Eternity is a terrible thought. I mean, where's it going to end? - Tom Stoppard in the Zen Calendar (September 29, 2003).
It gets late early out there. - Yogi Berra in the Zen Calendar (January 26, 2007).
This year,
yes, even this year
has drawn to its close. - Buson in the Zen Calendar (December 31, 2007).
Day 332. Last day of 2010. I am ready to move on to some here-and-nows ending in 2011. I figure I might as well embrace the Passing of Time, because so far it seems to happen with the regularity of Gravity. It's good that a few things remain constant.
I am not a Snappy Reveler when it comes to New Year's Eve.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Be-ing Is What It Is
Often people attempt to live their lives backwards: they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want, so they will be happier.
The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then, do what you need to do, in order to have what you want. - Margaret Young in the Zen Calendar (July 5, 2009).
All things in the world come into being from being. Being comes into being from non-being. - Lao-Tzu in the Zen Calendar (October 15, 2006).
Lives based on having are less free than lives based on either doing or on being. - William James in the Zen Calendar (August 13, 2003).
If there is to be any peace, it will come through being, not having. - Henry Miller in the Zen Calendar (April 14, 2009).
Being is what it is. - Jean-Paul Sarte in the Zen Calendar (August 26, 2006).
Being, not doing, is my first joy. - Theodore Roethke in the Zen Calendar (August 10, 2009).
If you want to be happy, be. - Leo Tolstoy in the Zen Calendar (August 31, 2009).
Day 331. The college sophomore leaves soon to drive to Dallas to catch a plane to fly to Buffalo to visit the girlfriend. She doesn't know he is coming. Fortunately, her mother does. A surprise visit to ring in the New Year. Ah, young love. Attachment at its finest. Do we ever love as fiercely as when we were 20?
The day was chock full of trip preparation. Next to the seven loads of laundry (this child's clothes are incredibly large), our most challenging task was cramming a week's worth of apparel sized for his 6'3" frame into his allotted piece of carry-on luggage. My budding accountant of an offspring stubbornly refuses to pay Delta a fee to transport a more reasonably sized suitcase. Oddly, mysteriously, and against all odds, his carry-on zipped. Many clothing items were sacrificed to the bedroom floor (nothing new there; the floor has been a permanent residence for most of his possessions for most of his life). My son has always been gifted at math, but in all honestly I never dreamed he would actually approach the simple arithmetic of scarcity. Maybe there is hope for my "suit" after all!
I was going to write about Be-ing tonight, but after typing out the quotes on the subject I had accumulated over the years, I am not sure there is much left to say. When James, Miller, Sarte, Tolstoy, and Roethke have all reached essentially the same conclusion, and are on record as saying so, I doubt there is anything I can add. One would think that when brilliant minds such as these agree on something, the rest of the world would take it to heart. I see no evidence of that. The masses seem more fixated on having than ever before. Doing is a not-so-distant second, while being seems to remain allocated to the poets, songwriters and philosophers. Alas. It is Be-ing to which I aspire.
The colossal paradigm shift required to replace capitalism as our societal foundation seems about as likely as the Oklahoma School Board providing funding for new textbooks on evolution. Not likely to happen in the imminent future. Ah, well, I shall continue to remain steadfast in my conviction that there ARE alternatives. Zazen has taught me nothing if not patience.
If you look closely, there are promising seedlings beginning to sprout. Five years ago, the word "sustainability" certainly wasn't in the cultural zeitgeist. There are thoughts, words and actions generating energy around concepts such Recycle, Reuse, Reduce. Things are wrapped in thinner plastic and more pliable aluminum. You can get 68 loads of laundry out of the container that used to give you 34. Major companies brag about their various community projects and volunteer opportunities before the commercial segment advertising their product. Norman has curbside recycling, and a lot of people actually set out their bins. Give us another decade, and we will be as "Green" as Pullman, Washington was when I lived there in 1988. Progress. Better at a slow pace than none at all.
I am unclear about the complexities of it all, but I have deduced enough about economics to recognize that"being" poses a serious threat to capitalism. It doesn't cost a thing. Doesn't generate jobs or decrease the national debt. Can't be traded, bought, sold, or directly influence the DOW. Doesn't use anything up. Doesn't dip into precious reserves of natural resources, nor does it generate much waste. Isn't competitive, and doesn't lend itself very readily to the unequal distribution of it. It carries the risk of peacefulness, happiness, satisfaction, contentment, acceptance, and inclusiveness to those who practice it. Clearly, something that so spectacularly fails to generate need states that can only be satiated with goods or services cannot be good for society. No wonder it hasn't caught on.
At the risk of upending civilization as we know it, I'm going to press on with my quest to Be. From a look at the authors of tonight's quote, I will be in good company.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then, do what you need to do, in order to have what you want. - Margaret Young in the Zen Calendar (July 5, 2009).
All things in the world come into being from being. Being comes into being from non-being. - Lao-Tzu in the Zen Calendar (October 15, 2006).
Lives based on having are less free than lives based on either doing or on being. - William James in the Zen Calendar (August 13, 2003).
If there is to be any peace, it will come through being, not having. - Henry Miller in the Zen Calendar (April 14, 2009).
Being is what it is. - Jean-Paul Sarte in the Zen Calendar (August 26, 2006).
Being, not doing, is my first joy. - Theodore Roethke in the Zen Calendar (August 10, 2009).
If you want to be happy, be. - Leo Tolstoy in the Zen Calendar (August 31, 2009).
Day 331. The college sophomore leaves soon to drive to Dallas to catch a plane to fly to Buffalo to visit the girlfriend. She doesn't know he is coming. Fortunately, her mother does. A surprise visit to ring in the New Year. Ah, young love. Attachment at its finest. Do we ever love as fiercely as when we were 20?
The day was chock full of trip preparation. Next to the seven loads of laundry (this child's clothes are incredibly large), our most challenging task was cramming a week's worth of apparel sized for his 6'3" frame into his allotted piece of carry-on luggage. My budding accountant of an offspring stubbornly refuses to pay Delta a fee to transport a more reasonably sized suitcase. Oddly, mysteriously, and against all odds, his carry-on zipped. Many clothing items were sacrificed to the bedroom floor (nothing new there; the floor has been a permanent residence for most of his possessions for most of his life). My son has always been gifted at math, but in all honestly I never dreamed he would actually approach the simple arithmetic of scarcity. Maybe there is hope for my "suit" after all!
I was going to write about Be-ing tonight, but after typing out the quotes on the subject I had accumulated over the years, I am not sure there is much left to say. When James, Miller, Sarte, Tolstoy, and Roethke have all reached essentially the same conclusion, and are on record as saying so, I doubt there is anything I can add. One would think that when brilliant minds such as these agree on something, the rest of the world would take it to heart. I see no evidence of that. The masses seem more fixated on having than ever before. Doing is a not-so-distant second, while being seems to remain allocated to the poets, songwriters and philosophers. Alas. It is Be-ing to which I aspire.
The colossal paradigm shift required to replace capitalism as our societal foundation seems about as likely as the Oklahoma School Board providing funding for new textbooks on evolution. Not likely to happen in the imminent future. Ah, well, I shall continue to remain steadfast in my conviction that there ARE alternatives. Zazen has taught me nothing if not patience.
If you look closely, there are promising seedlings beginning to sprout. Five years ago, the word "sustainability" certainly wasn't in the cultural zeitgeist. There are thoughts, words and actions generating energy around concepts such Recycle, Reuse, Reduce. Things are wrapped in thinner plastic and more pliable aluminum. You can get 68 loads of laundry out of the container that used to give you 34. Major companies brag about their various community projects and volunteer opportunities before the commercial segment advertising their product. Norman has curbside recycling, and a lot of people actually set out their bins. Give us another decade, and we will be as "Green" as Pullman, Washington was when I lived there in 1988. Progress. Better at a slow pace than none at all.
I am unclear about the complexities of it all, but I have deduced enough about economics to recognize that"being" poses a serious threat to capitalism. It doesn't cost a thing. Doesn't generate jobs or decrease the national debt. Can't be traded, bought, sold, or directly influence the DOW. Doesn't use anything up. Doesn't dip into precious reserves of natural resources, nor does it generate much waste. Isn't competitive, and doesn't lend itself very readily to the unequal distribution of it. It carries the risk of peacefulness, happiness, satisfaction, contentment, acceptance, and inclusiveness to those who practice it. Clearly, something that so spectacularly fails to generate need states that can only be satiated with goods or services cannot be good for society. No wonder it hasn't caught on.
At the risk of upending civilization as we know it, I'm going to press on with my quest to Be. From a look at the authors of tonight's quote, I will be in good company.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Wrap Up!
Darkness wrapped in darkness:
this, the end of every quest. - Shih-Shu in the Zen Calendar (December 31, 2006).
Day 330. Thirty-five remaining blogs. Make that 35 remaining CycleBuddhaDoc blogs. I am developing a suspicion that, like sitting zazen, blogging has been indelibly imprinted upon my being. Not rigid nightly blogging by any means; rather, a relaxed, flowing, blog-as-the-mood-strikes-me type of posting. In fact, that may be the title of my next blog: As The Mood Strikes Me. I wonder if that domain name has been taken . . . .
I just spent some time tweaking a few previous blogs. Adding quotes, looking up authors and dates for quotes where they had been omitted, editing a little, etc. In the early months of the blog, I decided not to go back and read previous posts until the year ended, at which time I plan to carefully proofread and edit each one again, and then -- Who knows? I haven't contemplated what comes after that (probably because editing itself is so gratifying for my brain I haven't yet looked beyond that invigorating endeavor).
Addressing details from past blogs precipitated some thoughts about closure. In addition to its obvious requisite role in pacifying my obsessive-compulsiveness, closure is important to me because a good ending heralds the completion of something significant and meaningful. There are formal endings, such as the ceremony of funerals, memorial services, graduations, awards presentations, and sports finales like the Super Bowl and World Series. Ritual endings exist for everything from worship services to the posting of grades online after college finals. A good (not necessarily "happy") ending to a movie, play, opera, recital, story, or novel is crucial to the success of the entire work, especially if the audience is to leave with a sense of psychological satisfaction. Most of us have experienced the difference between satisfactorily attaining emotional closure at the end of a relationship and that unsettled, unfinished state of confusion that lingers indefinitely without adequate closure. Endings are important. They impact all that came before and a lot of what comes next.
I remember during football games when my son or another defender attempted a tackle that did not bring their guy down, the phrase "Wrap UP!" would be bellowed by his coaches (and on a few occasions, I must confess, by his mother). Failure to wrap up a tackle could have consequences ranging from a few extra yards gained to a game deciding touchdown being scored. Whatever the immediate outcome, not wrapping up is never a good thing. The defender may have done everything else right: reading the play, getting into correct position, executing perfect timing, outrunning the offensive player, but if he doesn't wrap up, all the good things are for naught. In fact, it's usually as if they never even happened. For all intents and purposes, the effort and energy expended at the onset of the play don't even exist if the tackle isn't completed. Effort and intent aren't recorded in the statistics book; a missed tackle or an executed tackle are.
When I post my 365th blog, I don't want my readers to be left bellowing, "Wrap UP!" Attachment be damned, I want to provide a sense of closure and satisfaction. A good, strong period at the end of the last sentence. I want what came before to matter -- to be significant and meaningful. Something akin to my feeling following the Japanese chant my sangha performs at the end of our zazen sessions. When I exhale the last syllable of that short chant, I am left with a keen sense of completion; my very Being resonates with "That is that."
Sounds like a tall order. I am vastly reassured, however, because I just reminded myself there is nothing to attain. I love it when Buddhism takes my thought processes and kinks them up like a beginner Cowgirl's lasso. It is only then that the thought "I must have good closure to a never-ending endeavor that I shouldn't be attached to because there is nothing to attain" can come out sounding perfectly reasonable. Which is a lot more than I can say about most of the tackles I've seen.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
this, the end of every quest. - Shih-Shu in the Zen Calendar (December 31, 2006).
Day 330. Thirty-five remaining blogs. Make that 35 remaining CycleBuddhaDoc blogs. I am developing a suspicion that, like sitting zazen, blogging has been indelibly imprinted upon my being. Not rigid nightly blogging by any means; rather, a relaxed, flowing, blog-as-the-mood-strikes-me type of posting. In fact, that may be the title of my next blog: As The Mood Strikes Me. I wonder if that domain name has been taken . . . .
I just spent some time tweaking a few previous blogs. Adding quotes, looking up authors and dates for quotes where they had been omitted, editing a little, etc. In the early months of the blog, I decided not to go back and read previous posts until the year ended, at which time I plan to carefully proofread and edit each one again, and then -- Who knows? I haven't contemplated what comes after that (probably because editing itself is so gratifying for my brain I haven't yet looked beyond that invigorating endeavor).
Addressing details from past blogs precipitated some thoughts about closure. In addition to its obvious requisite role in pacifying my obsessive-compulsiveness, closure is important to me because a good ending heralds the completion of something significant and meaningful. There are formal endings, such as the ceremony of funerals, memorial services, graduations, awards presentations, and sports finales like the Super Bowl and World Series. Ritual endings exist for everything from worship services to the posting of grades online after college finals. A good (not necessarily "happy") ending to a movie, play, opera, recital, story, or novel is crucial to the success of the entire work, especially if the audience is to leave with a sense of psychological satisfaction. Most of us have experienced the difference between satisfactorily attaining emotional closure at the end of a relationship and that unsettled, unfinished state of confusion that lingers indefinitely without adequate closure. Endings are important. They impact all that came before and a lot of what comes next.
I remember during football games when my son or another defender attempted a tackle that did not bring their guy down, the phrase "Wrap UP!" would be bellowed by his coaches (and on a few occasions, I must confess, by his mother). Failure to wrap up a tackle could have consequences ranging from a few extra yards gained to a game deciding touchdown being scored. Whatever the immediate outcome, not wrapping up is never a good thing. The defender may have done everything else right: reading the play, getting into correct position, executing perfect timing, outrunning the offensive player, but if he doesn't wrap up, all the good things are for naught. In fact, it's usually as if they never even happened. For all intents and purposes, the effort and energy expended at the onset of the play don't even exist if the tackle isn't completed. Effort and intent aren't recorded in the statistics book; a missed tackle or an executed tackle are.
When I post my 365th blog, I don't want my readers to be left bellowing, "Wrap UP!" Attachment be damned, I want to provide a sense of closure and satisfaction. A good, strong period at the end of the last sentence. I want what came before to matter -- to be significant and meaningful. Something akin to my feeling following the Japanese chant my sangha performs at the end of our zazen sessions. When I exhale the last syllable of that short chant, I am left with a keen sense of completion; my very Being resonates with "That is that."
Sounds like a tall order. I am vastly reassured, however, because I just reminded myself there is nothing to attain. I love it when Buddhism takes my thought processes and kinks them up like a beginner Cowgirl's lasso. It is only then that the thought "I must have good closure to a never-ending endeavor that I shouldn't be attached to because there is nothing to attain" can come out sounding perfectly reasonable. Which is a lot more than I can say about most of the tackles I've seen.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Calm Assertive Energy
There is no joy but calm! - Alfred, Lord Tennyson in the Zen Calendar (February 7, 2002).
Every pack needs calm, assertive energy. - Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer.
Day 329. The only thing I feel like doing is eating things doused with whip cream. And I'm not talking Cool Whip, either. I can't seem to put down the Reddi Wip can -- you know, the pressurized kind of hydrogenated oil that squirts in artistic dollops over anything you point it towards, aka the least nutritional concoction on the planet. I suspect this behavior is diagnostic of something significant. Probably something to do with my father, anger, or sex. Most likely all three. Sigh. It isn't easy being a shrink. Rarely is whip cream simply whip cream.
In between garnishing various desserts with frothy white, vein-clogging topping, I have been watching a Dog Whisperer marathon. I color during the commercials. Though I am hesitant to examine this bizarre rejuvenation method very closely, it does seem to be working. On my psyche, at least. Probably not so much on my physical or intellectual prowess. Interestingly, I remain remarkably nonplussed by such flagrant disregard for productivity. This is the one week out of the entire year when I sidestep my Olympic caliber obsessive-compulsive proclivities and bask in sluggish glory. Sluglike lassitude. Slugness personified. Sluggy McSluggness from Slugville.
My torpid frame of mind was mildly jostled as I watched Cesar Millan. Having not previously viewed many Dog Whisperer episodes, I found myself fascinated by his countenance with the canines. Cesar is a mixture of pack leader, trainer, teacher, mentor, social worker, mystic, healer, therapist, group counselor and Zen Master. Skeptic and critic that I am, (recall that the resident Monkeys have still not been evicted) I was hard pressed to find fault with Cesar. I'm a believer. Mostly because, without labeling it as such, Cesar's entire philosophy is grounded on Buddhist principles. Of course I am a fan, albeit a biased one. But a consummate fan nonetheless.
Cesar constantly reminds the dog owners (most of whom ostentatiously created the very behavior they are begging Cesar to rectify) that dogs exist in the here-and-now, not the past or the future. He confronts them with the consequences of imposing their Preferred Version of Reality onto their dogs, (e.g. this dog replaces the absence of affection from my spouse; this dog is my baby; this dog must obey me because my children won't; this dog makes me feel _____ - attractive, successful, popular, powerful, safe), and emphasizes the fact that distorting or denying Reality never successfully eradicates it (just like Zen). In other words, the dog's behavior ultimately communicates the true Reality of the household.
I love to watch Cesar observe pet owners interacting with their dogs. I can tell he quickly gathers all the data he needs to determine the EXACT dynamics underlying the problematic behavior. Then, usually quite diplomatically, he explains what is going on and why, e.g. "You show favoritism towards your Chihuahua over your son, and now your dog and son are engaged in a fierce battle of sibling rivalry. So far, it looks like Pedro here is winning."
Cesar's ultimate answer for everything is to teach the pet owner how to establish calm, assertive energy in the "pack." Assertive, not dominant or aggressive. I adore this phrase. It reminds me of the feeling state from which I often emerge after zazen. The calm part is pretty self explanatory. "Assertive" reminds me that Zen is not a passive, submissive practice. There is vital energy present. Strong, invigorating energy. It is life enhancing and balanced, not combative or overbearing.
It feels like endless good can emanate from calm, assertive energy. I suspect it is applicable everywhere: from the family "pack" to the workplace pack to the classroom pack to the cultural pack. Good stuff. I'm headed to my cushion to generate some right now.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Every pack needs calm, assertive energy. - Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer.
Day 329. The only thing I feel like doing is eating things doused with whip cream. And I'm not talking Cool Whip, either. I can't seem to put down the Reddi Wip can -- you know, the pressurized kind of hydrogenated oil that squirts in artistic dollops over anything you point it towards, aka the least nutritional concoction on the planet. I suspect this behavior is diagnostic of something significant. Probably something to do with my father, anger, or sex. Most likely all three. Sigh. It isn't easy being a shrink. Rarely is whip cream simply whip cream.
In between garnishing various desserts with frothy white, vein-clogging topping, I have been watching a Dog Whisperer marathon. I color during the commercials. Though I am hesitant to examine this bizarre rejuvenation method very closely, it does seem to be working. On my psyche, at least. Probably not so much on my physical or intellectual prowess. Interestingly, I remain remarkably nonplussed by such flagrant disregard for productivity. This is the one week out of the entire year when I sidestep my Olympic caliber obsessive-compulsive proclivities and bask in sluggish glory. Sluglike lassitude. Slugness personified. Sluggy McSluggness from Slugville.
My torpid frame of mind was mildly jostled as I watched Cesar Millan. Having not previously viewed many Dog Whisperer episodes, I found myself fascinated by his countenance with the canines. Cesar is a mixture of pack leader, trainer, teacher, mentor, social worker, mystic, healer, therapist, group counselor and Zen Master. Skeptic and critic that I am, (recall that the resident Monkeys have still not been evicted) I was hard pressed to find fault with Cesar. I'm a believer. Mostly because, without labeling it as such, Cesar's entire philosophy is grounded on Buddhist principles. Of course I am a fan, albeit a biased one. But a consummate fan nonetheless.
Cesar constantly reminds the dog owners (most of whom ostentatiously created the very behavior they are begging Cesar to rectify) that dogs exist in the here-and-now, not the past or the future. He confronts them with the consequences of imposing their Preferred Version of Reality onto their dogs, (e.g. this dog replaces the absence of affection from my spouse; this dog is my baby; this dog must obey me because my children won't; this dog makes me feel _____ - attractive, successful, popular, powerful, safe), and emphasizes the fact that distorting or denying Reality never successfully eradicates it (just like Zen). In other words, the dog's behavior ultimately communicates the true Reality of the household.
I love to watch Cesar observe pet owners interacting with their dogs. I can tell he quickly gathers all the data he needs to determine the EXACT dynamics underlying the problematic behavior. Then, usually quite diplomatically, he explains what is going on and why, e.g. "You show favoritism towards your Chihuahua over your son, and now your dog and son are engaged in a fierce battle of sibling rivalry. So far, it looks like Pedro here is winning."
Cesar's ultimate answer for everything is to teach the pet owner how to establish calm, assertive energy in the "pack." Assertive, not dominant or aggressive. I adore this phrase. It reminds me of the feeling state from which I often emerge after zazen. The calm part is pretty self explanatory. "Assertive" reminds me that Zen is not a passive, submissive practice. There is vital energy present. Strong, invigorating energy. It is life enhancing and balanced, not combative or overbearing.
It feels like endless good can emanate from calm, assertive energy. I suspect it is applicable everywhere: from the family "pack" to the workplace pack to the classroom pack to the cultural pack. Good stuff. I'm headed to my cushion to generate some right now.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, December 27, 2010
Assaultive Debirs
Modern civilization is largely devoted to the pursuit of the cult of delusion. There is no general information about the nature of mind. It is hardly ever written about by writers or intellectuals; modern philosophers do not speak of it directly; the majority of scientists deny it could possibly be there at all. It plays no part in popular culture; no one sings about it, no one talks about it in plays, and it's not on TV. We are actually educated into believing that nothing is real beyond what we can perceive with our ordinary senses. - Sogyal Rinpoche in the Zen Calendar (March 7, 2006).
We need to find God, and He cannot be found in noise and restlessness. - Mother Teresa in the Zen Calendar (November 15, 2002).
Day 328. I feel horribly worn out. I think Mr. Rinpoche just helped me understand why. He, or Libby, my friend from Pilates, who walked into class last Thursday and said, "Why are there so many people out today who only drive at this time of year?"
I seem to have checked my equanimity at the Dojo door when I exited yesterday. Today felt like I was wearing my nerve endings on the outside of my skin. The world is exquisitely too light, too noisy, too crowded, too busy, too stimulating. I long to be back at the Dojo, contemplating True Nature while staring at the irregularities in the cinder blocks I faced during zazen. I sense a need to tread with caution; I am dangerously close to writing another blog about dumbasses. Though I suspect the cause of my current disgruntlement derives from within.
Watching Angelina Jolie in "Salt" did not help. Especially in surround sound. My amygdala is filing a formal complaint. I have an obsessive yearning to be isolated in a soundproof booth (sight proof? kinesthetic proof? relationship proof? - sounds mysteriously like I am describing Enlightenment) with nothing but a jigsaw puzzle and a coloring book (a toddler level coloring book - nothing that requires detail or fine eye-hand coordination) at my disposable. I cannot recall a time when my body and mind felt this exhausted and depleted. Wait - just thought of one: the days after returning home following my son's ski accident. Which is confusing, because I truly don't think a couple of weeks of heightened holiday activity is on a par with a week alone in the Grand Junction ICU.
Perhaps the incessant Monkey chatter prattling through my brain about the insanity of the "outside" world is wearing on me in a manner comparable to watching blips on a brain monitor. Even when I do my best to avoid the absurdity of TV commercials, traffic, Hollywood action films, conspicuous consumption, electronic devices other than my cell phone (circa 1998), and news delivered via mediums other than NPR or the BBS, it still feels like I am constantly being assaulted with extraneous, abrasive debris. I know I am not the only one feeling this way. But I probably analyze and resent it's deleterious effects on my well-being to a far greater extent than the average consumer.
Simply expressing these few words about the ludicrousness of the world beyond (and within) my skin makes my head pound and my eyes scratchy. I shall stop writing and go in search of that sensory deprivation chamber I long for so excessively. I'll probably take my cushion along with my puzzle and coloring book. Now if I can just shut the chamber door fast enough to keep the Monkeys out.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
We need to find God, and He cannot be found in noise and restlessness. - Mother Teresa in the Zen Calendar (November 15, 2002).
Day 328. I feel horribly worn out. I think Mr. Rinpoche just helped me understand why. He, or Libby, my friend from Pilates, who walked into class last Thursday and said, "Why are there so many people out today who only drive at this time of year?"
I seem to have checked my equanimity at the Dojo door when I exited yesterday. Today felt like I was wearing my nerve endings on the outside of my skin. The world is exquisitely too light, too noisy, too crowded, too busy, too stimulating. I long to be back at the Dojo, contemplating True Nature while staring at the irregularities in the cinder blocks I faced during zazen. I sense a need to tread with caution; I am dangerously close to writing another blog about dumbasses. Though I suspect the cause of my current disgruntlement derives from within.
Watching Angelina Jolie in "Salt" did not help. Especially in surround sound. My amygdala is filing a formal complaint. I have an obsessive yearning to be isolated in a soundproof booth (sight proof? kinesthetic proof? relationship proof? - sounds mysteriously like I am describing Enlightenment) with nothing but a jigsaw puzzle and a coloring book (a toddler level coloring book - nothing that requires detail or fine eye-hand coordination) at my disposable. I cannot recall a time when my body and mind felt this exhausted and depleted. Wait - just thought of one: the days after returning home following my son's ski accident. Which is confusing, because I truly don't think a couple of weeks of heightened holiday activity is on a par with a week alone in the Grand Junction ICU.
Perhaps the incessant Monkey chatter prattling through my brain about the insanity of the "outside" world is wearing on me in a manner comparable to watching blips on a brain monitor. Even when I do my best to avoid the absurdity of TV commercials, traffic, Hollywood action films, conspicuous consumption, electronic devices other than my cell phone (circa 1998), and news delivered via mediums other than NPR or the BBS, it still feels like I am constantly being assaulted with extraneous, abrasive debris. I know I am not the only one feeling this way. But I probably analyze and resent it's deleterious effects on my well-being to a far greater extent than the average consumer.
Simply expressing these few words about the ludicrousness of the world beyond (and within) my skin makes my head pound and my eyes scratchy. I shall stop writing and go in search of that sensory deprivation chamber I long for so excessively. I'll probably take my cushion along with my puzzle and coloring book. Now if I can just shut the chamber door fast enough to keep the Monkeys out.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Grace and Gratitude
Thank you for life.
Thank you for everything.
I stand here, in grace and gratitude,
And I thank you. - Olivia Newton John in "Grace and Gratitude"
"Walk up and give him a big hug. Then push him away." - My son, during a phone conversation in which I expressed my excitement at getting to sit with my teacher today for the first time in over six years.
We sat six zazen sessions interspersed with kinhin (walking meditation). I love kinhin, and not just because it gets the blood flowing back into my numb lower extremities. I am most at home in movement. Herb led kinhin, in which it easily takes 10 minutes to take 10 steps. Ten meticulous, exquisitely experienced, mindful steps. Placing one foot in front of the other is miraculous when I watch the process closely. Come to think of it, all facets of being alive are miraculous when I watch them closely.
I didn't enter the gates of Nirvana today, but I sat a heckuva lot of zazen. During Frank's dharma talk, I asked him, "How much should I sit zazen?" Come February 3, 2011, I suspect that 40 minutes a day, every day, will not be my steadfast frequency. Yet I know zazen is now a permanent aspect of my life.
To answer my question, Frank shared a story about learning to eat in formal oryoki style while studying at the San Francisco Zen Center. Oryoki is a specific etiquette for eating often followed in monasteries. It requires learning how to gauge the right amount of food to be placed in your oryoki bowls, while taking into account how long it takes you to eat it. As Frank put it, if the monk with the washbowl comes along and you are still eating because you misjudged the amount of food you could eat in the allotted time, it interrupts the meal pattern for everyone present. Grinningly, Frank also mentioned that he was so bad at mastering oryoki eating that he was "invited" to Suzuki Roshi's cabin for special instruction. Another student was requested to come for the same reason. "Are you going to teach us how to properly follow the rules of oryoki?" she asked. "No," Suzuki Roshi replied, "I am going to teach you how to eat."
To answer my question, Frank shared a story about learning to eat in formal oryoki style while studying at the San Francisco Zen Center. Oryoki is a specific etiquette for eating often followed in monasteries. It requires learning how to gauge the right amount of food to be placed in your oryoki bowls, while taking into account how long it takes you to eat it. As Frank put it, if the monk with the washbowl comes along and you are still eating because you misjudged the amount of food you could eat in the allotted time, it interrupts the meal pattern for everyone present. Grinningly, Frank also mentioned that he was so bad at mastering oryoki eating that he was "invited" to Suzuki Roshi's cabin for special instruction. Another student was requested to come for the same reason. "Are you going to teach us how to properly follow the rules of oryoki?" she asked. "No," Suzuki Roshi replied, "I am going to teach you how to eat."
Frank's message was that I must determine what the right amount of zazen is for myself. For this year, it turned out to be working my way up to 40 minutes from 20 minutes in five minute intervals, then sitting for 40 minutes every day. I am not yet sure what my zazen practice will look like following my birthday. I will remember Frank's story, and figure out what is right for me. Historically, I have been a person of large quantity. I suspect my chosen meal portions at a monastery would be considered large in comparison to just about everyone else, but I also have a hunch that I could eat that whopping amount in the allotted time. I wonder how many cyclists end up in monasteries, eating oryoki style . . .
I also asked Frank if there was an English translation for the Maka Hanya Haramitta Shin Gyo chant I have grown so fond of. Kindly, gently, teasingly, he informed me that the Maka Hanya was the Heart Sutra in Japanese. Wow. Sort of thought I might have known that after all these years. It makes perfect sense, however, because I also love the Heart Sutra, and chant it on the evenings I don't chant the Maka Hanya. Good thing, right? Chanting them both might have been a bit redundant. So much to learn. So many lifetimes in which to learn it.
I shared my son's comment with both Herb and Frank prior to sitting today, laughingly noting that I have been sitting for almost a year now and can't seem to attain the level of enlightenment my son entered the world with. The little Buddha. I break off bits and pieces of Buddhism to share with him as I go along. Evidently he gathers them up and stores them with his other inherent wisdom, spitting tidbits out at random to keep me humble. And a fine job he does.
I listened to Olivia Newton John again on my drive home. Thought about Herb and Frank and Nick - three Bodhisattva's who, each in his own way, has illuminated my Path along the way. To each of them I say: I stand here, in Grace and Gratitude, and I Thank You.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Four Wise Men
If you don't find God in the next person you meet, it's a waste of time looking for him further. - Mohandas K. Gandhi in the Zen Calendar (October 6, 2006).
Wherever there is a poetical action, a religious aspiration, a heroic thought, a union of the nature within man, and the Nature without, there is Zen. - R. H. Blyth in the Zen Calendar (August 16, 2006).
Wherever there is a poetical action, a religious aspiration, a heroic thought, a union of the nature within man, and the Nature without, there is Zen. - R. H. Blyth in the Zen Calendar (August 16, 2006).
. . . Then there is my sister. Chill out? Coast? Mellow? Child, please. Too much to see, too much to do, too much to learn. Too much to teach. So, she makes a commitment to sit zazen every night, and blog about it for a year. To put it out there as it happens, real time. Like what a reality show is actually supposed to portray. Ups, downs, peaks, valleys, curves and straight-aways. All of it. As it happens. No filters.
. . . How does one express their respect and admiration for someone who commits to something new and different, then puts it out there for the entire world to see . . . How do you thank someone who has the ability to immediately teach others through their own effort and experiences. . . Your courage and wisdom have inspired others to reach a little higher, to take that chance they might not have, to be curious, to be joyful! - My brother Craig in his Christmas letter to me (December 25, 2010).
Day 326. Christmas Day. The last one of my 40's. It was a good one with which to usher out the fourth decade of my life.
Day 326. Christmas Day. The last one of my 40's. It was a good one with which to usher out the fourth decade of my life.
I received four amazing gifts from four amazing men in my life. The first was from my older brother - my closest relative, as we were born only 22 months apart. Craig has been a faithful follower of the blog, encouraging me every step of the way. Yesterday, as we sat in our parents' living room in the midst of the hullabaloo known as Christmas Morning, he handed me a gift. It was a beautiful Christmas card, specific to a sister, and in it was a letter he had written. I was crying by the second paragraph. I sat among my reveling nephews, tears streaming down my face, and read my brother's beautiful words to me. I included some of them in tonight's blog. The entire letter was music to my ears, salve to my soul. Every little girl wants her big brother's approval and validation. This little girl especially wants his respect. Craig gave me the gift of acknowledgement - of my effort, my dedication, my honesty. It was precious because it came from him, and all the more meaningful because validation was terribly sparse for both of us as we grew up in the vortex of our dad's drinking. Gassho, Craig, for your own courage in paving the way for your younger siblings. Thank you for the most moving Christmas gift I have ever received.
In a spirit similar to his uncle's thoughtfulness and support, my son gifted me with, first, 3o0 legal sized envelopes and a package of address labels for the computer. As I unwrapped the six individually packaged boxes of envelopes, I was appreciative but puzzled. Even more so when I got to the sheets of address labels. It was at that point that he brought out a sack containing an impeccably compiled list of over 300 publishing companies. Complete with names of contact people and current addresses. Instructions for writing a query letter were delicately placed on top of the contact list. As I glanced over the voluminous list, my son excitedly told me, "Mom, you have been talking about wanting to publish something since before I was born. Let's make it happen." I say, "Let's do it!" I also say I'd better start saving for postage. Gassho, Son, for believing in my writing enough to give me concrete steps to take it to the next level. I am overflowing with gratitude at the thoughtfulness and hard work you put into my present.
The day's gifts just kept coming. We sat down to Christmas dinner at my parents', and lapsed into chuckling over stories about family members past and present. We all recalled surviving my paternal grandmother's tendency to . . . uh . . . in all honesty - be mean. Craig remembered grandma's comment to his wife: "What did you to your hair? It looked so pretty before," which caused mom to remember another comment to my sister-in-law: "Craig is sure gaining weight. Why are you letting him get fat?" This made me chime in with memories of grandma's ongoing commentary about my "big bones" (and I grew up to be an eating disorders specialist. Coincidence? I think not). Everyone present laughingly agreed that grandma was certainly one to call a spade a spade.
At that point, my dad contributed a story of his own about his mother. He recalled an occasion from his childhood in which a little neighbor boy had suffered a compound fracture of his collar bone. His family, devout Christian Scientists, were gathered around the boy's bedside, praying away while he writhed in extreme pain. My grandmother stalked into their house, called a cab, and paid the driver to take the child to the hospital so the bone could be set. This was in the 1930's, way before HIPPA was schemed to complicate medical care. One could argue about respect for religious choice and doctrine, but that is not the point of the story. My point is that my father, who was profoundly abused by his mother for much of his early life, chose to share a story that portrayed her gumption and fortitude rather than the mean spiritedness over which the rest of us were reminiscing. A stalwart Scotchwoman, she was, indeed, a survivor. We all seem to have inherited fragments of her heartiness. Gassho, Dad, for modeling compassion and grace toward your mother rather than (justifiable) bitterness and resentment.
The other wise man in my life is my younger brother Ryan, another loyal follower of the blog. He gave me the gift of the phrase "keep it snappy, revelers" this holiday season. True, I probably referenced the phrase too frequently in posts over the past couple of weeks. Without it, however, I suspect my mood would have rivaled the worst moments of Scrooge and the Grinch combined. Ryan has always been a provider of perspective for me. Gassho, Little Brother, for the gift of your own literary talent as well as your ability to keep your grasp on Reality feather light.
So there is my Christmas: poetical action, heroic thought, and finding God in the first four men who crossed my path. My own personal Maji. Bearing gifts I will treasure for the rest of my days.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, December 24, 2010
Wet Sacks and a Bowl Game
Logically considered, Zen may be full of contradictions and repetitions. But as it stands above all things, it goes serenely on its own way. - D. T. Suzuki in the Zen Calendar (December 14, 2002).
I had plans to write something moving and meaningful tonight. Those plans were abruptly aborted when I reached for the colorful Christmas sacks I had stacked (so that my wrapping this evening would be fast and efficient) and found them thoroughly dampened with dog pee. The culprit is Jake, the Chihuahua my son is being paid a large sum to sit for while his owners are out of town. How a dog Jake's size could POSSIBLY emit that much pee is beyond my comprehension. How a brilliant college student could neglect him for the amount of time it must have required to store that much liquid in a Chihuahua sized bladder is even more baffling. I'm thinking a good parent would dock the college student's dog sitting money in an amount substantially above the cost of several Christmas sacks. I will definitely need to recoup some compensation for the pain and suffering of salvaging the sacks. One wonders if Santa ever had to improvise following a similar incident, though I always envisioned his reindeer as perfectly housebroken.
I must be really tired, because I haven't the slightest inclination to even attempt to blog something other than the exact Reality I am depicting. It will simply have to do. It will actually do quite well, because this present moment in Reality happens to include a victory by the Tulsa Golden Hurricanes at the Hawaii Bowl. Spectacular. Even if I did have to listen to my son't color commentary for the entire game. I now know more inside information about the Tulsa football players than I would ever voluntarily seek to discover. It's all good. There are worse ways to spend Christmas Eve.
If someone had told me a year ago that on Christmas Eve I would be serenely typing a blog about dog pee and a bowl game my son should have been playing in but wasn't (in Hawaii, for Buddha's sake!) I would have laughed so hard I might have peed on the Christmas sacks. I would credit zazen for my serenity, but I am too busy not attaining anything through it. Suffice it to say, I believe my equanimity is back. At least for now.
Peace on Earth. Compassion to us all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Soup in the Sky
Think sideways! - Edward de Bono in the Zen Calendar (July 21, 2007).
Day 324. Short post tonight. My December fatigue molecules seem to be multiplying.
Almost every Pilates class I attend generates blog material (not to mention a really firm butt for cushion sitting!) Today my teacher Sharin told a delightful story about a visit with her favorite three-year-old, Mikayla. Sharin, in her infinite wisdom, had purchased a turtle toy for Mikayla's birthday. This wasn't just any turtle -- it happened to be equipped with a feature that projected starry constellations, in all their celestial splendor, onto the ceiling of a darkened three-year-old's bedroom. Mikayla was enchanted.
As a gifted Bodhisattva who really understands what it is like being three, Sharin began Mikayla's first Turtle Planetarium Show by projecting the Little Dipper onto her bedroom ceiling. While explaining the shape and makeup of the Little Dipper, it occurred to Sharin to enlist a visual aid. She dashed into the kitchen and returned with a soup ladle. "Do you know what this is called?" she asked. Mikayla said that she didn't, and Sharin told her it was sometimes called a ladle and sometimes a dipper. "What is it for?" Mikayla wondered. "You use it to serve soup," was Sharin's answer. She then held the ladle up to the ceiling to demonstrate it's resemblance to the Little Dipper.
Switching skies with the Turtle Projector, Sharin showed Mikayla had to locate the Little Dipper at different times of the year and various times of night. Mikayla, the first daughter of two brilliant Ph.D.'s, is one smart cookie. After viewing a couple of sky scenarios, she quickly learned to identify her newly mastered constellation across several starry configurations. Sharin was properly impressed and lavish with her praise. The two played "stars" for the better part of an hour, at which time Sharin prepared to depart.
"Wait!" Mikayla exclaimed as Sharin reached for her coat. "I'm going to use my ladle to scoop soup out of the sky!" She grabbed the ladle and flurried around her bedroom, lifting it to the ceiling and making scooping motions as if she were dipping soup from an enormous, upside down bowl. She then proceeded to the dining room, where she ladled the soup into imaginary bowls, naming a different kind of soup for each person she "served" (Grandma got "Tostito" soup). Sharin marveled at Mikayla's genius and lively imagination. Then she sat down at the dining room table to enjoy a bowlful of the most delicious pretend soup she had ever tasted.
I thoroughly enjoyed Sharin's animated tale about Mikayla, and heartily agreed with her observation of the child's precociousness. What I most marveled, however, was the magnificence of living in a world where soup can be scooped out of the sky. Where a ladle is a model of the Little Dipper one moment and a durn useful cooking utensil for serving imaginary soup from your bedroom ceiling the next. I wondered at what age the capacity for scooping ceiling soup got socialized out of me. Momentarily, I felt regretful as I tried to fathom how many things I do not see and how many possibilities I do not consider each day.
Suddenly, my regret vanished! Evaporated, one might say, at the exact moment I recalled the image of my Cheshire Cat grin floating bodiless over my cushion a couple of nights ago. "Oh yeah," I thought to myself, "I am cultivating Big Mind. The possibilities are endless. I will be scooping my own soup in no time!" What a relief. It would be a boring world, indeed, if a ladle could only be used as a model of the Little Dipper.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 324. Short post tonight. My December fatigue molecules seem to be multiplying.
Almost every Pilates class I attend generates blog material (not to mention a really firm butt for cushion sitting!) Today my teacher Sharin told a delightful story about a visit with her favorite three-year-old, Mikayla. Sharin, in her infinite wisdom, had purchased a turtle toy for Mikayla's birthday. This wasn't just any turtle -- it happened to be equipped with a feature that projected starry constellations, in all their celestial splendor, onto the ceiling of a darkened three-year-old's bedroom. Mikayla was enchanted.
As a gifted Bodhisattva who really understands what it is like being three, Sharin began Mikayla's first Turtle Planetarium Show by projecting the Little Dipper onto her bedroom ceiling. While explaining the shape and makeup of the Little Dipper, it occurred to Sharin to enlist a visual aid. She dashed into the kitchen and returned with a soup ladle. "Do you know what this is called?" she asked. Mikayla said that she didn't, and Sharin told her it was sometimes called a ladle and sometimes a dipper. "What is it for?" Mikayla wondered. "You use it to serve soup," was Sharin's answer. She then held the ladle up to the ceiling to demonstrate it's resemblance to the Little Dipper.
Switching skies with the Turtle Projector, Sharin showed Mikayla had to locate the Little Dipper at different times of the year and various times of night. Mikayla, the first daughter of two brilliant Ph.D.'s, is one smart cookie. After viewing a couple of sky scenarios, she quickly learned to identify her newly mastered constellation across several starry configurations. Sharin was properly impressed and lavish with her praise. The two played "stars" for the better part of an hour, at which time Sharin prepared to depart.
"Wait!" Mikayla exclaimed as Sharin reached for her coat. "I'm going to use my ladle to scoop soup out of the sky!" She grabbed the ladle and flurried around her bedroom, lifting it to the ceiling and making scooping motions as if she were dipping soup from an enormous, upside down bowl. She then proceeded to the dining room, where she ladled the soup into imaginary bowls, naming a different kind of soup for each person she "served" (Grandma got "Tostito" soup). Sharin marveled at Mikayla's genius and lively imagination. Then she sat down at the dining room table to enjoy a bowlful of the most delicious pretend soup she had ever tasted.
I thoroughly enjoyed Sharin's animated tale about Mikayla, and heartily agreed with her observation of the child's precociousness. What I most marveled, however, was the magnificence of living in a world where soup can be scooped out of the sky. Where a ladle is a model of the Little Dipper one moment and a durn useful cooking utensil for serving imaginary soup from your bedroom ceiling the next. I wondered at what age the capacity for scooping ceiling soup got socialized out of me. Momentarily, I felt regretful as I tried to fathom how many things I do not see and how many possibilities I do not consider each day.
Suddenly, my regret vanished! Evaporated, one might say, at the exact moment I recalled the image of my Cheshire Cat grin floating bodiless over my cushion a couple of nights ago. "Oh yeah," I thought to myself, "I am cultivating Big Mind. The possibilities are endless. I will be scooping my own soup in no time!" What a relief. It would be a boring world, indeed, if a ladle could only be used as a model of the Little Dipper.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Cat on the Cushion
Great faith, great doubt, great determination. - Three Prerequisites for Zen Practice (Zen Calendar, August 6, 2004).
Day 323. I am trying to type softly because there is a college sophomore snoozing behind me. After all, this is his room. I am trying to resist the urge to keep checking to see if he is breathing. I thought I gave that up when he was three. Nothing like some family togetherness. Living in a small house has its advantages.
Some funky stuff was going on during zazen last night. If I had sitting sessions like it more often, I bet my readership would increase dramatically. Put it this way: if we were to graphically depict it in the movie, some special effects would definitely be required.
So there I am, sedately nestled on my cushion, sitting still as granite with an arrow-straight spine. If you placed a level on my mudra, the bubble would have been dead center. Breath deep and rhythmic as it flowed through my mudra like a busy waiter through the swinging kitchen door. Eyes three-quarters shut. Monkeys relegated to a soundproof booth. Mind quiet. Thoughts at bay.
Gradually, my breath grew in depth and breadth. It was most uncanny. My mind was just distant enough not to interfere. The "I" of me stayed out of the way. The dimensions of my breath expanded into a vast and limitless openness. The space beyond space. Many minutes later, when conscious thought cropped up (as it habitually and frustratingly tends to do), my observation was that the entirety of existence and nonexistence dwells in my breath. Kind of freaky. All time, all space, all everything, all nothing, all that ever was, and never was, and has been and is and will be was encompassed in the air that entered and left my body. I was breathing some pretty durn enormous breaths.
It gets freakier. As the vastness expounded and magnified, my body disappeared. I am not kidding. I can think of no other way to describe it. Is that what is meant by " . . . mind and body fell away"? Bodily awareness and sensation vanished, and it didn't seem to bother me in the least. The disappearance began at my core, behind my mudra - almost as though my body had become a doughnut you could see straight through. From the doughnut hole center, it seems as though the molecules comprising the rest of me evaporated in quick succession, from the inside out. What seemed to remain was the tiniest bit of consciousness, suspended in the air just above where my neck had been. Words formed in that vicinity, and, humorous as it sounds, the image of the Cheshire Cat - when his body disappears and nothing remains visible but his wide grin - flickered in my mind.
Enlightenment? Maybe. I have read Suzuki Roshi say, so many times and in so many ways, that enlightenment is nothing to get excited about, that I actually DIDN'T get excited during those moments when my body vaporized into nothingness. Reflecting upon it now, it feels like the experience portrayed a deeper state of surrender -- of reclaiming the Truth that there is no separation. The presence of a body felt extraneous; perhaps I experienced it as the superficial and nonessential vessel that it truly is. When the timer sounded, there was definitely a body still sitting on the cushion. It bowed deeply, stretched to the side three times, and squatted to dust off the invisible dirt from my cushion. Just like it has for the past 322 days. Seemingly none the worse for wear during its absence.
My only other reflection is a brief curiosity about how strange this might sound to an outside reader. Perhaps it is not strange at all to readers who also sit. I know it is perfectly okay to have some doubts as I write this, but I am choosing to describe rather than analyze. I am also choosing to complete my year of zazen with great faith and great determination. Doubt, faith, and determination. Three prerequisites for Zen practice. I think I'm ready.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 323. I am trying to type softly because there is a college sophomore snoozing behind me. After all, this is his room. I am trying to resist the urge to keep checking to see if he is breathing. I thought I gave that up when he was three. Nothing like some family togetherness. Living in a small house has its advantages.
Some funky stuff was going on during zazen last night. If I had sitting sessions like it more often, I bet my readership would increase dramatically. Put it this way: if we were to graphically depict it in the movie, some special effects would definitely be required.
So there I am, sedately nestled on my cushion, sitting still as granite with an arrow-straight spine. If you placed a level on my mudra, the bubble would have been dead center. Breath deep and rhythmic as it flowed through my mudra like a busy waiter through the swinging kitchen door. Eyes three-quarters shut. Monkeys relegated to a soundproof booth. Mind quiet. Thoughts at bay.
Gradually, my breath grew in depth and breadth. It was most uncanny. My mind was just distant enough not to interfere. The "I" of me stayed out of the way. The dimensions of my breath expanded into a vast and limitless openness. The space beyond space. Many minutes later, when conscious thought cropped up (as it habitually and frustratingly tends to do), my observation was that the entirety of existence and nonexistence dwells in my breath. Kind of freaky. All time, all space, all everything, all nothing, all that ever was, and never was, and has been and is and will be was encompassed in the air that entered and left my body. I was breathing some pretty durn enormous breaths.
It gets freakier. As the vastness expounded and magnified, my body disappeared. I am not kidding. I can think of no other way to describe it. Is that what is meant by " . . . mind and body fell away"? Bodily awareness and sensation vanished, and it didn't seem to bother me in the least. The disappearance began at my core, behind my mudra - almost as though my body had become a doughnut you could see straight through. From the doughnut hole center, it seems as though the molecules comprising the rest of me evaporated in quick succession, from the inside out. What seemed to remain was the tiniest bit of consciousness, suspended in the air just above where my neck had been. Words formed in that vicinity, and, humorous as it sounds, the image of the Cheshire Cat - when his body disappears and nothing remains visible but his wide grin - flickered in my mind.
Enlightenment? Maybe. I have read Suzuki Roshi say, so many times and in so many ways, that enlightenment is nothing to get excited about, that I actually DIDN'T get excited during those moments when my body vaporized into nothingness. Reflecting upon it now, it feels like the experience portrayed a deeper state of surrender -- of reclaiming the Truth that there is no separation. The presence of a body felt extraneous; perhaps I experienced it as the superficial and nonessential vessel that it truly is. When the timer sounded, there was definitely a body still sitting on the cushion. It bowed deeply, stretched to the side three times, and squatted to dust off the invisible dirt from my cushion. Just like it has for the past 322 days. Seemingly none the worse for wear during its absence.
My only other reflection is a brief curiosity about how strange this might sound to an outside reader. Perhaps it is not strange at all to readers who also sit. I know it is perfectly okay to have some doubts as I write this, but I am choosing to describe rather than analyze. I am also choosing to complete my year of zazen with great faith and great determination. Doubt, faith, and determination. Three prerequisites for Zen practice. I think I'm ready.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Perfect Reality
Reality and perfection are synonymous. - Spinoza in the Zen Calendar (February 13, 2004).
Day 322. Greetings, and Happy Winter Solstice -- one of my top five favorite days of the year, because from now until late June daylight grows longer rather than shorter. Hurray! More light, more outside minutes, fewer days until the resumption of road bike workouts. This Solstice was made all the more special by the breathtaking Lunar Eclipse that graced its opening. My son, bless his nocturnal heart, woke me at 12:45 to witness the wondrous celestial event. We watched it from the front yard until our necks grew stiff, then moved to the back yard when it dawned on us that, perhaps, we could more comfortably gaze at the heavens from the comfort of our cushy lawn furniture. What a clear, still night. Perfect for moon worship. My son provided captivating color commentary. The choicest anecdote was his slant on the next time a lunar eclipse coincides with winter solstice: It happens in 2094, at which time he will be 104 years old. He assured me he will be here to bear witness. I assured him I would not.
I am not a shopper. This probably comes as no great surprise to anyone who has read more than, uh, about two of my blogs. What may come as a surprise, however, is my discovery that traipsing through the mall is absolutely painless when I approach it in the absence of a Preferred Version of how my brief foray into holiday consumerism will transpire. I just may master this dwelling in reality concept before my year is up. And I still have 43 days to go!
Tonight's quote is from the Favorites pile; another page I was saving for the "perfect" matching blog. Like previous favorite quotes I hoarded, its ultimate applicability caught me off guard. Reality and perfection merged during a casual encounter at the Sears counter. Perhaps more accurately, an encounter that casually evolved into a Dual Peak Experience.
Number One: I entered the store with a printed page of my partner's Christmas list. Sounds like an easy enough assignment, other than the little detail that I had not the faintest idea of what a single item on the list actually WAS. Until Mike took a look at it. Held it in his hand and personally walked with me to three different areas of his (rather large) department (the tool aisle was only a cul de sac). Mike efficiently located each item and handed it to me with a flourish. When it was determined that one thing was not stocked in the store, he briskly brandished it on the screen of his computer, ordering it quicker than I could say, "Craftsman." Cheerfully, competently, quickly. I felt like Julie Roberts in Pretty Woman when she returns to Rodeo Drive with Richard Gere's credit card. Who knew Bodhisattvas lurked behind the checkout counter at Sears?! Gassho, Mike!
Peak Experience Number 2: As Mike printed my receipt from our recent Partner Present Conquest, Yawara rang up my other purchases. I commented on his name, and he told me he was from Japan. I then greeted him, noted that it was a nice evening, and inquired about his family - all in Japanese (which, incidentally, totally exhausted the extent of my Japanese vocabulary). Yawara looked pleasantly surprised, and inquired if I had been to Japan. I replied that I had traveled to Japan to teach and explore, and couldn't refrain from mentioning that I was Buddhist and had visited several temples during my stay. He asked what towns I had been to; I told him Yokosuka and Kamakura were my favorites. He seemed charmed, agreeing that he was a fan of Kamakura. I ventured that he probably didn't get to talk about Japan with a great number of his Oklahoma customers, and he laughingly agreed. Yawara told me he would be going home in February to visit his family, and I wished him a safe journey.
The world can be so delightful if I simply let it. Let go my hold and collapse in a heap in the midst of it. Surrender all my Preferred Versions and trust the gift of yet another Truth I have gleaned from my year on the cushion: Reality and Perfection are, indeed, synonymous.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 322. Greetings, and Happy Winter Solstice -- one of my top five favorite days of the year, because from now until late June daylight grows longer rather than shorter. Hurray! More light, more outside minutes, fewer days until the resumption of road bike workouts. This Solstice was made all the more special by the breathtaking Lunar Eclipse that graced its opening. My son, bless his nocturnal heart, woke me at 12:45 to witness the wondrous celestial event. We watched it from the front yard until our necks grew stiff, then moved to the back yard when it dawned on us that, perhaps, we could more comfortably gaze at the heavens from the comfort of our cushy lawn furniture. What a clear, still night. Perfect for moon worship. My son provided captivating color commentary. The choicest anecdote was his slant on the next time a lunar eclipse coincides with winter solstice: It happens in 2094, at which time he will be 104 years old. He assured me he will be here to bear witness. I assured him I would not.
I am not a shopper. This probably comes as no great surprise to anyone who has read more than, uh, about two of my blogs. What may come as a surprise, however, is my discovery that traipsing through the mall is absolutely painless when I approach it in the absence of a Preferred Version of how my brief foray into holiday consumerism will transpire. I just may master this dwelling in reality concept before my year is up. And I still have 43 days to go!
Tonight's quote is from the Favorites pile; another page I was saving for the "perfect" matching blog. Like previous favorite quotes I hoarded, its ultimate applicability caught me off guard. Reality and perfection merged during a casual encounter at the Sears counter. Perhaps more accurately, an encounter that casually evolved into a Dual Peak Experience.
Number One: I entered the store with a printed page of my partner's Christmas list. Sounds like an easy enough assignment, other than the little detail that I had not the faintest idea of what a single item on the list actually WAS. Until Mike took a look at it. Held it in his hand and personally walked with me to three different areas of his (rather large) department (the tool aisle was only a cul de sac). Mike efficiently located each item and handed it to me with a flourish. When it was determined that one thing was not stocked in the store, he briskly brandished it on the screen of his computer, ordering it quicker than I could say, "Craftsman." Cheerfully, competently, quickly. I felt like Julie Roberts in Pretty Woman when she returns to Rodeo Drive with Richard Gere's credit card. Who knew Bodhisattvas lurked behind the checkout counter at Sears?! Gassho, Mike!
Peak Experience Number 2: As Mike printed my receipt from our recent Partner Present Conquest, Yawara rang up my other purchases. I commented on his name, and he told me he was from Japan. I then greeted him, noted that it was a nice evening, and inquired about his family - all in Japanese (which, incidentally, totally exhausted the extent of my Japanese vocabulary). Yawara looked pleasantly surprised, and inquired if I had been to Japan. I replied that I had traveled to Japan to teach and explore, and couldn't refrain from mentioning that I was Buddhist and had visited several temples during my stay. He asked what towns I had been to; I told him Yokosuka and Kamakura were my favorites. He seemed charmed, agreeing that he was a fan of Kamakura. I ventured that he probably didn't get to talk about Japan with a great number of his Oklahoma customers, and he laughingly agreed. Yawara told me he would be going home in February to visit his family, and I wished him a safe journey.
The world can be so delightful if I simply let it. Let go my hold and collapse in a heap in the midst of it. Surrender all my Preferred Versions and trust the gift of yet another Truth I have gleaned from my year on the cushion: Reality and Perfection are, indeed, synonymous.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, December 20, 2010
Burn, Buddha, Burn!
When you do something, you should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself. - Shunryu Suzuki in the Zen Calendar (December 12, 2006).
Day 321. Forty-five more blogs to write. It boggles the mind. It may even boggle Big Mind. Tonight's will be short. I am needed at the piano.
I believe I used this quote for a blog written long ago (well, not that long; it would have to be less than a year ago). I have noticed that a few quotes are repeated in the Zen Calendars over the years, and figured if the Zen Calendar editors can repeat themselves, so can I. Besides, it's a really good quote. I searched for it specifically because I tried to sit last night like my head was on fire.
In Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, Suzuki Roshi writes about keeping practice "pure." I read sections of the book periodically because, presently, I am not sitting regularly with a teacher or a sangha and feel it is important to stay mindful of pure practice. Last night on the cushion, I noticed myself exerting an awful lot of effort in my attempt not to exert effort. This is a perfect example of impure practice. I relaxed, returned my focus to breathing, and the gentle reminder of "no attainment" drifted across the horizon of my consciousness. "Oh, yeah, " I thought quietly, "This is IT. Not what comes next, or what I am shooting for, or how it should be. Just This. Already. I am here. I am now. I need not strive for anything more." For the rest of the session, it did not require effort to avoid exerting effort. I breathed in and out. When my mind tried to sing with the Monkey Chorus, I gently brought it back to my breath. In the absence of effort, my practice blazed and burned like a homecoming bonfire. When the timer sounded: no trace of myself remained. Splendid! Pure practice!
I was on fire the whole day at work, continuing to burn myself completely. I wasn't aware of trying to be Wonder Therapist; I was just fully present, in the moment, focused on the person in my office and our therapeutic work. We just flowed. Extraneous effort was not required. If this was 1967, I would say I was totally in the groove (thankfully, it ISN'T 1967!) There is a mystical art to occupying the type of space where I "allow" something wonderful and right to occur, rather than investing excessive energy as I try to "make it happen." It is about subtlety and nuance. "Right effort" is a delicate gap between not caring or paying too little attention and caring too much or exerting excessively. It is calm focus. Attentive relinquishing. Contemplative surrender.
After work, the fire burned on. I got on my trainer for a workout to a challenging DVD. I had prepared myself to back off if the effort proved to be too much, too soon after my surgery. The workout went exceedingly well. I was still in the groove (I know, it is still not 1967). I rode really hard during the anaerobic intervals, and purposefully surrendered during the rest intervals. I kept a calm focus, discovering that I can push my body much harder when my mind stays quiet rather than revving up as the physical demand increases.
It is an intricate and fragile state, this balance of mindfulness and energy expenditure. The trick is to avoid the erroneous conclusion that more mindfulness necessarily requires, or is evidenced by, more energy expenditure. Not so. I am reminded of learning to swim with the correct technique. Nuance and finesse contributed to swimming faster far more effectively than wildly churning out more physical effort. RIGHT effort, rather than MORE effort seems to be the key. Yet again, I seem to be challenging the cultural panacea that "more is better." Not always. Just enough exertion, carefully and correctly applied, seems to be what is best. Ask any golfer!
I can't wait to get to my cushion. I plan to light myself on fire. And burn until no trace of me remains.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 321. Forty-five more blogs to write. It boggles the mind. It may even boggle Big Mind. Tonight's will be short. I am needed at the piano.
I believe I used this quote for a blog written long ago (well, not that long; it would have to be less than a year ago). I have noticed that a few quotes are repeated in the Zen Calendars over the years, and figured if the Zen Calendar editors can repeat themselves, so can I. Besides, it's a really good quote. I searched for it specifically because I tried to sit last night like my head was on fire.
In Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind, Suzuki Roshi writes about keeping practice "pure." I read sections of the book periodically because, presently, I am not sitting regularly with a teacher or a sangha and feel it is important to stay mindful of pure practice. Last night on the cushion, I noticed myself exerting an awful lot of effort in my attempt not to exert effort. This is a perfect example of impure practice. I relaxed, returned my focus to breathing, and the gentle reminder of "no attainment" drifted across the horizon of my consciousness. "Oh, yeah, " I thought quietly, "This is IT. Not what comes next, or what I am shooting for, or how it should be. Just This. Already. I am here. I am now. I need not strive for anything more." For the rest of the session, it did not require effort to avoid exerting effort. I breathed in and out. When my mind tried to sing with the Monkey Chorus, I gently brought it back to my breath. In the absence of effort, my practice blazed and burned like a homecoming bonfire. When the timer sounded: no trace of myself remained. Splendid! Pure practice!
I was on fire the whole day at work, continuing to burn myself completely. I wasn't aware of trying to be Wonder Therapist; I was just fully present, in the moment, focused on the person in my office and our therapeutic work. We just flowed. Extraneous effort was not required. If this was 1967, I would say I was totally in the groove (thankfully, it ISN'T 1967!) There is a mystical art to occupying the type of space where I "allow" something wonderful and right to occur, rather than investing excessive energy as I try to "make it happen." It is about subtlety and nuance. "Right effort" is a delicate gap between not caring or paying too little attention and caring too much or exerting excessively. It is calm focus. Attentive relinquishing. Contemplative surrender.
After work, the fire burned on. I got on my trainer for a workout to a challenging DVD. I had prepared myself to back off if the effort proved to be too much, too soon after my surgery. The workout went exceedingly well. I was still in the groove (I know, it is still not 1967). I rode really hard during the anaerobic intervals, and purposefully surrendered during the rest intervals. I kept a calm focus, discovering that I can push my body much harder when my mind stays quiet rather than revving up as the physical demand increases.
It is an intricate and fragile state, this balance of mindfulness and energy expenditure. The trick is to avoid the erroneous conclusion that more mindfulness necessarily requires, or is evidenced by, more energy expenditure. Not so. I am reminded of learning to swim with the correct technique. Nuance and finesse contributed to swimming faster far more effectively than wildly churning out more physical effort. RIGHT effort, rather than MORE effort seems to be the key. Yet again, I seem to be challenging the cultural panacea that "more is better." Not always. Just enough exertion, carefully and correctly applied, seems to be what is best. Ask any golfer!
I can't wait to get to my cushion. I plan to light myself on fire. And burn until no trace of me remains.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Float Along With the Crowd
When I get out of bed every morning, at least I'm still alive and not dead like Ruth May. So I must have done something right. Sometimes you just have to save your neck and work out the details later. Like that little book said: Stick out your elbows, pick up your feet, and float along with the crowd! The last thing you want to do is get trampled to death. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 320. As careful as I have been to keep my reveling within the moderate range of snappiness, I still feel a fatigue reminiscent of my "before-thyroid-regulation" days. I think exhaustion is in the air at this time of year, like an annual weariness molecule that exists only in December. I truly believe there is a cumulative lassitude that builds all year and whacks me at precisely the time my To-Do List doubles. Right, like I really keep one of those. But if I did, it would definitely be doubled during December.
I took Ruby and Katy for a romp today. Canines are excellent revelers. Any time they step outside the perimeter of the electric fence (and yes, I take their battery collars off first) is a cause for celebration. Dogs are masterful teachers of being in the moment. As we circled the block, my mind briefly wandered about, searching for a possible blog topic. I got nothing. Zip and nadda. No thoughts whatsoever. Why must the Monkeys wait until I am solemnly perched on my cushion to start their clamor?
For inspiration, I leafed through my Kingsolver novel, eying the passages I can't resist underlining as I read. The "little book" referenced in the quote I selected was a "survival guide" that provided instructions for staying alive under different types of dangerous circumstances. The sage advice given came under the heading "What to Do if You Are at the Theater When it Catches on Fire." Stick out your elbows, pick up your feet, and float along with the crowd! I assume the advice is generalizable to any situation involving a fleeing mob, like the mass exodus of a demonstration gone wrong or a riot after tear gas has been launched. Intuitively, the advise makes sense. To avoid being trampled, meld yourself to the throng crushing in on you, lift your feet, and be swept away on the sea of humanity.
The survival recommendation captures much of the feeling state in which I am enveloped as my Zen year hurtles towards completion. A lot of the time now, I just float along with the crowd. The "crowd" isn't metaphoric exclusively for human beings. It symbolizes the inevitable throng of thoughts, feelings, perceptions, opinions, and preferences that comprise the Illusion that constantly threaten to crowd out Reality. I imagine if you "fight" a swarming crowd with ideas of your own about the direction you want to take, the speed you want to move, and the specific people with whom you are in contact, your danger and risk are increased. Ultimately, the crowd, at least while it is swarming, is going to determine what happens. Just like Reality.
Peak Experience! I just recognized that the survival advice in the little book read by Kingsolver's character is a perfect summary of the Zen lessons this year has given me: By sticking out my elbows, (wedging myself into reality), picking up my feet (surrendering attachment to a certain outcome), and floating along with the crowd (relinquishing separateness by reconnecting with the One), I won't be trampled to death (by the great press of Illusion)!
I love accidentally bumping into a magnificent metaphor. Especially because, like all good metaphor, once you bump it, there is nothing more to say!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 320. As careful as I have been to keep my reveling within the moderate range of snappiness, I still feel a fatigue reminiscent of my "before-thyroid-regulation" days. I think exhaustion is in the air at this time of year, like an annual weariness molecule that exists only in December. I truly believe there is a cumulative lassitude that builds all year and whacks me at precisely the time my To-Do List doubles. Right, like I really keep one of those. But if I did, it would definitely be doubled during December.
I took Ruby and Katy for a romp today. Canines are excellent revelers. Any time they step outside the perimeter of the electric fence (and yes, I take their battery collars off first) is a cause for celebration. Dogs are masterful teachers of being in the moment. As we circled the block, my mind briefly wandered about, searching for a possible blog topic. I got nothing. Zip and nadda. No thoughts whatsoever. Why must the Monkeys wait until I am solemnly perched on my cushion to start their clamor?
For inspiration, I leafed through my Kingsolver novel, eying the passages I can't resist underlining as I read. The "little book" referenced in the quote I selected was a "survival guide" that provided instructions for staying alive under different types of dangerous circumstances. The sage advice given came under the heading "What to Do if You Are at the Theater When it Catches on Fire." Stick out your elbows, pick up your feet, and float along with the crowd! I assume the advice is generalizable to any situation involving a fleeing mob, like the mass exodus of a demonstration gone wrong or a riot after tear gas has been launched. Intuitively, the advise makes sense. To avoid being trampled, meld yourself to the throng crushing in on you, lift your feet, and be swept away on the sea of humanity.
The survival recommendation captures much of the feeling state in which I am enveloped as my Zen year hurtles towards completion. A lot of the time now, I just float along with the crowd. The "crowd" isn't metaphoric exclusively for human beings. It symbolizes the inevitable throng of thoughts, feelings, perceptions, opinions, and preferences that comprise the Illusion that constantly threaten to crowd out Reality. I imagine if you "fight" a swarming crowd with ideas of your own about the direction you want to take, the speed you want to move, and the specific people with whom you are in contact, your danger and risk are increased. Ultimately, the crowd, at least while it is swarming, is going to determine what happens. Just like Reality.
Peak Experience! I just recognized that the survival advice in the little book read by Kingsolver's character is a perfect summary of the Zen lessons this year has given me: By sticking out my elbows, (wedging myself into reality), picking up my feet (surrendering attachment to a certain outcome), and floating along with the crowd (relinquishing separateness by reconnecting with the One), I won't be trampled to death (by the great press of Illusion)!
I love accidentally bumping into a magnificent metaphor. Especially because, like all good metaphor, once you bump it, there is nothing more to say!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, December 18, 2010
So Many Kinds of Things We Don't Need
. . . and all of them making a noble attempt to plant themselves on American soil. I can see it will not last. When I go with them to the grocery, they are boggled and frightened and secretly scornful, I think. Of course they are. I remember how it was at first: dazzling warehouses buzzing with light, where entire shelves boast nothing but hair spray, tooth-whitening cream, and foot powders . . .
"What is that, Aunt Adah? And that?" their Pascal asks in his wide-eyed way, pointing through the aisles: a pink jar of cream for removing hair, a can of fragrance to spray on the carpet, stacks of lidded containers the same size as the jars we throw away each day.
"They're things a person doesn't really need."
"But, Aunt Adah, how can there be so many kinds of things a person doesn't really need?"
I can think of no honorable answer. Why must some of us deliberate between brands of toothpaste, while others deliberate between damp dirt and bone dust to quiet the fire of an empty stomach lining? There is nothing about the United States I can really explain to this child of another world. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 319. That is an exceptionally long quote, but it powerfully spoke to me when I read it last night. I have promised myself I will stalk Barbara Kingsolver only by reading and reflecting upon her writing. Otherwise, it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility to discover me lurking in her hedge, peering through a window to catch a glimpse of her genius in person. Let's just say I am a fan and leave it at that. However, if an anonymous copy of a novel manuscript appears in her mailbox about a year from now, don't eliminate me as a suspect . . .
This blog will not contain a tiring tirade about Unequal Distribution of Wealth. At this time of year, the explicit brazenness of that particular Truth bellows its existence with every flick of the channel and touch on the IPhone. Instead, I simply want to, once again, type the words Mindfulness and Compassion. Those concepts can be equally daring and valiant.
After using my breath to silence the Monkeys last night, I quietly sat on my cushion, peacefully resting with the words I had recently extracted from Kingsolver's book. I resisted distractions from the Primate choir loft - a challenging task indeed, as they had resorted to snappily caroling the theme song from the B.C. Clark Anniversary Sale. I received one of those precious zazen sessions when Self shifted to the periphery, and non-Self floated about in beginningless time. Original Nature ensued, nestled snugly in Reality's womb. Fleetingly, the Monkeys quit singing and my neurons quit exploding at electrifying speed. An endearing page from the Zen Calendar wafted across my consciousness: "In your heart, you already know."
In our hearts, we All already know. We sense the Reality of having and not having, and it points resolutely to Right Action. If I turn the commercials off and direct Mindfulness outwardly, I perceive countless acts of compassion and loving kindness. Towards others and ourselves. We're figuring it out. We're tramping around on the cusp of Reality. We know what we really need, and it isn't being advertised on television. Like David Whyte reminded me: "It is all there waiting for you." For us all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
"What is that, Aunt Adah? And that?" their Pascal asks in his wide-eyed way, pointing through the aisles: a pink jar of cream for removing hair, a can of fragrance to spray on the carpet, stacks of lidded containers the same size as the jars we throw away each day.
"They're things a person doesn't really need."
"But, Aunt Adah, how can there be so many kinds of things a person doesn't really need?"
I can think of no honorable answer. Why must some of us deliberate between brands of toothpaste, while others deliberate between damp dirt and bone dust to quiet the fire of an empty stomach lining? There is nothing about the United States I can really explain to this child of another world. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 319. That is an exceptionally long quote, but it powerfully spoke to me when I read it last night. I have promised myself I will stalk Barbara Kingsolver only by reading and reflecting upon her writing. Otherwise, it wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility to discover me lurking in her hedge, peering through a window to catch a glimpse of her genius in person. Let's just say I am a fan and leave it at that. However, if an anonymous copy of a novel manuscript appears in her mailbox about a year from now, don't eliminate me as a suspect . . .
This blog will not contain a tiring tirade about Unequal Distribution of Wealth. At this time of year, the explicit brazenness of that particular Truth bellows its existence with every flick of the channel and touch on the IPhone. Instead, I simply want to, once again, type the words Mindfulness and Compassion. Those concepts can be equally daring and valiant.
After using my breath to silence the Monkeys last night, I quietly sat on my cushion, peacefully resting with the words I had recently extracted from Kingsolver's book. I resisted distractions from the Primate choir loft - a challenging task indeed, as they had resorted to snappily caroling the theme song from the B.C. Clark Anniversary Sale. I received one of those precious zazen sessions when Self shifted to the periphery, and non-Self floated about in beginningless time. Original Nature ensued, nestled snugly in Reality's womb. Fleetingly, the Monkeys quit singing and my neurons quit exploding at electrifying speed. An endearing page from the Zen Calendar wafted across my consciousness: "In your heart, you already know."
In our hearts, we All already know. We sense the Reality of having and not having, and it points resolutely to Right Action. If I turn the commercials off and direct Mindfulness outwardly, I perceive countless acts of compassion and loving kindness. Towards others and ourselves. We're figuring it out. We're tramping around on the cusp of Reality. We know what we really need, and it isn't being advertised on television. Like David Whyte reminded me: "It is all there waiting for you." For us all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, December 17, 2010
Name That Tune
And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. - Friedrich Nietzsche in the Zen Calendar (December 6, 2007).
Day 318. I have been one snappy reveler today. Attended my office holiday party and distributed six baskets resplendent with the spoils of my rabid baking frenzies. Met my son to pick out a Christmas tree (we are amongst the .007 percent of the world's population that is holding out on an artificial tree. I'm not sure where this tenacity places us on the Green Scale, but it sure makes the house smell nice). Decorating the tree is always such a pleasant trip down and around Memory Lane. This prodigal daughter learned at the feet of the master (who learned at the feet of my grandmaster) that one NEVER disposes of a Christmas ornament. The ones made by my son are my favorites. Especially those that look like a couple of the artifacts I constructed in the 1960's. Reindeer out of popsicle sticks never go out of style.
In the midst of our snappy reveling, my son decided to teach himself to play the piano. I instantly became a willing teacher AND ardent fan. I am a member of the "took lessons for five years until it started getting hard and I couldn't master the pieces in a 30-minute practice session so I quit" club. However, since I was graced with ownership of my grandmother's century old upright, I sit down on occasion and play the recital pieces that seem permanently embedded in my motor skills memory. To date, my son had never expressed an iota of interest in learning music. In fact, I'm fairly sure he thought the piano was strategically placed at that spot in the living room specifically to land the keys and wallet he habitually tosses in its direction. I doubt he knew there was a keyboard lying under the perpetually closed cover.
Suddenly - Voila! He's obsessed with tickling the ivories (or, in this case, the slightly-dull-yellows). We sat down side by side and my fingers, of their own accord, flawlessly played all the major sales. Imagine my surprise when my son flashed up some 'screen music' to numerous beginner Christmas songs on his handy dandy laptop. I played them all on sight. I haven't sight read music in over three decades. My eyes and my brain and my fingers didn't seem to care. They just took off across the keyboard, busting out festive versions of "Joy to the World" and "Jingle Bells." My son was impressed. He hasn't been impressed with anything I've done since I beat several of his friends in arm wrestling at fifth grade Super Kids' Day. It felt good.
Equally impressive was his ability to learn bass and treble clef notes in less than 10 minutes. He slyly let on that he had been perusing a music theory book online. He said learning time signatures and counting notes in measures "reminded (him) of algebra," which he has always been remarkably good at (those facets of learning piano must have reminded me of something far different from anything mathematical, because I STILL don't know what x equals). My magical musical memory evidently extended to correct fingering while playing scales, so I provided a brief lesson on reading music and playing without looking at his hands.
Next thing I knew, he had Googled a beginner's version of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. I hung ornaments; he plucked out Mozart. As I reached the not-one-more-thing-could-possibly-fit-on-this-poor-tree's-overladen-branches (the only acceptable stopping point for decorating a Christmas tree, according to the tradition of my clan), he performed a flawless rendition of Mozart's little tune. At the moment I am striking these keys, he is striking keys of his own - keys arranged in the melody of "Jolly Old St. Nicholas."
This is becoming a bit surreal. I am trying to blog, while meanwhile engaging in a game of "Name That Tune" as my child eyeballs music on his computer screen and (apparently) has taught himself to play the piano in one night. He just finished a second run through of "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee." From where I sit at the computer in his room, it sounded perfect. Just now, I laughingly hollered out the song name. He replied, "Yup," and proceeded to "When the Saints Go Marching In." I named that tune in four notes. This is cracking me up. I am in the midst of greatness.
We may be setting a new precedent for Snappy Reveling. At the beginning of tonight's post, I didn't anticipate that, by the end, I would be providing a real time narrative of my son embarking upon a promising musical career (with the same hand smashed to smithereens during a football scrimmage a mere eight months ago). It doesn't happen often, but this is one time when Reality exactly matches My Preferred Version of It. Peak Experience.
I would love to continue narrating the miraculous, but I think I'll stop for now. I'm headed into the living room to Name That Tune.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 318. I have been one snappy reveler today. Attended my office holiday party and distributed six baskets resplendent with the spoils of my rabid baking frenzies. Met my son to pick out a Christmas tree (we are amongst the .007 percent of the world's population that is holding out on an artificial tree. I'm not sure where this tenacity places us on the Green Scale, but it sure makes the house smell nice). Decorating the tree is always such a pleasant trip down and around Memory Lane. This prodigal daughter learned at the feet of the master (who learned at the feet of my grandmaster) that one NEVER disposes of a Christmas ornament. The ones made by my son are my favorites. Especially those that look like a couple of the artifacts I constructed in the 1960's. Reindeer out of popsicle sticks never go out of style.
In the midst of our snappy reveling, my son decided to teach himself to play the piano. I instantly became a willing teacher AND ardent fan. I am a member of the "took lessons for five years until it started getting hard and I couldn't master the pieces in a 30-minute practice session so I quit" club. However, since I was graced with ownership of my grandmother's century old upright, I sit down on occasion and play the recital pieces that seem permanently embedded in my motor skills memory. To date, my son had never expressed an iota of interest in learning music. In fact, I'm fairly sure he thought the piano was strategically placed at that spot in the living room specifically to land the keys and wallet he habitually tosses in its direction. I doubt he knew there was a keyboard lying under the perpetually closed cover.
Suddenly - Voila! He's obsessed with tickling the ivories (or, in this case, the slightly-dull-yellows). We sat down side by side and my fingers, of their own accord, flawlessly played all the major sales. Imagine my surprise when my son flashed up some 'screen music' to numerous beginner Christmas songs on his handy dandy laptop. I played them all on sight. I haven't sight read music in over three decades. My eyes and my brain and my fingers didn't seem to care. They just took off across the keyboard, busting out festive versions of "Joy to the World" and "Jingle Bells." My son was impressed. He hasn't been impressed with anything I've done since I beat several of his friends in arm wrestling at fifth grade Super Kids' Day. It felt good.
Equally impressive was his ability to learn bass and treble clef notes in less than 10 minutes. He slyly let on that he had been perusing a music theory book online. He said learning time signatures and counting notes in measures "reminded (him) of algebra," which he has always been remarkably good at (those facets of learning piano must have reminded me of something far different from anything mathematical, because I STILL don't know what x equals). My magical musical memory evidently extended to correct fingering while playing scales, so I provided a brief lesson on reading music and playing without looking at his hands.
Next thing I knew, he had Googled a beginner's version of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. I hung ornaments; he plucked out Mozart. As I reached the not-one-more-thing-could-possibly-fit-on-this-poor-tree's-overladen-branches (the only acceptable stopping point for decorating a Christmas tree, according to the tradition of my clan), he performed a flawless rendition of Mozart's little tune. At the moment I am striking these keys, he is striking keys of his own - keys arranged in the melody of "Jolly Old St. Nicholas."
This is becoming a bit surreal. I am trying to blog, while meanwhile engaging in a game of "Name That Tune" as my child eyeballs music on his computer screen and (apparently) has taught himself to play the piano in one night. He just finished a second run through of "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee." From where I sit at the computer in his room, it sounded perfect. Just now, I laughingly hollered out the song name. He replied, "Yup," and proceeded to "When the Saints Go Marching In." I named that tune in four notes. This is cracking me up. I am in the midst of greatness.
We may be setting a new precedent for Snappy Reveling. At the beginning of tonight's post, I didn't anticipate that, by the end, I would be providing a real time narrative of my son embarking upon a promising musical career (with the same hand smashed to smithereens during a football scrimmage a mere eight months ago). It doesn't happen often, but this is one time when Reality exactly matches My Preferred Version of It. Peak Experience.
I would love to continue narrating the miraculous, but I think I'll stop for now. I'm headed into the living room to Name That Tune.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Keep It Snappy, Revelers
". . . so keep it snappy, Revelers." - A portion of my brothers Facebook status today.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Putting It Up and Taking It Down
"I took all my Christmas stuff down last night." - Sharla, my business partner, after hearing from another family member that her daughter and two grandchildren were not coming for Christmas.
Day 316. I just finished an aerobic gluten-free baking extravaganza. Literally. I think my heart was in its target zone. Meticulously wheat-free Christmas baking is not for the wimpy. Concentration, laser focus, and quick reflexes are minimal requirements. And that is BEFORE I opened the 37 teensy packages of rice flour in order to have the five cups required for my evening ambitions. When I paused to take a blogging break the clock read 9:11. I think it was a sign.
I suspect it is highly diagnostic that I chose my business partner's comment for tonight's quote. She uttered it during some rare, precious, late-evening moments after a long workday when we actually crossed paths in the business office. I won't be revealing the personal details surrounding the quote. Suffice it to say, she meant it. Sharla truly did take all of her Christmas decorations down last night. She told me so in a succinct and matter-of-fact tone. I imagine because she knew she could. I got it with every fiber of my being.
Speaking from my personal perspective, I have as yet this season to cross paths with anyone who is experiencing the holiday as something other than an aggravating, stressful interruption to their already challenging lives. Intriguing. I could postulate innumerable hypotheses for this phenomena, but it isn't rocket science. It feels to me like we're all tired. A little blue. Overwhelmed and under inspired. The cultural replenishment-to-depletion ratio seems to be tipped in the direction of depletion. I think we all need a big sigh and a long nap.
I respect and admire Sharla for acting congruently with a disappointing twist of Reality. I know for a fact her Preferred Version of the holiday season included a visit from her daughter. We shared an intimate moment of connectedness when she mentioned that she took everything down and I said that I totally understood. It was tempting to point out that at least she had put UP something to have to take DOWN. That is more than a lot of us have done. What seemed important and somehow quintessentially healthy was that she wasn't going to expend energy "acting" a certain way, keeping up a facade, or faking feeling states that weren't genuine. Sharla, with a characteristic Bodhisattva response, is dwelling smack in the midst of Reality. She may be a holiday model for us all.
In this moment, I don't know what my Preferred Version of the holiday season is. I am fairly certain, however, that it includes a sigh and a nap.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 316. I just finished an aerobic gluten-free baking extravaganza. Literally. I think my heart was in its target zone. Meticulously wheat-free Christmas baking is not for the wimpy. Concentration, laser focus, and quick reflexes are minimal requirements. And that is BEFORE I opened the 37 teensy packages of rice flour in order to have the five cups required for my evening ambitions. When I paused to take a blogging break the clock read 9:11. I think it was a sign.
I suspect it is highly diagnostic that I chose my business partner's comment for tonight's quote. She uttered it during some rare, precious, late-evening moments after a long workday when we actually crossed paths in the business office. I won't be revealing the personal details surrounding the quote. Suffice it to say, she meant it. Sharla truly did take all of her Christmas decorations down last night. She told me so in a succinct and matter-of-fact tone. I imagine because she knew she could. I got it with every fiber of my being.
Speaking from my personal perspective, I have as yet this season to cross paths with anyone who is experiencing the holiday as something other than an aggravating, stressful interruption to their already challenging lives. Intriguing. I could postulate innumerable hypotheses for this phenomena, but it isn't rocket science. It feels to me like we're all tired. A little blue. Overwhelmed and under inspired. The cultural replenishment-to-depletion ratio seems to be tipped in the direction of depletion. I think we all need a big sigh and a long nap.
I respect and admire Sharla for acting congruently with a disappointing twist of Reality. I know for a fact her Preferred Version of the holiday season included a visit from her daughter. We shared an intimate moment of connectedness when she mentioned that she took everything down and I said that I totally understood. It was tempting to point out that at least she had put UP something to have to take DOWN. That is more than a lot of us have done. What seemed important and somehow quintessentially healthy was that she wasn't going to expend energy "acting" a certain way, keeping up a facade, or faking feeling states that weren't genuine. Sharla, with a characteristic Bodhisattva response, is dwelling smack in the midst of Reality. She may be a holiday model for us all.
In this moment, I don't know what my Preferred Version of the holiday season is. I am fairly certain, however, that it includes a sigh and a nap.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Where'd It All Go?
Our Soto way puts an emphasis on shikan taza, or "just sitting." Actually we do not have any particular name for our practice; when we practice zazen we just practice it, and whether we find joy in our practice or not, we just do it. Even though we are sleepy, and we are tired of practicing zazen, of repeating the same thing day after day; even so, we continue our practice. Whether or not someone encourages our practice, we just do it. - Shunryu Suzuki in "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind."
Day 315. OMG! Fifty, FIFTY, Five-Oh more blogs to write! Not that I am counting how many are left rather than how many have been written . . . Not that I am attached to this year being over. . . Not that I am concerned that a book contract hasn't arrived . . . Not that it ever even occurs to me to wonder how far in advance Kate Hudson signs her movie contracts . . .
Last night I was sitting on my cushion and it felt like I had never sat zazen before in my life. Like I knew nothing. Like I was a total novice, and I don't mean the good kind of "beginner" that Suzuki Roshi refers to. I felt like a caricature of a Westerner. A Westerner trying to meditate for the first time. The average Jane who's read a couple of articles on meditation and decides one night, "Okay, I can do that. No problem. What's the big deal? Sit down and breathe. I bet I'm enlightened by the weekend." An impatient, desirous, attached, egotistical, goal oriented, looking to attain something, waiting for the reward, Monkey-Minded American.
I was mildly perturbed and a little perplexed. How could this be? What about my ten months of solid practice? What about my erect spine, balanced mudra, and symmetrical half lotus? What about emptying my mind, sinking into my amygdala, focusing on my breath, silencing the Monkeys, falling into the abyss, becoming enveloped in the blue/black beauty of nothingness? Where did it all go?!
The more I searched, the more my mind scurried like shoppers scoring Kohl's Cash. I managed to remain on my cushion, but it's a wonder my frenetic cerebral spinning didn't levitate me off the floor like an Army chopper leaving a M*A*S*H unit. "I've lost it I'm bored I'm a bad sitter It's gone on too long The blog is boring Nobody cares anymore There is nothing to write about It was a dumb idea Stop thinking Just breathe There is nothing to attain Pick something and focus on it Where's a mantra Don't use a mantra That just makes you think more Nothing is working I wish I could sit like I used to I am getting worse not better Only two months left to reach Nirvana You are not supposed to care about reaching anything This isn't how I thought it would be Time is running out This is so disappointing You'd better get to the dojo and sit with the sangha again I don't care Yes I do . . . . . " The Monkeys went for a frolic in my brain cells like toddlers in the ball pit at Discovery Zone. The timer went off, and still I was thinking, "Where'd it all go?"
I grabbed for Suzuki Roshi's book like a nun clutches her rosary. Opened it to page 78 and read the above quote. Sighed, breathed, and bowed. For real. Gassho to my teacher's teacher for managing to speak to everything that ails me in my practice. He didn't answer my confusion about "Where did it all go?" He just reminded me that the question doesn't really matter.
Gotta go. I have some shikan taza to do.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 315. OMG! Fifty, FIFTY, Five-Oh more blogs to write! Not that I am counting how many are left rather than how many have been written . . . Not that I am attached to this year being over. . . Not that I am concerned that a book contract hasn't arrived . . . Not that it ever even occurs to me to wonder how far in advance Kate Hudson signs her movie contracts . . .
Last night I was sitting on my cushion and it felt like I had never sat zazen before in my life. Like I knew nothing. Like I was a total novice, and I don't mean the good kind of "beginner" that Suzuki Roshi refers to. I felt like a caricature of a Westerner. A Westerner trying to meditate for the first time. The average Jane who's read a couple of articles on meditation and decides one night, "Okay, I can do that. No problem. What's the big deal? Sit down and breathe. I bet I'm enlightened by the weekend." An impatient, desirous, attached, egotistical, goal oriented, looking to attain something, waiting for the reward, Monkey-Minded American.
I was mildly perturbed and a little perplexed. How could this be? What about my ten months of solid practice? What about my erect spine, balanced mudra, and symmetrical half lotus? What about emptying my mind, sinking into my amygdala, focusing on my breath, silencing the Monkeys, falling into the abyss, becoming enveloped in the blue/black beauty of nothingness? Where did it all go?!
The more I searched, the more my mind scurried like shoppers scoring Kohl's Cash. I managed to remain on my cushion, but it's a wonder my frenetic cerebral spinning didn't levitate me off the floor like an Army chopper leaving a M*A*S*H unit. "I've lost it I'm bored I'm a bad sitter It's gone on too long The blog is boring Nobody cares anymore There is nothing to write about It was a dumb idea Stop thinking Just breathe There is nothing to attain Pick something and focus on it Where's a mantra Don't use a mantra That just makes you think more Nothing is working I wish I could sit like I used to I am getting worse not better Only two months left to reach Nirvana You are not supposed to care about reaching anything This isn't how I thought it would be Time is running out This is so disappointing You'd better get to the dojo and sit with the sangha again I don't care Yes I do . . . . . " The Monkeys went for a frolic in my brain cells like toddlers in the ball pit at Discovery Zone. The timer went off, and still I was thinking, "Where'd it all go?"
I grabbed for Suzuki Roshi's book like a nun clutches her rosary. Opened it to page 78 and read the above quote. Sighed, breathed, and bowed. For real. Gassho to my teacher's teacher for managing to speak to everything that ails me in my practice. He didn't answer my confusion about "Where did it all go?" He just reminded me that the question doesn't really matter.
Gotta go. I have some shikan taza to do.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Full Christmas Moon
I took one deep breath for every step (he) took away from me. That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are - rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best foot forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 314. While flipping through the Christmas edition of one of the few magazines I subscribe to, I discovered another blogger with a commitment to post every day for a year. It is San Francisco artist Lisa Congdon. Her blog, collectionaday2010.blogspot.com, features a picture of her "carefully curated collections" every day. Hum. I just read further and learned that Lisa's book, "A Collection a Day" will come out in March. That was fast. As far as I know, my book will not be coming out in March. Probably not in April, either. Not that I'm attached to publishing a book or anything . . .
It occurred to me that I have not blogged a story for quite some time. Today I was reminded of one of my favorites from my son's childhood. It happened around Christmas, so the telling seems timely. As I recall, this was the highlight of my 1993 Christmas letter. I never was one of those moms who sent pictures of the family dressed in matching plaid sweaters. I'm fairly sure my son has never even owned a plaid sweater. And if he did, I am certain he never actually put it on.
At the ripe old age of just over three, my son was told "No" for perhaps the first time in his life. In my defense (to the completely legitimate questions about my suitability as a parent that undoubtedly just entered your mind), the child did spend a majority of his toddlerhood in Children's Hospital. We were decorating the living room for the holidays. My son, rapidly recapturing the time he missed indulging his "Terrible Two's," was bossily "helping" me with every single bow and bell. We had just finished arranging his hefty collection of Christmas stuffed toys along the back of the love seat ("hefty" being the operative word here - there is nothing like an extensive hospital stay to rake in an array of plush bounty that rivals the Disney Store). I had stepped into the kitchen to take something from the oven when he asked if he could hang the fragile, hand-painted ornaments I had collected during my teaching trips to Germany. I said, "No - wait for me to come in and help you" and continued shoveling cookies onto the cooling rack. It got very quiet. That should have been a clue.
I slid the next batch of cookies into the oven (in 1993, you couldn't buy gluten-free cookies in the store), shut the door, set the timer, and walked back into the living room. Stopped and stared. Stood and stared some more. My child was nowhere in sight. I tried to summon a stern parental voice and failed completely. Instead, I burst into laughter. Collapsing into a helpless puddle of mirth upon the tinsel-strewn rug, I laughed until tears streamed down my face. My startled toddler emerged from his bedroom and warily watched as his mother helplessly tried to compose herself. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I motioned for him to come sit on my lap. Together, we gazed up at the love seat.
With the lightening fast speed only a chagrined toddler is capable of, my son had executed a swift and thorough protest to his first experience of "No." In the time it took me to shove a dozen cookies into the oven, he had systematically turned every single one of his stuffed animals (the ones we had just finished artistically arranging into a cheerful holiday greeting committee) around backward. With precision indicative of the excessive loading of OCD genes inherited from his mother, he had effectively turned a row of colorful, happily smiling Christmas creatures into a linear arrangement of backsides. A 21-bun salute. The top of the love seat now proudly displayed a line of stuffed posteriors. I was the intended recipient of what we still fondly refer to as "The Full Christmas Moon."
Talk about making a statement. My child has always been a clear communicator. Still is. It doesn't take guesswork to know when he is displeased. For the record, we left the stuffed animals that way the entire holiday season. As oppositional acts go, this one was way too creative to prematurely correct. Besides, the moment of intervention sort of passed about the time I fell to the floor cracking up.
I recalled this story because I was told "No" today. Since my stitches won't come out for another couple of weeks, my partner insisted I phone the surgeon's office to ask if it would be medically safe to ride the mountain bikes this weekend. Grumbling and embarrassed for troubling her office, I complied. It never occurred to me she would say anything other than, "Sure, go, have fun!" Not thirty seconds after I left my question with the receptionist, my cell phone rang with an answer: "The doctor really doesn't think that would be a good idea. She said we need to be conservative so that you can heal, and you should wait until the stitches are removed. It could be really bad if you fell on your face." I was most displeased. I thought about marching to her office and executing a Christmas Moon, but reconsidered when I remembered this person will be cutting on me again in February. Resigned myself to a couple more weeks of riding the trainer around my living room. At least there are decorations to look at. And several stuffed animals smilingly posed along the back of the love seat.
I'm not sure where, exactly, the Zen is in either of these stories. But I'm not worried. As I demonstrated in yesterday's blog, Zen is everywhere. Even during a Full Christmas Moon.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 314. While flipping through the Christmas edition of one of the few magazines I subscribe to, I discovered another blogger with a commitment to post every day for a year. It is San Francisco artist Lisa Congdon. Her blog, collectionaday2010.blogspot.com, features a picture of her "carefully curated collections" every day. Hum. I just read further and learned that Lisa's book, "A Collection a Day" will come out in March. That was fast. As far as I know, my book will not be coming out in March. Probably not in April, either. Not that I'm attached to publishing a book or anything . . .
It occurred to me that I have not blogged a story for quite some time. Today I was reminded of one of my favorites from my son's childhood. It happened around Christmas, so the telling seems timely. As I recall, this was the highlight of my 1993 Christmas letter. I never was one of those moms who sent pictures of the family dressed in matching plaid sweaters. I'm fairly sure my son has never even owned a plaid sweater. And if he did, I am certain he never actually put it on.
At the ripe old age of just over three, my son was told "No" for perhaps the first time in his life. In my defense (to the completely legitimate questions about my suitability as a parent that undoubtedly just entered your mind), the child did spend a majority of his toddlerhood in Children's Hospital. We were decorating the living room for the holidays. My son, rapidly recapturing the time he missed indulging his "Terrible Two's," was bossily "helping" me with every single bow and bell. We had just finished arranging his hefty collection of Christmas stuffed toys along the back of the love seat ("hefty" being the operative word here - there is nothing like an extensive hospital stay to rake in an array of plush bounty that rivals the Disney Store). I had stepped into the kitchen to take something from the oven when he asked if he could hang the fragile, hand-painted ornaments I had collected during my teaching trips to Germany. I said, "No - wait for me to come in and help you" and continued shoveling cookies onto the cooling rack. It got very quiet. That should have been a clue.
I slid the next batch of cookies into the oven (in 1993, you couldn't buy gluten-free cookies in the store), shut the door, set the timer, and walked back into the living room. Stopped and stared. Stood and stared some more. My child was nowhere in sight. I tried to summon a stern parental voice and failed completely. Instead, I burst into laughter. Collapsing into a helpless puddle of mirth upon the tinsel-strewn rug, I laughed until tears streamed down my face. My startled toddler emerged from his bedroom and warily watched as his mother helplessly tried to compose herself. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I motioned for him to come sit on my lap. Together, we gazed up at the love seat.
With the lightening fast speed only a chagrined toddler is capable of, my son had executed a swift and thorough protest to his first experience of "No." In the time it took me to shove a dozen cookies into the oven, he had systematically turned every single one of his stuffed animals (the ones we had just finished artistically arranging into a cheerful holiday greeting committee) around backward. With precision indicative of the excessive loading of OCD genes inherited from his mother, he had effectively turned a row of colorful, happily smiling Christmas creatures into a linear arrangement of backsides. A 21-bun salute. The top of the love seat now proudly displayed a line of stuffed posteriors. I was the intended recipient of what we still fondly refer to as "The Full Christmas Moon."
Talk about making a statement. My child has always been a clear communicator. Still is. It doesn't take guesswork to know when he is displeased. For the record, we left the stuffed animals that way the entire holiday season. As oppositional acts go, this one was way too creative to prematurely correct. Besides, the moment of intervention sort of passed about the time I fell to the floor cracking up.
I recalled this story because I was told "No" today. Since my stitches won't come out for another couple of weeks, my partner insisted I phone the surgeon's office to ask if it would be medically safe to ride the mountain bikes this weekend. Grumbling and embarrassed for troubling her office, I complied. It never occurred to me she would say anything other than, "Sure, go, have fun!" Not thirty seconds after I left my question with the receptionist, my cell phone rang with an answer: "The doctor really doesn't think that would be a good idea. She said we need to be conservative so that you can heal, and you should wait until the stitches are removed. It could be really bad if you fell on your face." I was most displeased. I thought about marching to her office and executing a Christmas Moon, but reconsidered when I remembered this person will be cutting on me again in February. Resigned myself to a couple more weeks of riding the trainer around my living room. At least there are decorations to look at. And several stuffed animals smilingly posed along the back of the love seat.
I'm not sure where, exactly, the Zen is in either of these stories. But I'm not worried. As I demonstrated in yesterday's blog, Zen is everywhere. Even during a Full Christmas Moon.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Even Bruce is Zen
She'll let you in her car
To go drivin' around,
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down.
She'll let you in her heart,
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice.
You've gone a million miles,
How far'd you get?
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget. - Bruce Springsteen in "Secret Garden."
Day 313. You guessed it. I am in a Bruce Mood. Always happens when something has made me feel vulnerable. All I want to do is take my mountain bike and bust out some gnarly miles on a really technical trail. Maybe crash onto some rocks and bleed a little. Just to remind myself that I will get right back on and ride some more.
For most of this year, I have been proud (in a non-attached sort of way) of keeping my commitment to practice zazen every day and blog about it. It has felt authentic to direct sincere intent to loving kindness, mindfulness, accepting Reality, and surrendering my ego (to whatever degree that is possible on any given day!) I have enjoyed reading about Buddhism and sharing what I am learning with those who are interested. I have tried to be courageous and centered through the numerous twists and turns the Big R has hurled my way. With varying levels of success, I have attempted to refrain from highly politicized writing and spewing irrelevant personal drama. I've blogged through boredom, repetition, tedium, rage, despair, grief, and distraction.
Frankly, I am sick to death of it. Eyeball deep in disenchantment toward the whole shebang. All that emotion I have been channeling over to the Isle of Equanimity has evidently been stockpiling itself into deep bunkers on the shores of Histrionicville. Must be time to start the novel. I want to write juicy drama based on convoluted plots involving conflicted, tragic characters who make very bad mistakes and fail to learn from them. I want to write about wicked sex and politically incorrect situations and creative crimes hidden deeply in layers of subterfuge. I want to pen insensitive sarcasm directed at hyper-religiosity. I plan on creating a couple of characters who say, think, and do the most unZenlike things imaginable. In all likelihood, one will be pathologically avoidant of any display of vulnerability.
I'm going to cut lose. I'm going to express. I'm going to create. I'm going to deviate so far from the Middle Path not even a Garmin can lead me back. I won't be wise or patient or moderate. I'm going to write down my bones, exactly like Natalie Goldberg teaches. I'm going to be excessive, audacious, inappropriate, and a wee bit offensive. I'm going to write this book like I ride down and across that ridge at the Womble: never touching the brakes and hoping to hell I don't careen off the edge and smash to the bottom of the ravine. In other words, like a bad ass. It will be fun. It will be outrageous. Who knows, it may even be read.
Sometimes Zen is bad ass, and some times it is just sitting there. Most of the time, it's just sitting there. The thing is, if you can keep sitting there when all it is is just sitting there, you ARE bad ass! Because that is the hardest thing in the world to do. A zillion times harder than riding the rough spots at the Womble.
I guess it's good to remind myself of that every once in a while. I had sort of forgotten the bad ass aspect of Zen. And, despite my boldest intent to end tonight's blog without my predictable, formulatic, satisfying, "tie it all together with a ribbon" finish, I suspect it is going to happen anyway. I so wanted to build the case that a Bruce Mood stands outside the realm of Zen. Absurd. Nothing stands outside of Zen. Big Mind holds it all. That's what makes it Bad Ass.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
To go drivin' around,
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down.
She'll let you in her heart,
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice.
You've gone a million miles,
How far'd you get?
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget. - Bruce Springsteen in "Secret Garden."
Day 313. You guessed it. I am in a Bruce Mood. Always happens when something has made me feel vulnerable. All I want to do is take my mountain bike and bust out some gnarly miles on a really technical trail. Maybe crash onto some rocks and bleed a little. Just to remind myself that I will get right back on and ride some more.
For most of this year, I have been proud (in a non-attached sort of way) of keeping my commitment to practice zazen every day and blog about it. It has felt authentic to direct sincere intent to loving kindness, mindfulness, accepting Reality, and surrendering my ego (to whatever degree that is possible on any given day!) I have enjoyed reading about Buddhism and sharing what I am learning with those who are interested. I have tried to be courageous and centered through the numerous twists and turns the Big R has hurled my way. With varying levels of success, I have attempted to refrain from highly politicized writing and spewing irrelevant personal drama. I've blogged through boredom, repetition, tedium, rage, despair, grief, and distraction.
Frankly, I am sick to death of it. Eyeball deep in disenchantment toward the whole shebang. All that emotion I have been channeling over to the Isle of Equanimity has evidently been stockpiling itself into deep bunkers on the shores of Histrionicville. Must be time to start the novel. I want to write juicy drama based on convoluted plots involving conflicted, tragic characters who make very bad mistakes and fail to learn from them. I want to write about wicked sex and politically incorrect situations and creative crimes hidden deeply in layers of subterfuge. I want to pen insensitive sarcasm directed at hyper-religiosity. I plan on creating a couple of characters who say, think, and do the most unZenlike things imaginable. In all likelihood, one will be pathologically avoidant of any display of vulnerability.
I'm going to cut lose. I'm going to express. I'm going to create. I'm going to deviate so far from the Middle Path not even a Garmin can lead me back. I won't be wise or patient or moderate. I'm going to write down my bones, exactly like Natalie Goldberg teaches. I'm going to be excessive, audacious, inappropriate, and a wee bit offensive. I'm going to write this book like I ride down and across that ridge at the Womble: never touching the brakes and hoping to hell I don't careen off the edge and smash to the bottom of the ravine. In other words, like a bad ass. It will be fun. It will be outrageous. Who knows, it may even be read.
Sometimes Zen is bad ass, and some times it is just sitting there. Most of the time, it's just sitting there. The thing is, if you can keep sitting there when all it is is just sitting there, you ARE bad ass! Because that is the hardest thing in the world to do. A zillion times harder than riding the rough spots at the Womble.
I guess it's good to remind myself of that every once in a while. I had sort of forgotten the bad ass aspect of Zen. And, despite my boldest intent to end tonight's blog without my predictable, formulatic, satisfying, "tie it all together with a ribbon" finish, I suspect it is going to happen anyway. I so wanted to build the case that a Bruce Mood stands outside the realm of Zen. Absurd. Nothing stands outside of Zen. Big Mind holds it all. That's what makes it Bad Ass.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Crisp and Clear
We thought we were looking, but could not see what was before us. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 312. Two days post-op and I feel like a weenie. My razor-sharp mind feels like it couldn't slice yogurt. My lightening quick reflexes look like Tai Chi performed in slow motion. My sardonic wit hasn't produced a decent one-liner in 48 hours, and my elephantic memory can't even recall on which side of the car my gas tank is located. This is getting serious. With what concoction of medicinal wonders do they produce that mystical state called "conscious sedation?" I think mine may have been a double. That, or I am the world's slowest drug metabolizer. Which cannot be the case; I don't do ANYTHING slow!
I don't feel like me at all, which you might think I would interpret as a major Zen coup (being as how the central idea is to "lose myself.") Instead, I feel foggy and discomfited. Self conscious and timorous. Not a person with whom my ancestors would leave their sheep.
The Big R, previously so crisp and clear, is presently blurred around the edges. My precious state of equanimity (not that I was attached to it) has been upended - toppled by something as trivial as a botched maxillofacial procedure. Reality has an annoying and incessant habit of interrupting my mastery of it. Damn it to hell. This practice - this enigma called Zen - is the most humbling, infuriating, inciting, and disconcerting endeavor I have ever approached. With the slightest provocation, I could dash it on the rocks. Smash it to pieces. Grind it into ash.
Alas and alack! In the past 311 days, I have as yet to encounter anything that holds a candle to Zen when it comes to going head-to-head with Reality. Especially those frequent pieces of It that fail to commence according to my Preferred Version. Where else would I be provided with a method through which I can relinquish attachment, accept Reality exactly as It Is, and be freed from all suffering? Even the squirmy discomfort associated with (arghhh!) being human. All from the comfort of a sofa cushion.
Methinks I doth protest too loudly. This feels disingenuous: I am lauding the role of Zen in my life to avoid blasting out a keyboard purge of self-pitying drivel. Wash my cup, clap with one hand, listen for a tree falling in the forest. At the moment, it's all crap. My mouth hurts, my face hurts, my head hurts, my hope hurts. I want to sit on my cushion about as much as I want another scalpel inserted through my palate. I want to chant about as much as I want to go gargle with my prescription strength antiseptic. I want to bow about as much as I want to sign my next check to the IRS.
Oh - that's better! It's back. Reality. Crisp and clear!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 312. Two days post-op and I feel like a weenie. My razor-sharp mind feels like it couldn't slice yogurt. My lightening quick reflexes look like Tai Chi performed in slow motion. My sardonic wit hasn't produced a decent one-liner in 48 hours, and my elephantic memory can't even recall on which side of the car my gas tank is located. This is getting serious. With what concoction of medicinal wonders do they produce that mystical state called "conscious sedation?" I think mine may have been a double. That, or I am the world's slowest drug metabolizer. Which cannot be the case; I don't do ANYTHING slow!
I don't feel like me at all, which you might think I would interpret as a major Zen coup (being as how the central idea is to "lose myself.") Instead, I feel foggy and discomfited. Self conscious and timorous. Not a person with whom my ancestors would leave their sheep.
The Big R, previously so crisp and clear, is presently blurred around the edges. My precious state of equanimity (not that I was attached to it) has been upended - toppled by something as trivial as a botched maxillofacial procedure. Reality has an annoying and incessant habit of interrupting my mastery of it. Damn it to hell. This practice - this enigma called Zen - is the most humbling, infuriating, inciting, and disconcerting endeavor I have ever approached. With the slightest provocation, I could dash it on the rocks. Smash it to pieces. Grind it into ash.
Alas and alack! In the past 311 days, I have as yet to encounter anything that holds a candle to Zen when it comes to going head-to-head with Reality. Especially those frequent pieces of It that fail to commence according to my Preferred Version. Where else would I be provided with a method through which I can relinquish attachment, accept Reality exactly as It Is, and be freed from all suffering? Even the squirmy discomfort associated with (arghhh!) being human. All from the comfort of a sofa cushion.
Methinks I doth protest too loudly. This feels disingenuous: I am lauding the role of Zen in my life to avoid blasting out a keyboard purge of self-pitying drivel. Wash my cup, clap with one hand, listen for a tree falling in the forest. At the moment, it's all crap. My mouth hurts, my face hurts, my head hurts, my hope hurts. I want to sit on my cushion about as much as I want another scalpel inserted through my palate. I want to chant about as much as I want to go gargle with my prescription strength antiseptic. I want to bow about as much as I want to sign my next check to the IRS.
Oh - that's better! It's back. Reality. Crisp and clear!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Other Panacea
Itchy wet stitches
Hidden behind swollen cheeks
Post-op haiku flows.
Hollow hunger shouts
Whirling blender miracle
Straw slowly slurping. - Desperate attempts at haiku to stave off boredom (December 10, 2010).
Day 311. Okay. So I'm not the best patient. Recall that I was raised in a family that is freakishly awkward around infirmity. My ancestors roamed the Scottish highlands, protecting sheep herds while fighting off rogue enemy clans. My origins reflect dauntlessness and indomitability. I was made to be hardy, not to take pain meds. Which, incidentally, make my head wonky. It is tempting to sell them on the street for some extra holiday cash. At least that would break up the tedium of recovery. Pedaling something with two wheels has always been my panacea.
The universe, with its damnable and sadistic sense of humor, is conspiring against me. My partner came home from his sunset mountain bike ride all grins. Seems he met a dentist in the parking lot, and they rode the entire 10-mile lap together. What are the odds? My partner mentioned the irony of me at home recovering from a botched sinus lift while he is on a bike ride with a dentist, and the frigging dentist proceeded to tell him how dangerous it would be for me to ride in the next several days. According to this random, satanic, dentist-cum-mountain-biker, something as mild as blowing my nose could rupture my fragile sinus and require another surgery to repair it. Whatever. Sounds like a bunch of histrionic whooey to me.
I wasn't even going to believe the story, but my partner produced a business card from the guy that looks dangerously legit. Besides that, he was using some pretty convincing vocabulary that sounded remarkably similar to my surgeon's explanation (the remnants I recall through my analgesic fog). Being grounded from my bikes is definitely impeding my convalescence. And that was BEFORE the galaxy plunked a conservative, know-it-all, proffering unsolicited precautions, busybody of a dentist on the same trail at the same time my partner elected to grab a quick ride.
It's enough to make me swallow one of the scheduled narcotics my surgeon so generously and prolifically wrote out scripts for. But I will refrain. My neurons are saturated with Monkey chatter before I drape them in pharmaceuticals; I certainly don't need to agitate them further. At the risk of sounding anticlimactic, I'll cope the way I have been for the past 310 days. By getting my butt on the cushion. My other panacea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Hidden behind swollen cheeks
Post-op haiku flows.
Hollow hunger shouts
Whirling blender miracle
Straw slowly slurping. - Desperate attempts at haiku to stave off boredom (December 10, 2010).
Day 311. Okay. So I'm not the best patient. Recall that I was raised in a family that is freakishly awkward around infirmity. My ancestors roamed the Scottish highlands, protecting sheep herds while fighting off rogue enemy clans. My origins reflect dauntlessness and indomitability. I was made to be hardy, not to take pain meds. Which, incidentally, make my head wonky. It is tempting to sell them on the street for some extra holiday cash. At least that would break up the tedium of recovery. Pedaling something with two wheels has always been my panacea.
The universe, with its damnable and sadistic sense of humor, is conspiring against me. My partner came home from his sunset mountain bike ride all grins. Seems he met a dentist in the parking lot, and they rode the entire 10-mile lap together. What are the odds? My partner mentioned the irony of me at home recovering from a botched sinus lift while he is on a bike ride with a dentist, and the frigging dentist proceeded to tell him how dangerous it would be for me to ride in the next several days. According to this random, satanic, dentist-cum-mountain-biker, something as mild as blowing my nose could rupture my fragile sinus and require another surgery to repair it. Whatever. Sounds like a bunch of histrionic whooey to me.
I wasn't even going to believe the story, but my partner produced a business card from the guy that looks dangerously legit. Besides that, he was using some pretty convincing vocabulary that sounded remarkably similar to my surgeon's explanation (the remnants I recall through my analgesic fog). Being grounded from my bikes is definitely impeding my convalescence. And that was BEFORE the galaxy plunked a conservative, know-it-all, proffering unsolicited precautions, busybody of a dentist on the same trail at the same time my partner elected to grab a quick ride.
It's enough to make me swallow one of the scheduled narcotics my surgeon so generously and prolifically wrote out scripts for. But I will refrain. My neurons are saturated with Monkey chatter before I drape them in pharmaceuticals; I certainly don't need to agitate them further. At the risk of sounding anticlimactic, I'll cope the way I have been for the past 310 days. By getting my butt on the cushion. My other panacea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Little Glitches
"We have a little glitch. . . . . . do you have any mesh in your car?" My surgeon to the doctor assisting her. (December 9, 2010).
Day 310. Surgery this morning. I elected not to be put all the way under, but next time I may rethink that. Surgery isn't the best place to practice mindfulness, alertness, or even wakefulness, for that matter. Mainly because I could hear everything going on. At first, that was kinda cool; I got to participate in the process (not to mention the other doc was a former mountain biker - if I hadn't had a mouth full of stainless steel instruments, think of the stories I could have told!) Being awake had been going along swimmingly until I heard my surgeon utter her blogworthy quote. "There's a glitch," isn't exactly what you want to hear if you are the glitchee.
My sinus was perforated, which necessitated an unanticipated repair, which necessitated eight weeks healing time for the "glitch," which necessitated scheduling another surgery to do what they were supposed to be doing today. I had them pencil me in for February 8th. They first suggested February 3rd, but I thought surely I can find a better way to spend my 50th birthday. So we're waiting until the 8th. Whoopee. At least I won't be blogging about it!
It was humorous to watch the Monkeys bumbling through my drug-clouded brain, trying to figure out why "mesh" was being requested, and why it might be in the car. I guess the doc assisting mine travels to different surgical offices and keeps an odd square of mesh or two in his car. The mesh must have been located, and was combined with cow achilles tendon to fix the perforations. Very cool. Another version of being interconnected with the universe. I didn't register that the rest of the plan had been abandoned until I saw and heard the surgeon begin to stitch things back up. At that point I inquired (with my best ventriloquist effort) about the bone grafting. That's when the doctor told me that working with sinus is like manipulating wet tissue paper, and she "liked to be conservative" when they tear. Read between the lines: Done for today; you'll be coming back for more.
Not exactly my Preferred Version for today's outcome. I sort of had my sights set on the Reality where I am back on the bike by next weekend. I still may be, and will just plan for another temporary interruption in February. Thank the Buddha for a strong zazen practice. It's so efficient to bypass all of the analyzing, questioning, regretting, second guessing, and being attached to things going better, etc. that may have flooded my consciousness a year ago. Now I can just flop down smack in the middle of Reality, and try to remember to schedule the right days off in February. It is what it is. Glitches and all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 310. Surgery this morning. I elected not to be put all the way under, but next time I may rethink that. Surgery isn't the best place to practice mindfulness, alertness, or even wakefulness, for that matter. Mainly because I could hear everything going on. At first, that was kinda cool; I got to participate in the process (not to mention the other doc was a former mountain biker - if I hadn't had a mouth full of stainless steel instruments, think of the stories I could have told!) Being awake had been going along swimmingly until I heard my surgeon utter her blogworthy quote. "There's a glitch," isn't exactly what you want to hear if you are the glitchee.
My sinus was perforated, which necessitated an unanticipated repair, which necessitated eight weeks healing time for the "glitch," which necessitated scheduling another surgery to do what they were supposed to be doing today. I had them pencil me in for February 8th. They first suggested February 3rd, but I thought surely I can find a better way to spend my 50th birthday. So we're waiting until the 8th. Whoopee. At least I won't be blogging about it!
It was humorous to watch the Monkeys bumbling through my drug-clouded brain, trying to figure out why "mesh" was being requested, and why it might be in the car. I guess the doc assisting mine travels to different surgical offices and keeps an odd square of mesh or two in his car. The mesh must have been located, and was combined with cow achilles tendon to fix the perforations. Very cool. Another version of being interconnected with the universe. I didn't register that the rest of the plan had been abandoned until I saw and heard the surgeon begin to stitch things back up. At that point I inquired (with my best ventriloquist effort) about the bone grafting. That's when the doctor told me that working with sinus is like manipulating wet tissue paper, and she "liked to be conservative" when they tear. Read between the lines: Done for today; you'll be coming back for more.
Not exactly my Preferred Version for today's outcome. I sort of had my sights set on the Reality where I am back on the bike by next weekend. I still may be, and will just plan for another temporary interruption in February. Thank the Buddha for a strong zazen practice. It's so efficient to bypass all of the analyzing, questioning, regretting, second guessing, and being attached to things going better, etc. that may have flooded my consciousness a year ago. Now I can just flop down smack in the middle of Reality, and try to remember to schedule the right days off in February. It is what it is. Glitches and all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Three Little Buddhas
"I am enlightened, and always have been, simultaneously with the beginning of the universe." - The Buddha, First Words After Realizing the Truth. In the Zen Calendar (December 11, 2002).
When the bright star appeared, the Buddha said: "Together as one, I and the great Earth have at this moment attained the Tao." - Zen Calendar (December 9, 2006).
Day 309. Happy Bodhi Day! Happy Rohatsu! Gassho to Buddha for his wisdom and compassion!
At mid-day, I celebrated Rohatsu with my favorite 4-year-olds: Reece, Clark and Grace. When I mentioned in Pilates class I would be observing Buddha's enlightenment today, their mom Amy asked if I could share a 4-year-old version of some of the rituals with her triplets. I said I would be delighted. They trooped into my home around 11:30. Grace was the only one who had her shoes on at the time. I said, "Perfect! We take our shoes off for zazen anyway. You all came prepared!"
After some wandering around the house, pausing in my son's room to play with a few sturdy remnants from his childhood, we proceeded to the Zen room. It is lovely at noon: lots of bright green plants soak up the ample sunshine flooding through a south facing window. Everyone selected a cushion from the colorful ones I carted home from the office. We looked at, held, and passed around some of the Buddha statues I have collected from around the world. It didn't take Reece long to observe, "He has a really big belly!" I agreed, then paused to gather some thoughts about Buddha in a version suitable for 4-year-olds. I knew I had about three sentences. Four, tops.
I asked the Three about their teachers. They shouted a couple of names, then Clark wisely pointed out, "Anybody can be a teacher." Could I have scripted a better segue? Not one to miss a cue, I launched into my first Dharma talk for children. It went something like this:
"Buddha was a great teacher who lived about two thousand years ago. He taught us about being kind to each other and loving each other. He also taught us how to live in the world with no worries . . . and showed us that everything is all right - just the way it is. And you know what the most important thing he taught us was?" Complete silence. All eyes on me. Rapt attention. "That, from the second we are born, and even BEFORE then, we are perfect. Absolutely perfect. Each and every one of us. Exactly as we are."
So there we have it. A transcript of my first Dharma talk. It was a couple of sentences longer than planned, but they hung right with me like the amazing little Buddhas they are. Next, we practiced experiencing how long 30 seconds is. I figured that was just about the perfect length for zazen when you're four. We started the timer and Grace shouted out a sequence of impeccable counting to 10, which gave me a splendid opportunity to say we were going to sit for three of what she had just counted. Amy asked, "What are we supposed to do with our thoughts while we are sitting?" I answered, "Good question! After over three hundred days, I still don't know the answer!" The triplets appeared to intuitively grasp my explanation of Monkey chatter (we should all begin our Zen study at the age of 4!) and my suggestion that they just watch their thoughts and think about their breathing. At that point, I showed everyone how to make a mudra "shaped like a half moon. . . and hold it by your belly button so your breath can come in and out of it." Bam - three perfect, miniature mudras appeared.
We all stood up and bowed deeply, first facing our respective cushions, then with our backs to them. Those pliable, low to the ground four-year-old bodies were just made for bowing. Everyone then sat back down on our zafus, bowed once more, formed our mudras, and watched me set the timer. Then: A Miracle. For thirty long, consecutive, brilliant, pristine, amazingly memorable seconds, absolute and complete silence in the Zen room. Three sublime little Buddhas on Bodhi Day. Peak Experience. Peak Experience. Peak Experience.
The timer sounded and we all bowed once more. My eyes met Amy's across the room and we burst into laughter. "Holy cow!" she exclaimed, "That was amazing! I don't believe it! I can't believe they all stayed quiet the entire time!" I got a Triplet High Five and almost spontaneously combusted with a remarkable sense of giddy happiness. "They are brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! My 42-year-old brother can't even sit zazen for 30 seconds! That was the best meditation EVER!"
Next, we chanted, and everyone giggled exquisitely when I said, "... shiki shiki soku ze ku ku soku ze." We went over all the new words we used to celebrate Buddha's enlightenment: Zafu, zazen, Bodhi, gassho, mudra. Anticipated that their Dad would be pretty impressed when they spoke to him in Japanese. Sated with satisfaction at our bows and sitting and chanting, we tromped into the kitchen for green tea served in the tiny Japanese tea set I brought back from Yokosuka long ago. We ate warm pumpkin bread with it. Then I gave Grace, Reece and Clark a Buddha statue to remember our day - one each from a three-piece set I had purchased on a teaching trip to Okinawa. We allocated Buddha names to each one: Ho-Tei, Dogen, and Sidd. They were impressively gracious receivers.
Alone, I have been bowing, sitting, chanting and drinking tea every day for over 10 months. Sharing my practice was immensely special. This was the best Bodhia Day EVER. Being part of a Sangha rocks. Especially when it's comprised of Three Little Buddhas. Resplendent in their Buddha nature. Gassho, Clark, Reece, and Grace. Happy Rohatsu!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
When the bright star appeared, the Buddha said: "Together as one, I and the great Earth have at this moment attained the Tao." - Zen Calendar (December 9, 2006).
Day 309. Happy Bodhi Day! Happy Rohatsu! Gassho to Buddha for his wisdom and compassion!
At mid-day, I celebrated Rohatsu with my favorite 4-year-olds: Reece, Clark and Grace. When I mentioned in Pilates class I would be observing Buddha's enlightenment today, their mom Amy asked if I could share a 4-year-old version of some of the rituals with her triplets. I said I would be delighted. They trooped into my home around 11:30. Grace was the only one who had her shoes on at the time. I said, "Perfect! We take our shoes off for zazen anyway. You all came prepared!"
After some wandering around the house, pausing in my son's room to play with a few sturdy remnants from his childhood, we proceeded to the Zen room. It is lovely at noon: lots of bright green plants soak up the ample sunshine flooding through a south facing window. Everyone selected a cushion from the colorful ones I carted home from the office. We looked at, held, and passed around some of the Buddha statues I have collected from around the world. It didn't take Reece long to observe, "He has a really big belly!" I agreed, then paused to gather some thoughts about Buddha in a version suitable for 4-year-olds. I knew I had about three sentences. Four, tops.
I asked the Three about their teachers. They shouted a couple of names, then Clark wisely pointed out, "Anybody can be a teacher." Could I have scripted a better segue? Not one to miss a cue, I launched into my first Dharma talk for children. It went something like this:
"Buddha was a great teacher who lived about two thousand years ago. He taught us about being kind to each other and loving each other. He also taught us how to live in the world with no worries . . . and showed us that everything is all right - just the way it is. And you know what the most important thing he taught us was?" Complete silence. All eyes on me. Rapt attention. "That, from the second we are born, and even BEFORE then, we are perfect. Absolutely perfect. Each and every one of us. Exactly as we are."
So there we have it. A transcript of my first Dharma talk. It was a couple of sentences longer than planned, but they hung right with me like the amazing little Buddhas they are. Next, we practiced experiencing how long 30 seconds is. I figured that was just about the perfect length for zazen when you're four. We started the timer and Grace shouted out a sequence of impeccable counting to 10, which gave me a splendid opportunity to say we were going to sit for three of what she had just counted. Amy asked, "What are we supposed to do with our thoughts while we are sitting?" I answered, "Good question! After over three hundred days, I still don't know the answer!" The triplets appeared to intuitively grasp my explanation of Monkey chatter (we should all begin our Zen study at the age of 4!) and my suggestion that they just watch their thoughts and think about their breathing. At that point, I showed everyone how to make a mudra "shaped like a half moon. . . and hold it by your belly button so your breath can come in and out of it." Bam - three perfect, miniature mudras appeared.
We all stood up and bowed deeply, first facing our respective cushions, then with our backs to them. Those pliable, low to the ground four-year-old bodies were just made for bowing. Everyone then sat back down on our zafus, bowed once more, formed our mudras, and watched me set the timer. Then: A Miracle. For thirty long, consecutive, brilliant, pristine, amazingly memorable seconds, absolute and complete silence in the Zen room. Three sublime little Buddhas on Bodhi Day. Peak Experience. Peak Experience. Peak Experience.
The timer sounded and we all bowed once more. My eyes met Amy's across the room and we burst into laughter. "Holy cow!" she exclaimed, "That was amazing! I don't believe it! I can't believe they all stayed quiet the entire time!" I got a Triplet High Five and almost spontaneously combusted with a remarkable sense of giddy happiness. "They are brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! My 42-year-old brother can't even sit zazen for 30 seconds! That was the best meditation EVER!"
Next, we chanted, and everyone giggled exquisitely when I said, "... shiki shiki soku ze ku ku soku ze." We went over all the new words we used to celebrate Buddha's enlightenment: Zafu, zazen, Bodhi, gassho, mudra. Anticipated that their Dad would be pretty impressed when they spoke to him in Japanese. Sated with satisfaction at our bows and sitting and chanting, we tromped into the kitchen for green tea served in the tiny Japanese tea set I brought back from Yokosuka long ago. We ate warm pumpkin bread with it. Then I gave Grace, Reece and Clark a Buddha statue to remember our day - one each from a three-piece set I had purchased on a teaching trip to Okinawa. We allocated Buddha names to each one: Ho-Tei, Dogen, and Sidd. They were impressively gracious receivers.
Alone, I have been bowing, sitting, chanting and drinking tea every day for over 10 months. Sharing my practice was immensely special. This was the best Bodhia Day EVER. Being part of a Sangha rocks. Especially when it's comprised of Three Little Buddhas. Resplendent in their Buddha nature. Gassho, Clark, Reece, and Grace. Happy Rohatsu!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Gracious Receiving
Gratitude!
Tears melting into
mountain snow. - Soen Nakagawa in the Zen Calendar (January 31, 2002).
Day 308. The eve of Bodhi Day, also called (in Zen Buddhism) Rohatsu, which is Japanese for the Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month. December 8th. Tomorrow. A most sacred Buddhist holiday. The day Buddha's Enlightenment is observed. The day Siddartha sat under the Pipul tree and discovered some mildly significant Buddhist concepts including Karma, the Eightfold Path, and the Four Noble Truths. I will be doing some extra sitting, drinking some extra tea, and chanting some extra chants. Just the right amount of each.
Recently, I spoke to many clients, across several contexts, about learning to be gracious receivers. I coined the term myself during a session as I explained the paradox of when we receive something offered by someone else with grace and gratitude we are actually giving a gift of our own. It feels good when our gifts are graciously received. It is easy to recognize graciousness in the act of giving; less common to emphasize grace in receiving. I believe that is because there is a distinct vulnerability in the act of receiving. To some degree, giving also contains some vulnerability (will our gift be rejected, exchanged, forgotten about, neglected, minimized, criticized?), but the bottom line is that we can rest solidly in the altruism intrinsic to being a giver. In contrast, we may be in the position of receiver precisely because we have a need, a lack, a shortage, vulnerability, handicap, or weakness.
This is a long blog, and I have been interrupted. Come back to it. There is much more to say.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tears melting into
mountain snow. - Soen Nakagawa in the Zen Calendar (January 31, 2002).
Day 308. The eve of Bodhi Day, also called (in Zen Buddhism) Rohatsu, which is Japanese for the Eighth Day of the Twelfth Month. December 8th. Tomorrow. A most sacred Buddhist holiday. The day Buddha's Enlightenment is observed. The day Siddartha sat under the Pipul tree and discovered some mildly significant Buddhist concepts including Karma, the Eightfold Path, and the Four Noble Truths. I will be doing some extra sitting, drinking some extra tea, and chanting some extra chants. Just the right amount of each.
Recently, I spoke to many clients, across several contexts, about learning to be gracious receivers. I coined the term myself during a session as I explained the paradox of when we receive something offered by someone else with grace and gratitude we are actually giving a gift of our own. It feels good when our gifts are graciously received. It is easy to recognize graciousness in the act of giving; less common to emphasize grace in receiving. I believe that is because there is a distinct vulnerability in the act of receiving. To some degree, giving also contains some vulnerability (will our gift be rejected, exchanged, forgotten about, neglected, minimized, criticized?), but the bottom line is that we can rest solidly in the altruism intrinsic to being a giver. In contrast, we may be in the position of receiver precisely because we have a need, a lack, a shortage, vulnerability, handicap, or weakness.
This is a long blog, and I have been interrupted. Come back to it. There is much more to say.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, December 6, 2010
Quiet and Stable
Zen is not some kind of excitement, but concentration on our usual everyday routine. If you become too busy and too excited, your mind becomes rough and ragged. This is not good. If possible, try to be always calm and joyful and keep yourself from excitement. Usually we become busier and busier, day by day, year by year, especially in our modern world . . . But if we become interested in some excitement, or in our own change, we will become completely involved in our busy life, and we will be lost. But if your mind is calm and constant, you can keep yourself away from the noisy world even though you are in the midst of it. In the midst of noise and change, your mind will be quiet and stable. - Shunryu Suzuki in "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind."
Day 307. If my mind wasn't so quiet and stable, I might be quite excited about the fact that there is less than two months remaining of my sit/blog year. It is astonishing to contrast the Reality of the present status of my mind and heart with the wild (and exciting) imaginings I indulged when I first began this endeavor. I can't recall the specifics of what those expectations actually were, but I do know this: I wouldn't trade my present status for anything. Sitting smack in the midst of Reality is a pretty solid place in which to hang out.
The first edition of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind was published in 1970. The "noisy. . . modern world" to which Suzuki Roshi referred forty years ago has grown exponentially noisier and more modern. Especially at this time of year. The swelling buzz of busy excitement is palpable. "Excitement" is probably an erroneous descriptor. Frenetic, urgent, immoderate, excessive, intemperate, and superfluous more aptly depict the ambiance I am registering. Registering, but not participating in. I seem to be sitting in my serene Zen bubble, non-attachedly watching it all go by. Like a ninety-year-old native New Yorker at the Macy's parade. Taking things in appreciatively, but probably not expending much emotion. What a wonderful way to watch a parade.
My mind feels quiet and stable. I am definitely not emotionless or numb; on the the contrary, it seems as though I have just the right amount of feeling along a broad continuum of affective states. Unfamiliar indeed, but comfortably balanced. It's like starting to make sandwiches for five people and discovering I have exactly ten slices of bread. Like Goldilocks finding the right bed at the Three Bears' house: not too firm, not too soft, but JUST right. Like having one stick of butter left and two recipes that each call for four tablespoons. And (best of all) like running out of paper exactly when the right number of copies have been made.
This feels a little more precise than the concept of the Middle Path. I am referencing quantity, portion, and proportion. When I am grounded in Reality, determining the right amount of something is effortless. It is so obvious. Enough, and nothing more. Enough, and nothing less. Mad but not furious. Disappointed, not devastated. Satiated, not stuffed. Daring, not stupid. Committed, not zealous. Loving, not lost. Ten slices of bread to make five sandwiches. You get the picture. My present mood state is utterly unlike the conspicuous consumption and wasteful extravagance permeating this time of year. It is quiet and stable rather than rough and ragged. Even in the midst of noise and change. I highly recommend it.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 307. If my mind wasn't so quiet and stable, I might be quite excited about the fact that there is less than two months remaining of my sit/blog year. It is astonishing to contrast the Reality of the present status of my mind and heart with the wild (and exciting) imaginings I indulged when I first began this endeavor. I can't recall the specifics of what those expectations actually were, but I do know this: I wouldn't trade my present status for anything. Sitting smack in the midst of Reality is a pretty solid place in which to hang out.
The first edition of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind was published in 1970. The "noisy. . . modern world" to which Suzuki Roshi referred forty years ago has grown exponentially noisier and more modern. Especially at this time of year. The swelling buzz of busy excitement is palpable. "Excitement" is probably an erroneous descriptor. Frenetic, urgent, immoderate, excessive, intemperate, and superfluous more aptly depict the ambiance I am registering. Registering, but not participating in. I seem to be sitting in my serene Zen bubble, non-attachedly watching it all go by. Like a ninety-year-old native New Yorker at the Macy's parade. Taking things in appreciatively, but probably not expending much emotion. What a wonderful way to watch a parade.
My mind feels quiet and stable. I am definitely not emotionless or numb; on the the contrary, it seems as though I have just the right amount of feeling along a broad continuum of affective states. Unfamiliar indeed, but comfortably balanced. It's like starting to make sandwiches for five people and discovering I have exactly ten slices of bread. Like Goldilocks finding the right bed at the Three Bears' house: not too firm, not too soft, but JUST right. Like having one stick of butter left and two recipes that each call for four tablespoons. And (best of all) like running out of paper exactly when the right number of copies have been made.
This feels a little more precise than the concept of the Middle Path. I am referencing quantity, portion, and proportion. When I am grounded in Reality, determining the right amount of something is effortless. It is so obvious. Enough, and nothing more. Enough, and nothing less. Mad but not furious. Disappointed, not devastated. Satiated, not stuffed. Daring, not stupid. Committed, not zealous. Loving, not lost. Ten slices of bread to make five sandwiches. You get the picture. My present mood state is utterly unlike the conspicuous consumption and wasteful extravagance permeating this time of year. It is quiet and stable rather than rough and ragged. Even in the midst of noise and change. I highly recommend it.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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