Plucking chrysanthemums along the east fence;
Gazing in silence at the Southern Hills,
The birds flying home in pairs
Through the soft mountain air of dusk -
In these things there is a deep meaning
But when we try to express it,
We suddenly forget the words. - Tao Ch'ien in the Zen Calendar (October 14, 2006).
The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks. - Tenessee Williams in the Zen Calendar (September 23, 2006).
Who can be a wild deer among deserted mountains
happy with grass and pines. - Han-Shan in the Zen Calendar (September 5, 2006).
The whole moon and sky come to rest in a single dewdrop on a blade of grass. - Dogen in the Zen Calendar (August 27, 2006).
There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture in the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music is its roar.
I love not man the less, but nature more. - Lord Byron in the Zen Calendar (October 27, 2006).
Day 278. This is very interesting. I knew I wanted to go to my category of pages from the Zen Calendar marked "Nature" to find a quote for tonight, because I have been in the thick of nature for the past three days. I couldn't decide on one quote, so I plucked out five that I especially liked. As I typed them in, I noticed they are all dated between August and October of 2006. Coincidence? I think not. It is particularly intriguing because my saved pages are not, by a long stretch, in chronological order. There are several years of selected pages scattered all around the blogging area. Some have been roughly categorized; many are randomly stacked in little piles around my desk. Perhaps the editors of the 2006 edition of the Zen Calendar were really outdoorsy. Like me!
I am newly home from the Womble. Bruises continue to float to my skin's surface. Somehow the visible evidence of my wipeouts is making them hurt more. I feel like a child who gets a boo-boo but doesn't cry unless and until she sees the blood. When I mentioned to my son that I have a bruise the size of Africa on my right thigh, his reply was, "At least you don't have a bruise the size of Asia." I thanked him for the geography lesson, and noted that a boo-boo on your body the size of ANY continent deserves a couple of, "There, there's." Or at least an "Ah, honey." He is, however, the fruit of my loins, so it is highly likely that he will politely look away until I recover. That way, he doesn't have to feel awkward for his negligence.
For the past two nights I meditated in the little loft of a riverside cabin in Oden, Arkansas (population 220: Saaaaa-lute!) The interior of the cabin was entirely covered in lovely pine paneling. My downcast eyes rested on a little knot in the pine, which seemed very conducive to a peaceful state of meditation. That, and my state of complete exhaustion. Focusing on my breath was daunting, since each one rumbled over the painful, aching section of ribs that absorbed one of my Launch and Thuds. Maybe not so much the Launch, but most definitely the Thud. It was great practice at not being attached to my pain. Or the cessation of it. Good thing, since after 40 minutes of breath watching, the pain was still very much present. I must admit, that much physical hurt taking up space on the cushion made it feel a bit crowded. I did my best to (not) strive for emptiness, but the ache wouldn't budge. So we sat there together until the timer sounded. I'm pretty sure my bow was crooked. That's okay. I'm not attached to straight bows.
My experience on the mountain bike was quite different from the ones I blogged about in early Spring. I didn't blog as I rode. The Monkeys chattered away about the scenery, and maintained an ongoing commentary about my riding. The difference was that I didn't have thoughts about my thoughts. All the cerebral action just flowed on through and out of my mind. The trail kept passing beneath my tires, nature shone and strutted and shouted her most brilliant autumn encore, and I just lived each moment. One right after the other.
I am officially prematurely terminating this blog. I just sneezed and it about killed me. I'm assuming it is impossible to sneeze without some form of rib involvement. Bummer. It really hurts. Guess it's going to be crowded on the cushion again tonight.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
The Launch and Thud
(Insert blog here. ETA: Sunday, Nov. 7th)
Day 277. My ghost writer must write in invisible ink, because I just checked for the blog he was supposed to post, and the above message is all that showed up. Hmmmm. I will write Sunday's post, try to contact the ghost, lasso the missing message, and post it ASAP.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 277. My ghost writer must write in invisible ink, because I just checked for the blog he was supposed to post, and the above message is all that showed up. Hmmmm. I will write Sunday's post, try to contact the ghost, lasso the missing message, and post it ASAP.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, November 5, 2010
Seed of Hope
Day 276. I am headed for the Womble. Mountain bike paradise. Enchanted forest in which cell phone signals are mysteriously lost and nary a computer can be found within forty miles. Some call this inconvenient. I call it Nirvana.
In yesterday's blog I shared the first paragraph of the poem written for me by a client. I read it again last night and decided it would be today's post. And quote. I peered inwardly to see if this had to do with ego, and it felt like that wasn't the case. It is simply a beautiful poem. It is called Seed of Hope. I will begin with the second stanza:
"... Little did I know where my dangerous path would lead, to a world filled with sorrow and pain,
isolated from everyone, too ashamed to speak of the dark world I endured.
Just when I thought my life was at an end, a tiny voice inside me started to rise.
I picked up the phone and called that voice that once planted the Seed of Hope.
So the long road to recovery began from that tiny seed of hope.
I started to learn how to trust in someone and have faith within me.
Pain still came as a roller coaster during this road but with your help I could cope
and begin to see another side to life that was happy, joyous and free.
You have been a constant source of strength, an everburning light
that has lit a path for my dreams to unfold and given me the courage to try.
I have begun to develop wings to take flight but know that you have always been in sight.
But my dreams have taken me to a place beyond your sight and that makes me cry.
I will never forget you or the way that you saved my life.
Wherever I go, a piece of you will always be with me, guiding me, and encouraging me.
You will forever be in my heart and I want you to know something for the future:
Never forget the importance of a tiny seed of hope."
Thank you for the tribute. I will never forget.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
In yesterday's blog I shared the first paragraph of the poem written for me by a client. I read it again last night and decided it would be today's post. And quote. I peered inwardly to see if this had to do with ego, and it felt like that wasn't the case. It is simply a beautiful poem. It is called Seed of Hope. I will begin with the second stanza:
"... Little did I know where my dangerous path would lead, to a world filled with sorrow and pain,
isolated from everyone, too ashamed to speak of the dark world I endured.
Just when I thought my life was at an end, a tiny voice inside me started to rise.
I picked up the phone and called that voice that once planted the Seed of Hope.
So the long road to recovery began from that tiny seed of hope.
I started to learn how to trust in someone and have faith within me.
Pain still came as a roller coaster during this road but with your help I could cope
and begin to see another side to life that was happy, joyous and free.
You have been a constant source of strength, an everburning light
that has lit a path for my dreams to unfold and given me the courage to try.
I have begun to develop wings to take flight but know that you have always been in sight.
But my dreams have taken me to a place beyond your sight and that makes me cry.
I will never forget you or the way that you saved my life.
Wherever I go, a piece of you will always be with me, guiding me, and encouraging me.
You will forever be in my heart and I want you to know something for the future:
Never forget the importance of a tiny seed of hope."
Thank you for the tribute. I will never forget.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Thirteen Years
How do I begin to say thank you to a person that changed my life?
Do I start by sharing about all the kind words spoken in my time of need
or the shoulder that has been there to lean on when tears have fallen?
I first met you 13 years ago, before I knew what path I was heading down
but you planted a seed
that told me that I was not alone and that help was there if only I would call . . . - First stanza in the Good-Bye poem written for me by a client and shared during our termination session today.
Day 275. This year has been filled with so many losses: (I listed them, but the list got too long and too personal, so I pushed and held the proverbial backspace key -- the one all of us should probably utilize a whole lot more). Suffice it to say, this year has extracted more loss than my Preferred Version of Reality would have contained. I suffered another loss today. It fills me with great sadness and great joy.
Today I bade farewell to a client with whom I have had the privilege to work for the last 13 years. Interestingly, I have no need whatsoever to explain or justify or elaborate on such a long therapeutic relationship. On the blog or anywhere else. You will either get it or not. Doesn't matter. She and I get it. I was in analysis for eleven years, and it was the singular most significant and life altering experience of my life (which says a lot when held next to this year of sitting and blogging).
I met her when she was a 19-year-old college student. She had just returned from a lengthy, out-of-state inpatient stay that had been chiefly involuntary. While at the prestigious eating disorder hospital, the client had been labeled with a kiss-of-death diagnosis that most therapists, if they are aware of it at the outset, run from like the sprint to the cellar when an F5 has been spotted on Gary England's radar. She burned herself, cut herself, abused every substance under the sun - legal and illegal, ingested ipecac, engaged in violent, aggressive and repetitive cycles of binging and purging interspersed with rigid bouts of starving herself, rejected every attempt at connection with others, alienated herself from every peer who came within ten yards of her, and relied, instead, upon dangerous one-night sexual encounters arranged on the internet. Her prognosis was, shall I say, "Poor."
Somehow, some way, we carved out a relationship that lasted. Sustained. Endured for thirteen continuous years. She tested me, to be sure. Which is the understatement of the year. She developed all manner of creative and ingenious ways to test me, reject me, betray me, coerce me to betray her, try me, hate me, punish me, abuse me, pummel me, tease me, abandon me, coerce me to abandon her, stretch me, challenge me -- essentially chew me up and spit me out along with the day's dinner.
She didn't succeed. I didn't go away. I would like to attribute that to my brilliance as a therapist, a strict and stoic adherence to my code of ethics, a steadfast sense of altruism, my commitment to helping, the rewarding and consistent progress in her recovery, or some other such malarky. Not the case. In truth, I can't even make sense of our survival as therapist and client by something less stellar such as the hope of a book publication (it would have rivaled Sybil), the wing of a hospital named after us, or dependence upon her father's reliable bill paying (my practice became pretty well established somewhere during these past 13 years).
I just stuck around. The more I learned about this young woman's background, the more I knew that, like all of us, what she exhibited outwardly was an illusion. Her extreme behavior was in direct proportion to the chaos and damage she had been subjected to. It wasn't remotely a manifestation of the truth of her. She had been abused and harmed in ways few of us could imagine in our worst nightmares, and most of us couldn't even then. Yet she had survived to communicate the fallout of the horrific events of her life in the only manner available to her: she assumed the role of aggressor against herself. At least that way it was in her control.
I have been a licensed psychologist for 18 years: five years without this client, and thirteen years with her. We grew up together. We taught one another. We learned from each other. I couldn't stand on the far bank of the roiling river of her agony, beckoning her to swim across while I shouted encouragement. I had to jump into the raging whitewater and swim alongside her. It was a long and treacherous journey that makes the little tip into the rocks I experienced in Durango seem like a frolic in a sandy wading pool.
Like everything from the molecular level and beyond in my life, I can see my sitting practice in this relationship. I didn't have the vocabulary over the entire 13 years, but I see now that my work with this amazing person parallels my zen practice. I was in it for keeps. I never knew where it would take me. There was no way to be prepared. There was not necessarily going to be a reward, an outcome, or even a discernible end. Every day, continuing took a leap of faith. It could be thankless, exhausting, numbing, terrifying, overwhelming and bewildering. Simultaneously, or in the blink of a (three-quarters downcast) eye, it could be exhilarating, joyful, provocative, stimulating, humbling, astounding, fulfilling, and meaningful. The important thing was to remain steadfast. To abide by my commitment. To keep showing up. To demonstrate sincere intent. Certainly to check my ego at the door. And to be very, very present.
In this case, there did, actually, turn out to be an outcome AND a reward. This beautiful, damaged girl evolved into a lovely, and loved, young woman. She completed an advanced degree and became licensed in her field. She fell in love with a man she has been with for over three years, and whom she plans to marry. She became so successful in her profession that she procured a job necessitating a move out of state. Thus, our good-bye. Thus, my great sadness and great joy. Sadness because I will miss her with every fiber in my being, the sadness indicative of our lasting and deep connection. Joy because it is time. Our good-bye was hastened, perhaps, by the job offer, but the time was nigh. She is ready. She will soar.
As for a discernible end, I don't believe we will have one. Yes, we have stopped seeing one another in the physical manner that has been a weekly routine for thirteen solid years. But our attachment is so strong, so deep, so true, she will always be in my heart. Good-bye, S.L. I love you. You are forever in my essence.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Do I start by sharing about all the kind words spoken in my time of need
or the shoulder that has been there to lean on when tears have fallen?
I first met you 13 years ago, before I knew what path I was heading down
but you planted a seed
that told me that I was not alone and that help was there if only I would call . . . - First stanza in the Good-Bye poem written for me by a client and shared during our termination session today.
Day 275. This year has been filled with so many losses: (I listed them, but the list got too long and too personal, so I pushed and held the proverbial backspace key -- the one all of us should probably utilize a whole lot more). Suffice it to say, this year has extracted more loss than my Preferred Version of Reality would have contained. I suffered another loss today. It fills me with great sadness and great joy.
Today I bade farewell to a client with whom I have had the privilege to work for the last 13 years. Interestingly, I have no need whatsoever to explain or justify or elaborate on such a long therapeutic relationship. On the blog or anywhere else. You will either get it or not. Doesn't matter. She and I get it. I was in analysis for eleven years, and it was the singular most significant and life altering experience of my life (which says a lot when held next to this year of sitting and blogging).
I met her when she was a 19-year-old college student. She had just returned from a lengthy, out-of-state inpatient stay that had been chiefly involuntary. While at the prestigious eating disorder hospital, the client had been labeled with a kiss-of-death diagnosis that most therapists, if they are aware of it at the outset, run from like the sprint to the cellar when an F5 has been spotted on Gary England's radar. She burned herself, cut herself, abused every substance under the sun - legal and illegal, ingested ipecac, engaged in violent, aggressive and repetitive cycles of binging and purging interspersed with rigid bouts of starving herself, rejected every attempt at connection with others, alienated herself from every peer who came within ten yards of her, and relied, instead, upon dangerous one-night sexual encounters arranged on the internet. Her prognosis was, shall I say, "Poor."
Somehow, some way, we carved out a relationship that lasted. Sustained. Endured for thirteen continuous years. She tested me, to be sure. Which is the understatement of the year. She developed all manner of creative and ingenious ways to test me, reject me, betray me, coerce me to betray her, try me, hate me, punish me, abuse me, pummel me, tease me, abandon me, coerce me to abandon her, stretch me, challenge me -- essentially chew me up and spit me out along with the day's dinner.
She didn't succeed. I didn't go away. I would like to attribute that to my brilliance as a therapist, a strict and stoic adherence to my code of ethics, a steadfast sense of altruism, my commitment to helping, the rewarding and consistent progress in her recovery, or some other such malarky. Not the case. In truth, I can't even make sense of our survival as therapist and client by something less stellar such as the hope of a book publication (it would have rivaled Sybil), the wing of a hospital named after us, or dependence upon her father's reliable bill paying (my practice became pretty well established somewhere during these past 13 years).
I just stuck around. The more I learned about this young woman's background, the more I knew that, like all of us, what she exhibited outwardly was an illusion. Her extreme behavior was in direct proportion to the chaos and damage she had been subjected to. It wasn't remotely a manifestation of the truth of her. She had been abused and harmed in ways few of us could imagine in our worst nightmares, and most of us couldn't even then. Yet she had survived to communicate the fallout of the horrific events of her life in the only manner available to her: she assumed the role of aggressor against herself. At least that way it was in her control.
I have been a licensed psychologist for 18 years: five years without this client, and thirteen years with her. We grew up together. We taught one another. We learned from each other. I couldn't stand on the far bank of the roiling river of her agony, beckoning her to swim across while I shouted encouragement. I had to jump into the raging whitewater and swim alongside her. It was a long and treacherous journey that makes the little tip into the rocks I experienced in Durango seem like a frolic in a sandy wading pool.
Like everything from the molecular level and beyond in my life, I can see my sitting practice in this relationship. I didn't have the vocabulary over the entire 13 years, but I see now that my work with this amazing person parallels my zen practice. I was in it for keeps. I never knew where it would take me. There was no way to be prepared. There was not necessarily going to be a reward, an outcome, or even a discernible end. Every day, continuing took a leap of faith. It could be thankless, exhausting, numbing, terrifying, overwhelming and bewildering. Simultaneously, or in the blink of a (three-quarters downcast) eye, it could be exhilarating, joyful, provocative, stimulating, humbling, astounding, fulfilling, and meaningful. The important thing was to remain steadfast. To abide by my commitment. To keep showing up. To demonstrate sincere intent. Certainly to check my ego at the door. And to be very, very present.
In this case, there did, actually, turn out to be an outcome AND a reward. This beautiful, damaged girl evolved into a lovely, and loved, young woman. She completed an advanced degree and became licensed in her field. She fell in love with a man she has been with for over three years, and whom she plans to marry. She became so successful in her profession that she procured a job necessitating a move out of state. Thus, our good-bye. Thus, my great sadness and great joy. Sadness because I will miss her with every fiber in my being, the sadness indicative of our lasting and deep connection. Joy because it is time. Our good-bye was hastened, perhaps, by the job offer, but the time was nigh. She is ready. She will soar.
As for a discernible end, I don't believe we will have one. Yes, we have stopped seeing one another in the physical manner that has been a weekly routine for thirteen solid years. But our attachment is so strong, so deep, so true, she will always be in my heart. Good-bye, S.L. I love you. You are forever in my essence.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Hershey's Syrup Tastes Best on Everything
"Childlikeness" has to be restored with long years of training in the art of self-forgetfulness. - D. T. Suzuki in the Zen Calendar (June 13, 2007).
Day 274. Peak Experience! I was feeling in my (OCD) bones that the three-quarters mark of blogging should be coming around soon. Grabbed my pencil and the back of a Zen Calendar page (calculators are for the wimpy, and/or those who didn't have Mrs. Driggs at Monroe Elementary to teach them long division). Voila! Three-quarters of 365 days is 273.75, which means that as of today's blog, I am three-fourths of the way through my sit/blog year! Seventy-five percent! Yahoo! I would have been crushed had I waited to do the math (by hand!) and discovered AFTER today that I had missed such a significant milestone. What a relief to know that my compulsiveness penetrates to the depths of my unconscious (as if there was any doubt)!
I am feeling a bit better today. How could I not? Chylene brought popsicles and Shari brought saltines. Thank the Buddha for my Goddess friends. I am still weak as a kitten (I started to use the analogy "weak as a Democrat in the 2010 elections" but it hurt too much to type it). Whatever degree of weakness I currently suffer, it should be interesting on the mountain bike trip I have planned for the weekend. I suspect my climbing will be moderately to severely affected. Not to worry. I still have 40 hours of recovery time left.
Yesterday's illness brought the most vivid memories of being sick as a child. Perhaps I was delirious with fever, but I could remember the exact shade of turquoise and the rough, scratchy texture of our ancient couch at the house on 67th street. I was four when we moved from that house. In vivid detail, I could picture Captain Kangaroo smiling from underneath his bushy mustache on our black-and-white TV set. The scene was complete with Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose, and ping-pong balls raining down on the Captain's head. I remembered sipping 7-Up from the Tom and Jerry jelly jars we used as glasses (all of us - not just the kids), and nibbling saltines in the late afternoon when I was no longer throwing up my toenails.
Sometime after 5:00, my dad would come home from work, pausing by the sofa to ask how I was feeling. Exquisitely, I can still feel my embarrassment at being sick (I was such a strange child), and the grave necessity of convincing my dad that I felt fine. Come to think of it, my family still doesn't deal well with infirmity. We all just look politely away and hope the ailing member will exhibit a speedy recovery so the rest of us won't feel awkward about our negligence. Curiously, we are generally quite robust in health.
The cascade of such early memories included a rather isolated one that is odd in its intensity. When I was not much older than four, family friends from New Mexico came to visit. I recall the flurry of housecleaning my mother performed prior to their arrival, which was in itself highly unusual. Every evening they stayed with us, we ate together at the dining room table, rather than the informal kitchen area where my family regularly dined. One night I was helping my mom carry dessert to the table. To the delight of the five kids, we were making sundaes. I distinctly recall picking up a small, delicately cut crystal bowl filled with a rich, dark liquid. Unable to stop myself, I dipped a finger in and licked off the sweet syrup.
I can still recall the electrifying flavor that ignited my taste buds. To this day, that chocolaty syrup remains the most intense, delectable sensation to ever pass my lips. There was a purity, an immediacy, an intensity to its taste that I have never since experienced. It was as though my entire body froze in the moment while the sweet elixir melted its path across my palate. My brain was taxed by the heaviness of pleasure centers simultaneously stimulated. I almost dropped the bowl.
My mom later told me it was Hershey's syrup. Perhaps the first time Hershey's syrup has been served in an antique crystal bowl, but Hershey's nonetheless. I have no explanation for why something so ordinary, something so ingrained in my taste memory, could have such an extraordinary impact on me that evening. Perhaps it was the first time I tasted it straight up. Perhaps my childish endorphins were pulsating especially vibrantly from the excitement of having constant access to new friends. Perhaps the taste buds of a four-year-old are particularly sensitive.
Or maybe I simply tasted the chocolate with Beginner's Mind. No prior expectation, since it wasn't being dribbled out of a can reading "Hershey's." Somehow the memory of that chocolate syrup served in a crystal bowl feels like a metaphor for my practice. It was prepared with care and attention to detail. Served in a crystal clear container. Presented with enthusiasm and liveliness. When I approach zazen with the youth, innocence, and vigor of a child dipping her finger in the dessert sauce, I taste something magnificent. Something exquisite and gratifying. Something totally unexpected, indeed.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 274. Peak Experience! I was feeling in my (OCD) bones that the three-quarters mark of blogging should be coming around soon. Grabbed my pencil and the back of a Zen Calendar page (calculators are for the wimpy, and/or those who didn't have Mrs. Driggs at Monroe Elementary to teach them long division). Voila! Three-quarters of 365 days is 273.75, which means that as of today's blog, I am three-fourths of the way through my sit/blog year! Seventy-five percent! Yahoo! I would have been crushed had I waited to do the math (by hand!) and discovered AFTER today that I had missed such a significant milestone. What a relief to know that my compulsiveness penetrates to the depths of my unconscious (as if there was any doubt)!
I am feeling a bit better today. How could I not? Chylene brought popsicles and Shari brought saltines. Thank the Buddha for my Goddess friends. I am still weak as a kitten (I started to use the analogy "weak as a Democrat in the 2010 elections" but it hurt too much to type it). Whatever degree of weakness I currently suffer, it should be interesting on the mountain bike trip I have planned for the weekend. I suspect my climbing will be moderately to severely affected. Not to worry. I still have 40 hours of recovery time left.
Yesterday's illness brought the most vivid memories of being sick as a child. Perhaps I was delirious with fever, but I could remember the exact shade of turquoise and the rough, scratchy texture of our ancient couch at the house on 67th street. I was four when we moved from that house. In vivid detail, I could picture Captain Kangaroo smiling from underneath his bushy mustache on our black-and-white TV set. The scene was complete with Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose, and ping-pong balls raining down on the Captain's head. I remembered sipping 7-Up from the Tom and Jerry jelly jars we used as glasses (all of us - not just the kids), and nibbling saltines in the late afternoon when I was no longer throwing up my toenails.
Sometime after 5:00, my dad would come home from work, pausing by the sofa to ask how I was feeling. Exquisitely, I can still feel my embarrassment at being sick (I was such a strange child), and the grave necessity of convincing my dad that I felt fine. Come to think of it, my family still doesn't deal well with infirmity. We all just look politely away and hope the ailing member will exhibit a speedy recovery so the rest of us won't feel awkward about our negligence. Curiously, we are generally quite robust in health.
The cascade of such early memories included a rather isolated one that is odd in its intensity. When I was not much older than four, family friends from New Mexico came to visit. I recall the flurry of housecleaning my mother performed prior to their arrival, which was in itself highly unusual. Every evening they stayed with us, we ate together at the dining room table, rather than the informal kitchen area where my family regularly dined. One night I was helping my mom carry dessert to the table. To the delight of the five kids, we were making sundaes. I distinctly recall picking up a small, delicately cut crystal bowl filled with a rich, dark liquid. Unable to stop myself, I dipped a finger in and licked off the sweet syrup.
I can still recall the electrifying flavor that ignited my taste buds. To this day, that chocolaty syrup remains the most intense, delectable sensation to ever pass my lips. There was a purity, an immediacy, an intensity to its taste that I have never since experienced. It was as though my entire body froze in the moment while the sweet elixir melted its path across my palate. My brain was taxed by the heaviness of pleasure centers simultaneously stimulated. I almost dropped the bowl.
My mom later told me it was Hershey's syrup. Perhaps the first time Hershey's syrup has been served in an antique crystal bowl, but Hershey's nonetheless. I have no explanation for why something so ordinary, something so ingrained in my taste memory, could have such an extraordinary impact on me that evening. Perhaps it was the first time I tasted it straight up. Perhaps my childish endorphins were pulsating especially vibrantly from the excitement of having constant access to new friends. Perhaps the taste buds of a four-year-old are particularly sensitive.
Or maybe I simply tasted the chocolate with Beginner's Mind. No prior expectation, since it wasn't being dribbled out of a can reading "Hershey's." Somehow the memory of that chocolate syrup served in a crystal bowl feels like a metaphor for my practice. It was prepared with care and attention to detail. Served in a crystal clear container. Presented with enthusiasm and liveliness. When I approach zazen with the youth, innocence, and vigor of a child dipping her finger in the dessert sauce, I taste something magnificent. Something exquisite and gratifying. Something totally unexpected, indeed.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Sitting in Sickness
Awareness of emptiness brings forth the heart of compassion. - Gary Snyder in the Zen Calendar (December 18, 2006).
Day 273. I woke this morning, began to prepare for work, and became violently ill. Bummer. Did not improve as the day went on. Logging the first case of flu this season is not exactly how I would like to distinguish myself this fall. It is not at all conducive to blogging and sitting, much less cycling. I must admit that my preferred version of Reality does not include a 102 degree fever. Tell that to my thermometer. Reality always prevails. I am grasping that in spades.
I had grandiose plans to detail my experience on the cushion yesterday. In the interest of not slumping, inert, over my keyboard, I will write an abbreviated version. I continue to read segments of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind almost every night. It is a great way to center upon sitting, which is, after all, the heart of this year's endeavor. Suzuki Roshi repeatedly refers to "right effort," and I have been repeatedly checking in with myself during zazen with the gentle question of, "Are you exerting right effort?" It is difficult to abide by the idea of compassionately returning my focus to the breath, time and time again, especially when refocusing seems to be required every two to seven seconds. Discouragement, judgment, frustration and impatience lurk just at the periphery, sharing space with the Monkeys.
Each time my attention wandered yesterday, I brought myself back to the moment, to my breath, with a short mantra: "This is my practice of zazen." Without consciously determining to do so, I found myself repeating the mantra several times, with each repetition having less words, e.g. "This is my practice of zazen . . . This is my practice . . . This is . . . This." It had the remarkable effect of assisting me with consistently keeping awareness on my breath. "Consistent" is a relative term; perhaps the more accurate statement would be, "My breath didn't wander every seven seconds." It felt like authentic, compassionate Right Effort.
When the timer sounded, it was one of the first times it interrupted simple, quiet breathing rather than Monkey chatter. Remarkable indeed. I vowed to re-center my practice on my practice. And to re-center my blog on my practice. It is, after all, what this whole crazy year is supposed to be about.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 273. I woke this morning, began to prepare for work, and became violently ill. Bummer. Did not improve as the day went on. Logging the first case of flu this season is not exactly how I would like to distinguish myself this fall. It is not at all conducive to blogging and sitting, much less cycling. I must admit that my preferred version of Reality does not include a 102 degree fever. Tell that to my thermometer. Reality always prevails. I am grasping that in spades.
I had grandiose plans to detail my experience on the cushion yesterday. In the interest of not slumping, inert, over my keyboard, I will write an abbreviated version. I continue to read segments of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind almost every night. It is a great way to center upon sitting, which is, after all, the heart of this year's endeavor. Suzuki Roshi repeatedly refers to "right effort," and I have been repeatedly checking in with myself during zazen with the gentle question of, "Are you exerting right effort?" It is difficult to abide by the idea of compassionately returning my focus to the breath, time and time again, especially when refocusing seems to be required every two to seven seconds. Discouragement, judgment, frustration and impatience lurk just at the periphery, sharing space with the Monkeys.
Each time my attention wandered yesterday, I brought myself back to the moment, to my breath, with a short mantra: "This is my practice of zazen." Without consciously determining to do so, I found myself repeating the mantra several times, with each repetition having less words, e.g. "This is my practice of zazen . . . This is my practice . . . This is . . . This." It had the remarkable effect of assisting me with consistently keeping awareness on my breath. "Consistent" is a relative term; perhaps the more accurate statement would be, "My breath didn't wander every seven seconds." It felt like authentic, compassionate Right Effort.
When the timer sounded, it was one of the first times it interrupted simple, quiet breathing rather than Monkey chatter. Remarkable indeed. I vowed to re-center my practice on my practice. And to re-center my blog on my practice. It is, after all, what this whole crazy year is supposed to be about.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, November 1, 2010
Buddha Doc
Even if you learn the truths of Buddhahood, that too is to misuse the mind. You have to be free of preoccupations. You have to be normal. - Zen Saying in the Zen Calendar (September 22, 2006).
Day 272. Peak Experience! I went by the bookstore to purchase another Barbara Kingsolver novel, and lo! and Behold! It happened to be on the "buy 2 get 1 free" table. The table also had another of her novels, AND "To Kill A Mocking Bird" which is on my Must Read This Year list because of the 50th anniversary of its publication. Obviously, blogs for the next - oh, say 57 days - will likely be shortened. I will be reading a couple of REAL writers.
I continue to observe the depth of my practice penetrating my consciousness in ever increasing manifestations. During a session with my last client this evening, I found myself discussing the concepts of Non-Dualistic Thought and Big Mind. I drew a little circle with the words "A's Preferred Version of Reality" inside; then I drew a large circle that encompassed it with the words "Big Mind . . . . Reality As It Is" written along the border of the larger circle. In the space between the small circle and the larger one, I listed two of the topics that are currently causing my client emotional pain, noting that they fell "outside" of her preferred version of reality, but "inside" Big Mind. Next, I pointed to the space between the inner circle and the outer circle and said, "This is where our suffering lies. When we are attached to a certain preference for how Reality is, anything that falls outside of that preference causes us pain. Reality doesn't much care about our preferred version of it. It simply unfolds as it is going to. Healing occurs as we enlarge our 'preferred' version of Reality until it encompasses everything. That is when we have Big Mind. That is where our suffering ends."
I am studiously mindful regarding the imposition of Buddhist terminology on my clients, but this client had previously indicated an openness to Buddhist thought as it might relate to our therapy. I shared my hunch that the reason statues of the Buddha usually depict him smiling is because he is chuckling at the numerous occasions each day in which he catches himself having a "preferred version of reality." Several examples of how I do that in my own life came to mind and I mentioned a few: my preference that a traffic light stay green until I have passed through the intersection; a preference that the first store I go to has a certain jigsaw puzzle I am searching for; preferring that my son's car actually runs for two weeks in a row. We discussed more serious examples, including her preference that her dad responds with empathy when she confronts him about his neglect of her during the throes of a serious eating disorder.
It was a powerful and productive session. Though my field continues to publish extensively on applying eastern thought to the practice of western psychology, I feel my practice of Buddhism influencing my clinical work at a very personal level. I don't usually identify it specifically as Buddhism (this is, after all, Oklahoma); nonetheless, my sitting practice is ever present in my office. It feels ethical and applicable. Clients seem to think so, too.
Perhaps my not-so-big mind is growing Bigger. I sense an evolving integration among previously disparate facets of myself. The common denominator can be reduced to dwelling in Reality, which is proving to be a truly vast space.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 272. Peak Experience! I went by the bookstore to purchase another Barbara Kingsolver novel, and lo! and Behold! It happened to be on the "buy 2 get 1 free" table. The table also had another of her novels, AND "To Kill A Mocking Bird" which is on my Must Read This Year list because of the 50th anniversary of its publication. Obviously, blogs for the next - oh, say 57 days - will likely be shortened. I will be reading a couple of REAL writers.
I continue to observe the depth of my practice penetrating my consciousness in ever increasing manifestations. During a session with my last client this evening, I found myself discussing the concepts of Non-Dualistic Thought and Big Mind. I drew a little circle with the words "A's Preferred Version of Reality" inside; then I drew a large circle that encompassed it with the words "Big Mind . . . . Reality As It Is" written along the border of the larger circle. In the space between the small circle and the larger one, I listed two of the topics that are currently causing my client emotional pain, noting that they fell "outside" of her preferred version of reality, but "inside" Big Mind. Next, I pointed to the space between the inner circle and the outer circle and said, "This is where our suffering lies. When we are attached to a certain preference for how Reality is, anything that falls outside of that preference causes us pain. Reality doesn't much care about our preferred version of it. It simply unfolds as it is going to. Healing occurs as we enlarge our 'preferred' version of Reality until it encompasses everything. That is when we have Big Mind. That is where our suffering ends."
I am studiously mindful regarding the imposition of Buddhist terminology on my clients, but this client had previously indicated an openness to Buddhist thought as it might relate to our therapy. I shared my hunch that the reason statues of the Buddha usually depict him smiling is because he is chuckling at the numerous occasions each day in which he catches himself having a "preferred version of reality." Several examples of how I do that in my own life came to mind and I mentioned a few: my preference that a traffic light stay green until I have passed through the intersection; a preference that the first store I go to has a certain jigsaw puzzle I am searching for; preferring that my son's car actually runs for two weeks in a row. We discussed more serious examples, including her preference that her dad responds with empathy when she confronts him about his neglect of her during the throes of a serious eating disorder.
It was a powerful and productive session. Though my field continues to publish extensively on applying eastern thought to the practice of western psychology, I feel my practice of Buddhism influencing my clinical work at a very personal level. I don't usually identify it specifically as Buddhism (this is, after all, Oklahoma); nonetheless, my sitting practice is ever present in my office. It feels ethical and applicable. Clients seem to think so, too.
Perhaps my not-so-big mind is growing Bigger. I sense an evolving integration among previously disparate facets of myself. The common denominator can be reduced to dwelling in Reality, which is proving to be a truly vast space.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
