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
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