-mouthed agreement over what a schmuck her husband is. I will provide what she wants rather than what I think she needs. But I'll probably mention that to demand sense is the hallmark of nonsense. Nature does not make sense. Nothing makes sense. Not even a lifelong friendship like ours.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Beautiful Moments

"I say to the moment: "Stay now! You are so beautiful!" - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe in the Zen Calendar (July 26, 2001).

Day 262. Peak Experience! A new follower, bringing the total to 22! Such a symmetrical number: two two's, two plus two is four, two times two is also four. My brain is so happy right now, it would light up a PET scan like the switchboard in Mayberry when Barney started the rumor that Andy was going to marry Miss Crump. Gassho, Number 22!!

I just returned from Jefferson, Texas. Uncanny that, after six hours in a minivan with my parents, I chose the above quote from my "favorites" pile. Yet it unquestionably fits. I never knew that thirty-seven hours could hold so many beautiful moments. After a scenic drive down the Indian Nation Turnpike, we stopped at the Dairy Queen in Powderly, Texas. Beautiful on three accounts: 1) there are no Dairy Queens close to my home, and I miss them dearly; 2) my banana split was a work of art; 3) my delightful British friends didn't bat an eye at my unbridled enthusiasm for stopping at a small town ice cream fast food establishment. With characteristic good humor and grace only the English exhibit, they demonstrated impressive expertise at ordering Blizzards. Gassho, Pam, Jim and Charlotte!

Exiting the DQ with soft-serve filled bellies and a decent sugar high, we proceeded south along rolling Texas two lane highways. We passed freshly harvested cotton fields where snow white tufts of the plants littered the dirt. As we traveled further east, blackjack oak blended with pine trees, and the British trio commented on how many Baptist churches occupied eastern Texas. We replied that there was no shortage of members of Baptist congregations in this part of the country. By mid-afternoon, we arrived at the McKay House Bed & Breakfast, built in 1851. I acknowledged that in Britain this was considered recent architecture, but in the U.S. it is pretty durn old. We were all delighted with the 16-foot ceilings, tasteful antiques and wall art, and the detail with which Hugh, our host, embellished our rooms. His graciousness is unprecedented. I would highly recommend his B&B.

After time to sort ourselves (I LOVE that custom!) we met in the garden for coffee and wine. That is, my parents drank coffee and we sipped wine. We accompanied it with Hugh's homemade lavender cheesecake, which we chased with homemade chocolate chip cookies. Talk about a rapid recovery from the road. It was warm in the garden, but sitting in the shade catching an occasional breeze felt like the perfect setting for English tea time during Indian Summer in eastern Texas. Charlotte occupied herself with Scout the kitten. They took to one another immediately, probably because of Charlotte's knack for tickling kitty bellies with plant stems. I don't recall what we talked about. I just remember a sense of complete and utter contentment and gratitude. Time stood still. Our pulses palpably slowed. I drew deep, cleansing breaths, and thoughts of my sitting practice briefly flickered through my mind. It has so prepared me for the bliss of these moments. These Beautiful Moments.

We considered remaining in the garden for, well, perhaps indefinitely, but Main Street Jefferson beckoned. Pam and Jim strolled through the neighborhood while the rest of us cruised to the cobblestones in the minivan (mom and dad were particularly appreciative of the fact that I could open their doors from the driver's seat). We wandered about the shops in the late afternoon sunshine, stopping at the General Store to get a taste of small town America fifty or so years ago. Naturally, my attention was riveted on the old fashioned candy peering temptingly from big wooden barrels. What is it about bite-sized Bit-O-Honeys and those pastel salt water taffies wrapped in wax paper that is so delightful? Gazing at that assortment of colorful confections from my childhood filled me with a happiness I cannot comprehend. Beautiful Moments.

We dined at the Bistro, and were literally given the best seat in the house -- a front table looking out on Main Street. The French doors were thrown wide open, so that potted ferns were the only thing between us and the sultry outside air. European, indeed. Jim and I dashed to the grocery store for wine, while I failed miserably at attempts to explain the bizarre alcohol rules in Texas (rivaled only by the weird rules in Oklahoma, including no wine in the grocery stores). Dinner was lovely. I don't know if I was more tickled by Jim chowing on American meat loaf, or Pam enjoying shepherd's pie - a traditionally English dish of which the Texas version bore no resemblance. We lingered over our wine with our usual easy conversation and effortless feeling of connection. These are my favorite people in the world. Beautiful moments.

Back to the garden to finish the wine and enjoy more chocolate chip cookie chasers (fortunately, Hugh bakes in big batches). The garden was charmingly decorated for Halloween, and the moon added her own touch by slowly rising - a brilliant, round, gold-orange autumn sphere - in the eastern sky. We admired it through the branches of the tall trees surrounding us. The white lights strung about the garden flickered playfully as we congratulated one another on our wonderful day. The air was still warm from daylong sunshine and moist with upcoming showers, enveloping us in a musky southern ambiance. The smell of my parents' coffee, damp leaves and home baked cookies wafted through our circle of wrought iron chairs. Beautiful moments.

Meditation under the gabled roof of a house more than 150 years old was mystical and gratifying. Charlotte and I talked until midnight, gazing at the tall ceiling in our upstairs boudoir and chuckling over the train whistles that sounded every 15 minutes. Hugh's gourmet Gentleman's breakfast greeted us in the morning. Our group of six was joined by five other house guests, all of us exclaiming over his exquisite presentation: colorful berry mixes of butter and molasses alternating with lovely pitchers of four kinds of juice marched down the center of the table. We dined in ladder style chairs draped with bright orange covers bearing jack-o-lantern faces. Delightful. As our meal ended, Hugh's wife Darla came into the dining room, politely inquiring if their four-year-old son, Atticus, could come in to hear " the people who sound like Thomas The Tank Engine." Pam, Jim and Charlotte laughingly obliged.

Next, something enchanting unfolded. Atticus bolted to his room and emerged with a Thomas The Tank Engine book. Pam invited him to bring it to her so they could read it together. Atticus perched on a chair by Pam's side, and she began the book in the lilting British accent in which it was intended to be read. It quickly became apparent that Pam, a mother of four, had extensive practice at reading children's books aloud. A hush fell over the dining room. Pam read on. Atticus listened, enthralled. Hugh came to kneel beside Atticus, listening to the story and watching his enraptured face. Darla quietly got her phone and recorded the spontaneous, splendid reading of Thomas.

I kept my eyes on Atticus' face. It lit up with animation and delight at this lyrical reading of his favorite story in its native form. All of us listened, spellbound, until the story ended. We applauded Pam as she closed the book, smiling serenely as if she read British books about talking trains to a table full of Americans every morning. Darla explained that Atticus had been obsessed with all things train from the time he was an infant. Hugh said he would post the reading on the B&B website. Look for it under Alley-McKay Bed and Breakfast in Jefferson, Texas. I am certain Pam has a future in narrating books for children if she desires. She has certainly found her first fan.

We filled our day with a foray down the pine-lined highway to Uncertain, Texas (are you certain you've been to Uncertain?) Stood on the banks of the bayou of Cypress Lake, marveling at the quiet and quizzically wondering about the "knees" of the knotted cypress roots lining the shore. Watched a woman catch two fish from a fancy bass boat not 30 feet from us. Caught a glimpse of their shimmering turquoise scales as she deftly tossed them into an ice chest. We learned about the "working girls" of the historic bayou honky tonks, who were required to display their license to "practice." Just like me when I ply my trade, except they probably made more (and didn't have to file insurance claims).

Agreeing that we were certain we had visited Uncertain, we returned to Jefferson for a boat tour of the bayou. We glided through the sticky, humid air as the sun melted away clouds, watching turtles sun themselves on branches sticking up from the shallow water. We learned about the steamers that used to chug up the bayou, bringing cotton and other sources of wealth to the (then) booming town of Jefferson. Heard about the hazards of picking berries for the Mayhaw jelly the town is known for. We also learned that John, our skipper and tour guide, was deathly afraid of snapping turtles. When he showed us pictures of the whoppers that inhabit his bayou, we understood. Fortunately we only spotted lesser sized, benevolent tortoises. No alligators in sight. Charlotte was relieved. Beautiful moments.

After lunch in the festively colored Glory Days, we parted for a final hour of visiting the shops of downtown Jefferson. Contributed mightily to the economic security of the town. Met at the General Store to embark upon our return trip. I was indulged with another stop at the Powderly Dairy Queen, where we again consumed copious quantities of the best soft serve on the planet. Stopped in Paris, Texas to take an embarrassing number of photos of the miniature Eiffel Tower with the bright red cowboy hat on top. Laughed and joked and kidded for the five-hour drive home. When I pulled into my parents' driveway, I was applauded for my role as trip organizer and Mistress of Minivan Maneuvering. Beautiful moments.

My heart overflows with love and gratitude during these treasured times with Jim, Pam and Charlotte. We create the most wondrous memories. Their presence in my life is a gift of unfathomable fortune. Our ease and comfort in each others' company contains the familiarity of family scented with the solace of perfect friendship. Life is more wondrous than I can grasp. My soul will forever contain the scene of Pam, sitting in her Pumpkin Chair, cheerily reading Thomas The Tank Engine to an enchanted four-year-old named Atticus. Beautiful moments. Magical to behold.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

From a Distance

Quote to follow.

Day 261. Short blog, as I am headed for a road trip. I am developing a great knack for traveling to destinations lacking computer access. Frankly, I'm growing fond of this particular expertise. A laptop is still nowhere on my horizon.

Peak experience! I just caught the end of an NCIS episode. It was the one in which Gibbs (who, with full acknowledgment that Jethro Gibbs is a fictional character, I would take a leap with any day!) teaches his team how to investigate the old fashioned way because a power outage has temporarily silenced their computers. In the closing moments of the show, the power comes back on, and the office is filled with the sound of keyboards furiously clicking away as the younger members of the team recover from their brief hiatus from their respective cyber-worlds. Gibbs looks around at their rapt absorption, glances at his own computer, and promptly turns it off. Gassho, Gibbs!

I have a bad back. This would be considered an understatement by the last neurosurgeon with whom I consulted. This was the man who leisurely guided me on a protracted tour down the length of his X-ray viewing hall while he blissfully interpreted the extensive flaws in my spine, the intricacies of which were artistically splayed upon the walls, illuminated in high def from my latest MRI. He appeared to derive no small measure of sadistic anticipation as he described the eight-hour surgery he recommended to correct the various defects of my crooked column. I politely declined. Went to physical therapy. Placed third in my age category in a major triathlon less than a year later. Surgeons like to cut. Triathletes would rather swim and run and pedal.

I digress (perhaps the thought of Jethro Gibbs lingers?). My point is that my back causes me pain sometimes. Exquisite, terrifying, debilitating pain. Exquisite because the pain, when it arrives, formulates itself as an exact replica of the structural abnormalities described by the neurosurgeon. Debilitating because my legs go numb, which has the potential to pitch me forward in what my son has affectionately labeled "The Lurch." Terrifying because of the potential to ground me from the bike, thereby squelching a major reason for living.

After a hefty run of pain free months, I am apparently having a back episode. Highly inconvenient, seeing as how I am driving my parents and British friends back to Jefferson tomorrow. Poor timing, since mountain bike season formally arrives in the imminent future. It is tempting to become exorbitantly attached to the idea of my back ceasing to hurt. I am resisting the temptation.

Instead, I have decided to practice some of the skills I learned from Arpita, the teacher at the Metta Meditation. She provided a guided imagery in which we rested consciousness on various parts of our bodies, registering without opinion the status of each part. She then suggested we send loving kindness to parts that were in pain or otherwise suffering. The goal was not to stop the pain, rather, to practice detachment from it. Sort of a practice of Radical Acceptance of that which was hurting us.

Historically, I create and wallow in "meta-pain" when my back hurts, i.e. being in pain about my pain. This level of hurting exacerbates the very real physical pain caused by scoliosis, bike wrecks, and being hit by a car. Meta-pain wraps my back pain in a layer of tension, depression, helplessness, despair, fear and anger -- none of which is a very effective analgesic.

Tonight I will try to engage a different response. This is the first time since beginning to meditate and blog that I have had so much pain. I'll probably need to alter my sitting position; fortunately my teacher had back problems and demonstrated several acceptable alternative meditation positions. I am going to engage in loving kindness towards my back. Practice acceptance of its defects and non-attachment to having a more robust spine. Dwell in the reality of my current physical Self as it Is. Become centered on my breath rather than the negative feeling states that threaten to cloak my already tender nervous system.

I will blog about how it turns out. I don't expect my pain to be remedied. I just want to watch it from a distance.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Strategy and Intimacy

"Strategy is the antithesis of intimacy." - Me, in a brilliant moment with a client today.

Day 260. Mercury is NOT retrograde. I feel as though I need to post a formal apology for misrepresenting the status of such an influential planet. I thought the source bringing the position of the planets to my attention was a reliable one. However, I didn't have the "blame it on the planets" feeling that usually signals when Mercury runs amuck, so I checked the dates for the next retrograde on a VERY reliable source (a.k.a. Google) and, sure enough: Mercury won't misbehave again until around December 10th. Whew. I leave on a trip tomorrow morning. As if my parents and a mini van wasn't going to be stressful enough.

Being a therapist is sometimes akin to being a blogger: For every twelve gazillion things that spill out of my mouth, one pretty cool sentence is uttered (or typed). This morning, I spoke one (if I do say so myself). It may become a bumper sticker.

I was processing the proverbial "give each others' stuff back" interaction between a client and her (barely) ex-boyfriend and found myself observing that there appeared to be a great deal of "strategy" in her reactions to him. I contrasted this with genuinely expressing how she felt and what she needed. My client was receptive to my feedback, agreeing that her generation exudes tremendous energy in the service of "winning" at social interactions. We discussed how necessary it feels to avoid appearing vulnerable, sad, needy, regretful, ambivalent, longing, or affected by someone. I pointed out how ridiculous this is when applied to a person you have been in love with for over a year. It is very incongruous to assume a posture of indifference when a serious relationship ends.

At that point, I uttered my eloquent epiphany: "Strategy is the antithesis of intimacy." My client and I stared at each other, stunned, while we absorbed the meaning of my words. Like all great truths, the moment of comprehension reverberated deeply. I elaborated, which wasn't really necessary with this exceedingly bright young woman. True intimacy will never unfurl in the absence of authenticity. Being intimate with someone requires, by definition, letting down our guard, abandoning our defenses, taking risks, being spontaneous, revealing our genuine feeling states -- in essence, bearing our soul through a leap of faith that it will not be trampled upon. This is absolutely the antithesis of strategy, which involves a defensive posture, caution, wariness, forethought, planning, resistance, and protecting our vulnerabilities. Strategy may serve us well on the playing field, in the board room, the classroom, the conference center, and the investment portfolio, but it is a definite impediment in our closest relationships.

At times I have felt soundly stuck in the mire of establishing and maintaining intimacy. This year of sitting and blogging has catapulted me away from strategic skill and smashed me face to face with challenges in intimacy. The longer I sit, the more I am up for the challenge. Trusting the existence of One Great Love and believing I am Of It goes a long way in taking gigantic leaps of faith. And leaping is the antithesis to being stuck.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Stay New

"Mama, I don't wanna get old -- I want to stay NEW!" - J.L., four-year-old daughter of a client as she grapples with her first existential crisis.

Day 259. I went to a physician of western medicine today. He is a D.O., however, so it doesn't really count. Gassho, Dr. L for the way you practice medicine. I felt like a person rather than an insurance claim.

Mercury is retrograde. Again. Seems like I just got everything fixed from the last time that pesky little planet was out of synch. I am prepared: feeling healthily non-attached to the wayward meanderings of misaligned planets. Talk about something that is out of our control . . .

My last client of the day began her session by showing me pictures of her four-year-old, who is new to the concept of death. She accompanied her mother to the hospital for a diagnostic procedure, and saw people in wheelchairs and a couple of very old individuals. Kind of like Siddhartha, only at the tender age of four. J.L. is a fairly precocious child, and it didn't take long for her mind to leap from an anonymous construct to fear and worry about her parents dying, and - even worse - her own eventual demise. My client attempted to reassure her by noting that most people live to be very, very old, to which the four-year-old exclaimed, "Mama! I don't wanna get old. I want to stay new!" Instantaneously, I knew I had my quote for the day.

Four-year-olds are very Zen. I have been blogging for 258 days, meditating like a madwoman, shushing the Monkeys like a tour guide at the Smithsonian, and pouring over Zen texts like a manic monk, and this brilliant child categorically defines Buddhism the first time she sees an old folk. Hell, she probably hears the sound of one hand clapping.

Yes, J.L., we all want to stay new. Brand new. Unblemished, unsoiled, unaffected, untainted, unharmed, uninfluenced, unencumbered. Resplendent in our original face. Zen mind, new mind. If all of us lived each moment with the awareness that it is brand new (because it is), we could dwell joyfully in Reality, rather than slather it in delusion. If we could enter and remain within "Just This!" there would be no Old - only the present exists. We would have the enlightened vision that accompanies living in the now, free from the clutter that results when we juxtapose past experiences onto present ones. No thought no feeling no expectation: Simply LIFE. As it unfolds. In all its realistic splendor.

I want to stay new. It will likely be my mantra for the next several days, or maybe decades. I want to stand squarely in each moment, recognizing it for what it is: the universe giving birth to another perfect fragment of Now. Gassho, J.L. I'll meet you in Nirvana.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Ode to an Outlier

All of us are watchers - of television, of time clocks, of traffic on the freeway -- but few are observers. Everyone is looking, not many are seeing. - Peter M. Leschak in the Zen Calendar (May 19, 2003).

Day 258. I feel like a freak. A deviant. An anomaly. A point way off the scatterplot. A mistaken zygote. A being born into the wrong century. I do not belong in this millennium. I identify far too closely with the Bronte sisters and the characters in their novels. My talents at chopping wood and carrying water far exceed my capacity to manipulate apps on tiny little screens.

There is a precipitating factor for my tirade on personal abnormality. I just noticed (after a mere 257 days) the tabs listed at the top of the screen from which I compose my blog. They say things like "Comments" and "Settings" and "Monetize" and "Stats." I clicked on "Stats" and - Voila! In a heartbeat more numbers than my Captain's Garmin after a century ride flickered before my gaze. Statistics on pageviews broken down according to country and specific blog. Pageviews categorized by browser and operating system. Number of views by week, month and all time total. There was a tab summarizing comments on my blog. My brief tour of the "Design" tab floored me with infinite ways to customize colors and fonts and photos and videos and music for my blog. I just want to write some fairly well arranged words and post them. The leap from paper and pen to keyboard and cyberspace was daunting enough. I doubt I'll be clicking on those intimidating tabs any time soon.

There is such irony in the endeavor I've undertaken for this year. I distinctly recall my original investment in a hope that someone might actually read what I write. Though I joked about it, I spent a lot of early cushion time wondering about what the blog would bring (book, personal relationship with Kate Hudson, and movie -- in that order). I was certain I would be involved in intimate correspondence with the innumerable like minded people I met through my insightful meanderings. Enlightenment, Nirvana, and contented bliss awaited me within the next breath. I would lose weight, clean the garage, pay off my debt, quit my day job and change my residence to a stimulating and invigorating locale. World travel and rectifying global suffering were listed at the top of my dance card. Ego, ego, EGO!!

In less than nine months I have simultaneously achieved astonishing change and mundane ordinariness. As to the latter: I'm still typing on a dinosaur; my followers hold at a steady 21 (Gassho to you all!); my garage remains cluttered; my blog screen is black-and-white and photoless; my evenings are spent utterly alone as I agonize over a keyboard followed by sitting still and breathing for 40 minutes; I am not on FaceBook and have never tweeted, twittered, or held a Blackberry. I have not corresponded with a single follower outside the comment box of the blog. Regarding the former: The idea of sitting sessions lasting for 40 minutes used to be terrifying and intimidating; now I plunk down on the cushion each night with nary a twitch. Sometimes the Monkeys are silenced for more than two seconds in a row. I've danced in and out of a sublime connection with Love and The One. For tiny segments of time, my mind or body (never both) have fallen away, leaving no boundaries separating me from the harmonious perfection of the universe. I know what it feels like to be completely void of fear. There are times I feel I've almost touched the face of God.

When I look, sometimes I even see! I see myself retreating even further from the superfluous and indiscreet revelations that appear to comprise modern social infrastructure. I see myself reading poetry rather than superficial reports of everyday activity. I see myself talking less and listening more. I cultivate silence. I say three (or more!) "No's" for every one "Yes." When I give a "Yes," I try to be impeccable in my word. In minuscule increments, I form fewer opinions. Aspirations for the future have yielded to focusing on the moment. I strive for quality in relationships rather than quantity. I am mindful about how I allocate my time. I am much less attached to my version of the outcome of things - including the blog. I haven't thought about Kate Hudson in months. I eat a lot of rice. And I can sit really still.

When I read the former paragraph, it is hard not to conclude that I am evolving myself right out of the realm of social normalcy. Separated from all that is cool. It's lonely sometimes, and then confusing that the loneliness is not particularly bothersome to me. No wonder there are few who read the blog: no sex, little cussing, low drama, minimal conflict (except within myself - the ultimate battlefield), discretion regarding self disclosure, fixation on the ordinary. Not exactly the stuff popular culture brandishes. I am observing that popular culture may not be the mechanism through which our suffering is healed. It makes being a social misfit a bit more bearable. That, and my knowledge that - beneath the pervasive delusion - there is no separation at all.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

One Perfect Day

The best things in life are nearest. Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. - Robert Louis Stevenson in the Zen Calendar (May 26, 2006).

Day 257. Closing in on the end of one perfect day. I am taking the liberty of writing a blog that closely resembles a journal entry. Please indulge me. This day was absolutely worth remembering.

The best things in life were very near to me today. During the morning I did much cup washing - in fact, I tidied my house with Zen Mind, Beginners' Mind. Approaching housecleaning tasks with mindfulness and calm, rather than my customary frenzied whirling and attitude of detestation, resulted in a welcoming home flooded with sunshine and warm breezes wafting through the windows, which I'd thrown open to admit the gentle day. Even my plants were smiling as I received the British guests in my home for the first time. Jim surprised me with a painting he had done of the two of us tramping through the Yorkshire Dales. I was ecstatic, and have already become deathly attached to it.

We had a light lunch in my sunny kitchen as lively banter was batted across the table. Then we ditched my parents for a trip to the Museum of Natural History. As we toured the extraordinary exhibit halls, I felt uncannily proud to be an Oklahoman. Not to mention I learned more about ancient and recent history (about 250 million years' worth) in two hours than I did in the 12 hours of college credit I took on related subjects. Gassho to the museum curators and exhibit creators.

Next we took a town tour during which I had to repeatedly batten down my ego due to mounting pride for the city in which I reside. Viewing it through the eyes of foreigners transported me to Beginners' mind as I, too, delighted in the novelties my guests pointed out. I would not have guessed a family that has traveled all over the world would ask me to stop so they could take a photo of our local Pumpkin Patch (like the ones sponsored by just about every church in Oklahoma during the last two weeks of October). I learned that they do not construct Pumpkin Patches in Great Britain, though Halloween is catching on (despite the fact that the Queen definitely does not approve).

We picked up the parents and went to my favorite local restaurant for Tea. Interestingly, everyone ordered coffee (the better to wash down our enormous desserts) except Charlotte, who, like a proper Okie, ordered iced tea. Conversation flowed over an undercurrent of love borne of perfect compatibility and an awareness that these times together are Treasured Moments. Fully lived and remembered always. I have an unfathomable, incomprehensible connection to my British Dear Ones. I only know that our time together fills me with a bliss comparable to those astonishing moments of connection on the cushion. Sometimes it takes my breath away.

We bade one another farewell in the late afternoon, and I headed for a practice ride on the tandem. Seems my (former) captain and I have committed to a tandem event in a couple of weeks. I must admit it is gratifying to have established ourselves so strongly in the world of tandems that we warrant invitations to events that, only a year ago, we didn't know existed. Not that I have attachment to my cycling performance. Not that I invest ego in riding alongside some of the strongest teams in the nation. Not that I aspire for a good showing.

My legs, weary from yesterday's tramp, pleasantly surprised me this evening. Strip away the relational rubbish and we are Beasts on the bike. We rode like a rocket as the gorgeous fall day drew to a close. The slanting sun painted everything with the soft, golden hues of autumn. I stayed in Beginner's Mind as I pedaled, my senses on fire with heartbreaking crispness and clarity. The evening shimmered as we glided through the warm, musty air like a schooner in full sail. I chanted in Japanese when we climbed, and the syllables sent unprecedented jolts of power to my legs. Breathing deeply through my nostrils and any other orifice admitting oxygen, I inhaled the scent of dry leaves and freshly baled hay. I rode in perfect synchronization with my captain, and was reminded of the astounding way our cycling talent combines. The setting sun was fire orange as we pulled into the driveway.

The best things in life are nearest. You don't even have to reach for them. Just open your eyes and SEE! They've been there all along.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Marvelous Nature

In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous. - Aristotle in the Zen Calendar (August 22, 2004).

Day 256. I feel like my friend Whitney after she learned how long I had been in analysis. She said, "Wow. That's a long time. I would have gone for two sessions and said, 'I'm out - got nothin' more to say.'" After 255 blogs, I am tempted to write "I'm out - got nothin' more to say." Alas, I have 110 more blogs to write. Better think of something.

I spent the day at the Wichita Wildlife Refuge tramping through nature with my friend Jim. We saw upwards of 30 bison during our eight-mile tramp. We were so close to a few of them we could have . . . well . . . I'll just say the photos did not require a zoom lens. We saw longhorn but no elk, and turkey vultures and a painted bunting and a brilliant multi-colored lizard a gentleman on the trail told us was called a "boomer." I think that is probably its state nickname rather than the proper Latin derivative.

Time spent in nature passes like my time on the cushion. Everything falls away, and the moment just Is. I suspect that is why it is difficult to produce from the keyboard tonight. My consciousness has been about as far from my left brain as it can go without actually alighting on Nirvana. I could really feel the presence of my practice today. The past 255 days of zazen accompanied me on the trek. There was a remarkable absence of thought and speech. The emptiness this created was filled with sun, sky, boulders, scrub oak, wildflowers, and crunchy trail beneath my feet. No thought, no words, no expectations, no aspirations. Just four legs flowing along the trail. A couple pairs of eyes taking in the glorious panorama. Occasional observations shared in a harmonious British accent.

At the moment, it feel sacrilegious to devote any more effort to arranging letters in order to form words. Instead, I will sit, breathe and watch bison dance behind my eyelids.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Go Sort Yourself

We sit to settle the self on the self and let the flower of our life force bloom. - Dainin Katagiri in the Zen Calendar (August 17, 2004).

Day 255. The British are coming! The British are coming!

Dear friends of my family arrived from England a couple of nights ago. This means that my mom, the Poster Woman for Anglophiles, will be speaking in an Okie tainted British accent for the next couple of weeks. Delightful twists on vocabulary will also temporarily appear: the car trunk is the boot, flashlights are torches, umbrellas are brollies, trucks are lorries, and - best of all - hikes are tramps! Mom and I were in England in September of last year, and Jim took me on an amazing nine-mile hike across the Yorkshire countryside. I have pictures of every stile I crossed; they are irresistibly picturesque. Jim was a pillar of patience. In England, such treks are called "tramps." There are many tramping groups proliferating the moors of northern England. I have been looking forward to guiding Jim on an Oklahoma Tramp for months.

So many British customs are Zen practices, though I'm sure the Queen wouldn't label them as such! Our friends are from northern England, near Harrogate, where traditional British civilities are preserved. They observe "afternoon tea," sometimes formal, sometimes informal (a blog about that particular ritual may be forthcoming). My second favorite English habit is that of "sorting yourself."

When we are in England, our friends take us on day trips to magical places like the village where the Bronte sisters grew up, the town where "Last of the Summer Wine" is filmed, and seaside cities like Scarborough. We almost always have lunch at a local country pub, and we always stop for tea in the late afternoon. That is simply the way our days are done. Relaxed, rhythmic, and orderly. As late evening descends, we pull into the driveway and pile out of the car, weary and content. Then, as predictable as the changing of the guard, Pam sings out in her lyrical British voice, "All right, everyone. Go sort yourselves."

"Sorting yourself" means to go to your room, put down your purse, backpack, shopping bags, and other day trip accumulation, wash your hands, take off your shoes, smooth your hair, get a drink, open the window, and quite possibly have a very brief "lie down" (British terms capture the essence of things so much more completely than American English). The cardinal rules of "sorting" are: Don't Talk and Sort Alone. Brilliant. Who but the British would weave into the fabric of every outing a defined period with the specific purpose of rest, processing the day, and gathering yourself for the remainder of the evening. In the household of our friends, sorting usually lasted between 15 and 30 minutes, depending on dinner plans. It became one of my favorite parts of the day.

As I write this, I am reminded of a very early blog I wrote about the foyer of the country house. I described the idea of a buffer between inner home and outer world. "Sorting" is the time and emotional equivalent of the physical function served by the foyer. It makes such perfect psychological sense. I am absolutely convinced that Sorting is the reason I have such vivid and accurate recall of my day trips across England. I also credit it with my relaxed and pleasurable evenings. The cultural custom of formally designating time between segments of the day is such a refreshing contradiction to the American tendency to "time crunch" - that annoying American custom of cramming twenty hours worth of activity into ten hours, so that little of the day's frenetic buzz is fully experienced or recalled.

Buddhists sort through sitting. Zazen is a way of sorting the self, gathering the day's busyness together and gently stepping away from it, sifting through and settling down. It helps me rest and prepare for what comes next. I am going to go sort myself on the cushion. And prepare for a spectacular tramp.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

"O" As In Om

From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached. - Franz Kafka in the Zen Calendar (September 10, 2002).

Day 254. I rode my bike in the middle of the day. Twenty-five miles of feeling like complete and utter crap. I may be the tiniest bit ill. It is interesting to watch myself pedal away even when I am sick. I suspect my accumulating experiences of writing a daily blog and getting my butt on the cushion - whether I want to or not, whether I feel like it or not, whether anything happens or not - is spilling over into other aspects of my life. When you are not attached to any particular outcome, it feels much more possible to just engage in the endeavor. No wonder Nike sells so many shoes. They have a damn good motto.

I have developed a few therapeutic metaphors that have stood the test of time (evidenced by clients continuing to find them meaningful). I share one I call "The Tunnel" if a client is grappling with a painful and complex issue she didn't anticipate when she originally entered therapy. This occurs when the client has received just enough therapy to recognize a painful issue in her life and notice when it is occurring, but has not yet progressed to the point of actually behaving differently. It is an exquisitely painful period that spans "Ignorance is Bliss" and "I've Got it All Figured Out and Know How to Apply It."

The metaphor involves envisioning the beginning of therapy as walking into a tunnel in which it is possible to stand upright. As you walk through the tunnel, it gradually decreases in diameter, requiring you to hunch, then stoop, then crawl on all fours. At some point, the tunnel becomes too narrow to turn around, and crawling out in reverse without being able to see what is behind you is too terrifying. Thus, the only option is to continue moving forward, even though it is dark, cramped, uncomfortable, and you can't yet see the light at the end.

At this point in describing the metaphor, I always reassure my clients that they are not traversing the tunnel alone; I am with them as we crawl through the tight, difficult sections. I let them know that I am willing and able to be the "Hope Holder" - the tunnel guide who believes there will be a light, that we will emerge and once again stand upright. I am able to say this with conviction and sincerity - not as a false or naive promise, rather, I base my hope on twenty-two years of bearing witness to the awe-inspiring resiliency of humankind.

A few clients do back out of the tunnel, i.e. drop out of therapy and never emerge into the light (at least, not with me as their tunnel guide). I validate this choice; it is a legitimate option and sometimes people have sound reason not to push on through the pain of change. Curiously, most clients who reach the cramped, dark place where it is impossible to turn around (because they've learned too much to return to old behaviors) commit with vigor to the work that remains. It is at this point that there truly is no turning back. If you stay with something long enough, this point is eventually reached.

I am at this point in my zazen practice. Over the past few nights, there has been another subtle shift in my sitting. As always, it defies words as explanation; as always, I will assign some anyway. At the intersection of emptying my mind and resting awareness on my breath lies an on ramp to actually entering the breath. Becoming it. Me as Breather evaporates, leaving "no-me" -- only breath. It's the closest experience of "mind and body falling away" that I have encountered. I have to perfectly balance trying with not trying to get there - and of course when I get there, there is no "there" there (only Zen practice could EVER prompt a sentence such as that one!) It reminds me of the few flying dreams I've had in my life. The first fly always happened spontaneously, and then I had to accomplish not "trying" to fly to evoke the experience of flying (in the dream) again. Who knew my flying dreams were precursors to enlightenment? I just always awoke with the sensation that the dream was WAY cool!

When I have entered the breath, the sensation of breathing is replaced by (this is very hard to describe) an awareness of a perfectly symmetrical, cylindrical "O" in the region of my solar plexus. It rises and falls a little just behind my breast bone. The "O" intuitively contains the essence of All. It is like the address for The One. The feeling isn't exactly a physical sensation. It is like a combination of body, mind and spirit awareness. If I remain calm and surrendered, awareness itself vanishes. That is the best. Fleetingly, there is no longer any "me" to stand on the outside to be aware. It is as if I am dwelling within the ultimate "Is."

I doubt this state will be a nightly occurrence. So far, I have not been successful at willing myself to have flying dreams. Instead, it's like a gift I am practicing to receive. When it is given, my tunnel is infused with light. A brilliant, white light radiating an indescribable peace. There is definitely no turning back.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Ego Strength

You can outdistance that which is running after you, but not what is running inside you. - Rwandan Proverb in the Zen Calendar (December 9, 2007).

Day 253. I have blogged through some pretty strong emotions and some pretty complete exhaustion. I don't understand why tonight feels a little more extreme. I have all sorts of analytical hypotheses, none of which I have the slightest inclination to share. My imperative to use discretion at the juncture where the blog could potentially serve the purpose of a journal remains intact. Which leaves me precious little to write about at this particular moment.

This is unfortunate, because I had a catchy title and some experiences on the cushion I had planned to put words to (even though "you lose it if you talk about it.") Sometimes the burden of this endeavor feels very stressful. Ideals, aspirations, and commitments are such labile constructs. Mine often feel like tiny saplings during the volatile transition between winter and spring. There is an equal probability that they will freeze and die, or survive and flourish in the forthcoming warmth. I would set the odds precisely at 50/50.

It is confusing to feel emotions that range from rock solid detachment and budding Buddhahood to chaotic, infantile reminders of just how far a person is capable of regressing. I am at an awkward "in between" stage of development. I still ram in to intense feeling states that threaten to engulf me, but have evolved enough to avoid engaging in the primitive coping mechanisms that are typically evoked by those emotions. I am talking about the two biggies: Anger and Hurt. The emotions that frequently provoke insane behavior in sane people. Irrational acts where reason generally prevails. Impulsiveness that overrides reflection. Extremeness in the place of moderation.

I am summoning ego as I write. I don't mean the arrogant kind I am supposed to avoid in my practice. I mean the Freudian kind that keeps the Id in check. The Executive Function. The stuff I lend to clients all day long. It has been a grueling week; I am a bit impressed that I have any ego strength left to summon. Oops -- that was a glimmer of the first type of ego - the errant kind. Arghhhh.

Me and my executive ego are headed to the cushion. As coping mechanisms go, it still ranks above chopping something up with an axe.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Moderate Temperature

Buddhism is extremely easy and saves the most energy. It's just that you yourself waste energy and cause yourself trouble. - Foyan in the Zen Calendar (March 5, 2004).

Day 252. I didn't go to the Korean meditation group this morning. Traces of my intent littered my bedroom: Clothes were laid out, my cushion was neatly packed in a carry bag - I even drove by the location before I went to bed so that I would know where the meeting was (my navigational skills, like all other cerebral functioning, is dormant at 6:30 a.m.) I was once again reminded of the Reality that my early morning capacities are severely limited. Nonexistent, in fact. I remembered David Whyte's words and am trying to be merciful with myself.

Interestingly, the section of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind I read last night was vastly reassuring as I tried to refrain from rumination and self recrimination. It read: "Just continue in your calm, ordinary practice and your character will be built up. If your mind is always busy, there will be no time to build, and you will not be successful, particularly if you work too hard on it. Building character is like making bread - you have to mix it little by little, step by step, and moderate temperature is needed. You know yourself quite well, and you know how much temperature you need. You know exactly what you need (italics added). But if you get too excited, you will forget how much temperature is good for you, and you will lose your own way. This is very dangerous" (page 58).

Suzuki Roshi's teaching is like drinking from a still forest pool after a long, hot hike. He utterly quenches my thirst for clarity and longing for understanding. I do know exactly what I need. I need to abide by the practice I have established at the hours of the day (night, actually) that suit me. I need to challenge and extend myself within reasonable bounds - like continuing to knead the bread dough even when my arms are a little tired. Roshi also instructs: "Do not be too interested in Zen. When young people get excited about Zen they often give up schooling and go to some mountain or forest in order to sit. That kind of interest is not true interest."

Whew. I don't even have to leave my bedroom. My teacher's teacher says so. It stuns me to observe the variety of ways in which I can complicate something as implicit and ordinary as sitting and breathing. I suspect there are plenty of sanghas to explore that don't meet before sunup (though the monks all seem to begin at 5 a.m.)! It just occurred to me that several people over the years have remarked, "You run hot and cold." This was usually not said in a complimentary context. "Intense" has been the other word thrown descriptively my way. How ironic that I am now engaged in a practice where "moderate temperature is needed."

I guess I won't be disappearing to the mountains or forests any time soon. I will just plod along at my calm, ordinary practice. The process of building my character sometimes feels like stacking Legos to fill up the Grand Canyon. It is going to take a long, long time.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Wholehearted Seeking

In Zen, the effort and the result are not two different things, the means and the goal are not to be separated, the finding occurs in the very seeking itself. For ultimately, what is sought is the wholeness of the seeker, and this emerges only in the wholeheartedness of the seeking. - Bernard Phillips in the Zen Calendar (December 10, 2007).

Day 251. I cannot think about writing because I am consumed with a commitment I made for tomorrow morning at 6:30 a.m. What was I thinking? And how many days ago did I blog (blah, blah, blah) about being impeccable in my word? Who thinks of this stuff? And how do I get her to stop?

The commitment was to join a Tuesday morning sangha for meditation. At 6:30. In the morning. In the dark. I received an invitation to join the group at the dojo open house I attended a couple of weekends ago. This particular group is not Zen Buddhist. They practice a form of Korean Buddhism. Their Tuesday practice involves chanting in Korean followed by sitting for thirty minutes. The person I spoke to at the open house was kind enough to follow up with me after the David Whyte video because I had asked for details when I learned the group meets just a mile from my home. He then e-mailed directions to the meeting place and shared a little more information about their group. Talk about being impeccable in word. Today I noticed that he had specifically included me in an e-mail noting a change in the meeting place. I spontaneously e-mailed back to thank him and closed with, "See you Tuesday morning."

Morning is not my prime time. In fact, I rank morning right up there with insurance companies telling me how to conduct the practice of psychotherapy, i.e. it ain't my favorite thing. At the moment, I am painfully cognizant that disclosures such as this on the blog are not my favorite thing, either. Suddenly I feel accountable to anyone who actually reads my little plot of cyberspace. At the exact point where revealing my commitment to join the group tomorrow intersects my commitment to be impeccable in my word lies the necessity of waking at 6 o'clock. In the morning. In the dark. Did I mention I am not a fan of morning?

So here I am: a commitment, a disclosure, and an alarm that is set to go off at the peak of my best REM sleep. If that is not wholehearted seeking, I don't know what is.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Labels From the Cushion

Life does not need to be changed. Only your intent and actions do. - Swami Rama in the Zen Calendar (April 9, 2004).

Day 250. Wow. One quarter of one thousand. Fractions make my neurons dance like the Irish Riverdancers - the ones with the feet that move independently from the rest of the their bodies. As if that weren't enough to send the OCD sections of my brain whirling into bliss, it happens to be 10/10/10. How cool is that? In 115 days my blog year will be over. But who's counting . . . ? Oh yeah. That would be me.

I just spent a good portion (seventh-eighths or so?) of the evening writing an article for an eating disorders quarterly, and I seem to be all writ out. Luckily, I stumbled upon a portion of an article from the Monitor on Psychology I saved for my son about five years ago. The article had to do with the Six Virtues. I cut it out because it was a nice summary of qualities I hoped to cultivate in my child. The year before getting his drivers' license seemed like the perfect time to talk about virtuous behavior with big words from a psychology publication (since at the time my son was 15, anything verbalized by me personally held no credibility whatsoever).

The article listed Six Virtues and Their Component Character Strengths:
1) Wisdom and Knowledge - creativity, curiosity, open-mindedness, love of learning and perspective.
2) Courage - Bravery, persistence, integrity and vitality.
3) Humanity - Love, kindness and social intelligence.
4) Justice - Citizenship, fairness and leadership.
5) Temperance - Forgiveness, humility, prudence and self-regulation.
6) Transcendence - Appreciation of beauty and excellence, gratitude, hope, humor and spirituality.

This talk with my son about virtues occurred five years after I originally intended. Today, in fact, soon after I found the list while manically cultivating a Feng Shui paradise as I re-establish a single place of residence. I suspect it was exponentially more rewarding to have the discussion with a 20-year-old rather than a 15-year-old. By my son's estimation, I did pretty well with instilling virtues in my offspring. We agreed that temperance was, undeniably, the weakest link for both of us. I told him to plunk his butt down on a cushion for 250 days if he wanted to experience some humility and self-regulation.

One of the most useful things it seems I provide for my clients is getting a label to important aspects of their lives, especially complicated "stews" of emotion. A desire for comprehending relevant facets of our existence appears to be integral to the human condition. Labeling goes a long way toward making sense of things. I've posted the list of virtues on my refrigerator - the quintessential marquee of printed wisdom. That way, I'll read the list often (I rummage in my refrigerator a lot; it's a corrective activity for the trauma my dad created by hollering out, "Shut the door!" every time me and my brothers tried to get a glass of milk). Viewing names for the qualities I want to cultivate in myself will be useful in practicing mindfulness of them.

Perhaps that is one of the ways the blog can have the most impact; it is focused on putting labels on things I experience from the cushion. Challenging, since everything in Zen defies verbal description. The answer is always, "You had to be there." That's okay. We're all there already.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Seeing and Not Doing

"I see it. My brain just doesn't tell me to do anything about it." - My son, explaining why he kept running into things during his first walk in the hospital corridor after he awoke from a coma.

Day 249. For the first Saturday in several weeks, I did not ride my bike. I did, however, navigate several miles along the Feng Shui path. It was healing and restorative but lacking in cardiovascular rigor. I suspect I will take a compensatory ride tomorrow.

Can there be anything better than having a 20-year-old in your household? It makes the madness of those toddler years utterly worth it. The vastness of the young adult mind is astounding. Such novelty of thought. Such vigor of opinion. Such random association. Such production of verbal certainty. Such rejection of anything attributable to persons over thirty. Today I opted to abandon all self esteem and simply hang on for the ride. My psyche is all the better for it.

My son and a close friend of his were killing time at our house as they waited for it to be fashionably late enough to be seen out on a Saturday night. I joined their conversation - a luxury apparently awarded to parents for surviving their child's teen years. Somehow we ended up telling Mo stories about the hospital stay following my son's ski accident. He has no memory of the accident and many days afterward, so we have to rely on my historical accuracy.

We laughingly recounted the grievous irony of being bathed by and receiving occupational therapy from a drop dead gorgeous therapist and having absolutely no recollection of it. Shared the curious anecdote in which he never could tell the doctors his actual age, grade, or name of his school (he stubbornly reported that he was 10 rather than 14, in the fifth grade, and attended his elementary school rather than the middle school where he was in eighth grade. My theory is that fifth grade must have been a spectacularly good year). We recalled that he was shaken from the coma by the neurosurgeon shouting at him, "Do you SKI or SNOWBOARD!?" So much for the sweet motherly murmurings I had been uttering in his ear for 24 hours.

The tales led to one of the strange byproducts of his brain trauma, which we learned is extremely unpredictable and unique to each individual patient. Soon after regaining consciousness, the nurses emphasized the necessity of getting up and practicing walking around, in order to restore balance and coordination. They showed me how to utilize what was essentially a short leash to steady and stabilize my son as we took our first forays into the hospital halls. We had not progressed more than a few yards when our path was impeded by an IV pole. My son walked right into it. I shortened the leash (an utterly counterintuitive act for this adventurous mom) and we proceeded slowly down the hall. Before long a food cart similarly blocked our way, and my son kept walking as though it wasn't there, bumping it and then looking confused and irritated.

At that point I became concerned about his vision, and asked, "Do you see that cart in front of you? Did you see that IV pole?" He replied, "I see it. My brain just doesn't tell me to do anything about it." I considered this to be a significant piece of diagnostic data, and described what was happening to his doctor. His answer was the same frustrating reply given the entire first week following the accident: "Brain injuries are tricky. We just need to wait and see what comes back as the swelling goes down."

Neurosurgeons are not known for their social skills. I learned that they are receptive to parents who actually know the correct terminology for parts of the brain, including the visual processing center. We had a discussion about the likelihood that there was a temporary disconnect between the part of the brain that receives visual input and the part that interprets what is seen and makes decisions about a required action. Fortunately, my son's brain healed the disconnect in a manner of weeks. Unfortunately, this wasn't before his youngest cousin (and biggest fan!) got stepped on a few times.

As I reflected upon the memory, it occurred to me that a similar disconnect may occur in all of us at various times in our lives. Perhaps this stems from our tendency to avoid seeing Reality; we become absorbed in the noise and distraction and fail to see things as they are. I know that I am guilty of seeing things and not doing anything about them. It may be something as simple as noting a stray shopping cart in the parking lot and not wheeling it to the safety of the cart rack. Or failing to recycle something because it is inconvenient to rinse out. Or not walking the short distance to work because of the heat, or the cold, or the press of time. It may be something larger, like not speaking out in the presence of injustice, or cruelty, or misinformation. Or ignoring that persistent voice inside me that says, "Step out. Risk. Love. Connect."

My disconnect cannot be attributed to brain injury. Most likely, it derives from ego, or laziness, or living outside the here-and-now. I believe I am learning how to heal from the malaise of seeing and not doing. Ironically, the solution is the same one that began my son's journey to recovery. I have to Wake Up.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc

Everything is Waiting For You

Your great mistake is to act the drama as if you were alone . . .
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation . . .
Everything is waiting for you. - Excerpted from "Everything is Waiting for You" by David Whyte.

Day 248. Today my son elected to grace his hometown (not to be confused with his birthplace) with his presence. I am delighted, though there is not a speck of gluten-free food in the house. The dinosaur exhibited a bizarre form of electronic sibling rivalry and refused to allow me access to my blog site. How can something formed of silicon and microchips possibly detect my son's presence? It would be humorous if I could get past how creepily often this phenomena of computer mood swings coincides with my son's visits. He is, most assuredly, a force with which to be reckoned.

Toward the end of the David Whyte video, he recited his poem "Everything is Waiting for You." He followed the recitation with a brief talk about the meaning of the poem. I emerged from the awestruck state he had inspired in me from the moment he walked onto the stage in San Francisco, and heard the one sentence I can accurately recall from the entire video: "Take the first step. Don't worry about the the second step or the third step. Just take the first step out into your life."

This is not exactly an original suggestion. It was not delivered in a particularly theatrical or impassioned manner (though Whyte, with his lovely accent and irrepressible presence, certainly held his audience spellbound). I believe the words cut through me because my being was poised at that precise moment to receive them.

Perhaps beginning the blog was my way of "easing into the conversation." It is certainly my biggest leap into the cyberpublic domain thus far. Writing and sitting have led to connection with (at present!) 21 Followers and the sangha at the dojo, both of which are amazing opportunities through which to engage in conversation. Through subtle calibrations the universe doles out in increments that are tolerable to my psyche, I am grasping that I am not alone in the drama. It boggles my mind to imagine what my life holds as I learn to put down the weight of my aloneness.

Today I took another "first step" into my life. I am choosing not to disclose the details; suffice it to say it was action that needed to occur in order for me to live an authentic existence. There had been an incongruousness between a certain aspect of my life and the Being that is evolving as this year unfolds (this sounds more juicy than the circumstances actually are). The action took much courage and ongoing repetition of the mantra: "Reality isn't good or bad. It just is. Reality isn't good or bad. It just is . . . " followed by the echo of David Whyte's words: "Take the first step. Take the first step out into your life."

I am now wholly, completely, and indisputably at home. Literally and figuratively. As I took the steps to make that happen, a bizarre elation infused me, growing in wattage with each trip between the Xterra and my front door. I have come Home. Everything is waiting for me.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc