Life is what one wants in one's soul. - D. H. Lawrence in the Zen Calendar (May 2, 2007)
Day 94. Friday took a long time to get here.
Remember that doctor's appointment earlier this week? The one that gave me a fresh opportunity to express my wariness of western medicine? May I reiterate?
Seems I am deregulated. I have official looking papers designating me as such. Official results, no doubt, from some expensive laboratory. My ticket of legitimacy for feeling like utter and complete crap. Inevitably, the papers included two new prescriptions, compliments of the western-trained practitioner whom I like and respect. I know that for some people out of range numbers on "lab work" can bring a sense of relief and validation: "I'm not making this up. I'm not a malingerer OR a hypochondriac. Something really is wrong. See? I have the papers to prove it." With me, not so much. I think modern diagnostic medicine provides way too much data. Most of the time, the only pragmatic application of the data is a polysyllabic label for something, and some uninterpretable numbers. Meanwhile, we all keep feeling like crap.
In a nutshell, my data told me that successive heat incidents fried my adrenal gland, which no longer communicates effectively with my thyroid, resulting in a constantly activated "flight or fight" response. I'm always on Red Alert. Which makes me tired. Weary. Exhausted. But I would make a heckuva paramedic!
I in no way mean to be disrespectful of all the wonderful things modern diagnostics do for us. It just seems as though the knowledge of what ails us is increasing disproportionately to knowledge about what makes us feel better. I don't find comparing my cholesterol ratio or my T3 count to be stimulating conversation. I'd much rather talk about miles cycled and ravines traversed. I do not have the personality to be slowed by physiological malfunctioning. I have always coped through moving. And by moving, I mean literally moving my body. Gross motor coordination is my strong suit. Until the past year, it was my panacea.
On good days, I can be brave and strong and good humored and philosophically comic about a condition that renders me physically immobile. I believe the Universe has a quirky and sometimes twisted sense of humor. I also believe in the indomitable human spirit, which triumphs over much larger tragedies than a fizzled adrenal system. On not-so-good days I am miserable and frustrated and mad. I entertain secret ruminations of popping the tires of every cyclist on the road when I cannot be among them. While "resting" (one of the required remedies of this particular malaise) my mind makes agitated pirouettes around irrelevant conundrums in a futile attempt to dissipate the energy my body cannot discharge. Being still off the cushion sucks.
When this thing was first brought to my attention a year ago, I was grounded from the bike for a while. Nearly went out of my mind, so I purchased a hooked rug kit and took up scrap booking. I made exactly seven pages for my son's football scrapbook. Never opened the rug. I went to a fire walk in June, felt better, and pedaled in moderation for the rest of the summer. One day I will write in detail about the fire walk. When I am not so tired.
I won't be riding tomorrow, which leaves a gaping hole in my Saturday, and an even bigger one in my heart. I will take this to my cushion. What else is there to do?
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, May 7, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Share the Strength
When you meditate, invite yourself to feel the self-esteem, the dignity, and strong humility of the Buddha that you are. - Sogyal Rinpoche in the Zen Calendar (September 20, 2006)
Day 93. Buddhism makes me stronger.
Our new white and red Cannondale tandem kicks ass. There is no way around it. The geometry of the frame is slightly different, but this difference makes all the difference. (Okay, so I probably wouldn't get away with that sentence in Freshman English class. Indulge me here!) Laws of physics aside, we are just one powerful machine. Our acceleration and climbing has improved exponentially during the month we've had the new bike. I am rarely needful of the latest and greatest when it comes to Big People Toys, and this bike actually cost about a third of the majority of bikes at the tandem rally. (For those of you in the know, they all ride Santanas and Co-Motions.) Nonetheless, I must admit, I am feeling a little attached.
I have emphasized before that my captain and I are not petite cyclists. Our body types are most assuredly mesomorphs (those are the athletic builds with great big muscles.) Our personality types are infinitely Alpha. Put it this way: if we were gorillas in the mist, Dian Fossey would have wanted us to mate with each other. Repeatedly. As it is, the homo sapiens comprising our team are happy we found one another. They have come to rely on us. Repeatedly.
Everyone has their own theory about why we are so strong on the tandem. Phil says it's "because we have two machines" powering it. Dennis says we're smooth and efficient; Ted says the hills surrounding our home give us a perfect training ground. My theory is more specific. I know we combine synergistically and complimentary. Physically and mentally, we blend into a mysteriously perfect whole. Everything is covered. He is steady and calm, a rhythm rider, consistent and stable. I am erratic, extreme, and fickle, which keeps us ignited, energized and alert. I am a bizarrely strong hill climber (credit to my Scottish highland genes) and he is greased lightening on the flats. When pedaling, his downstroke is more powerful; my upstroke is strongest. Together, our pedal stroke unites into a perfect circle - the most efficient way of pedaling. As captains and stokers go, we are the ideal match. Gassho to the universe for allowing our paths to cross.
The effect of the tandem on our team is startling. Everyone is getting faster. There is something incredibly grounding about the presence of the tandem. When team members need a physical rest, they drop into our draft to replenish. On days when the howling wind is innervating and demoralizing, the tandem keeps spirits up and lethargy down. When road conditions require us to drop into single file rather than our usual two lines, the tandem up front radiates a persona of fearless and perpetual leadership. If a member gets dropped, the team remains calm in the certainty that the tandem will retrieve them. This physical and emotional climate allows everyone on the team to ride their best. We become an optimal system, powering along, feeding on each others' momentum.
The psychological aura created by the tandem mimics all systems orbiting around a strong center. Well parented families, campers with good counselors, sanghas with committed teachers, well coached teams -- all combine to produce superior results. While watching my team, I have observed a vital component of these strong systems. The strength at the center is nurtured through occasional opportunities to rest. It is tempting to overly rely on the strong ones, especially when they appear to be indomitable. Our team shares the strength. Gassho to Randy, Phil, Ted, Sam, Dennis, and Mike for their willingness to care for the tandem. After pulling into a screaming headwind for endless miles, my spirit soars when one of them flies past and replaces us at the front. Sharing makes us stronger.
It may not occur to us to reciprocate when we are being led by the strongest of the strong. Alphas rarely ask for help, though it can be burdensome at the center. Every night, at the end of zazen, in the deepest of bows, I thank the Buddha at my center for making me strong. And for the reminder to always share my strength.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 93. Buddhism makes me stronger.
Our new white and red Cannondale tandem kicks ass. There is no way around it. The geometry of the frame is slightly different, but this difference makes all the difference. (Okay, so I probably wouldn't get away with that sentence in Freshman English class. Indulge me here!) Laws of physics aside, we are just one powerful machine. Our acceleration and climbing has improved exponentially during the month we've had the new bike. I am rarely needful of the latest and greatest when it comes to Big People Toys, and this bike actually cost about a third of the majority of bikes at the tandem rally. (For those of you in the know, they all ride Santanas and Co-Motions.) Nonetheless, I must admit, I am feeling a little attached.
I have emphasized before that my captain and I are not petite cyclists. Our body types are most assuredly mesomorphs (those are the athletic builds with great big muscles.) Our personality types are infinitely Alpha. Put it this way: if we were gorillas in the mist, Dian Fossey would have wanted us to mate with each other. Repeatedly. As it is, the homo sapiens comprising our team are happy we found one another. They have come to rely on us. Repeatedly.
Everyone has their own theory about why we are so strong on the tandem. Phil says it's "because we have two machines" powering it. Dennis says we're smooth and efficient; Ted says the hills surrounding our home give us a perfect training ground. My theory is more specific. I know we combine synergistically and complimentary. Physically and mentally, we blend into a mysteriously perfect whole. Everything is covered. He is steady and calm, a rhythm rider, consistent and stable. I am erratic, extreme, and fickle, which keeps us ignited, energized and alert. I am a bizarrely strong hill climber (credit to my Scottish highland genes) and he is greased lightening on the flats. When pedaling, his downstroke is more powerful; my upstroke is strongest. Together, our pedal stroke unites into a perfect circle - the most efficient way of pedaling. As captains and stokers go, we are the ideal match. Gassho to the universe for allowing our paths to cross.
The effect of the tandem on our team is startling. Everyone is getting faster. There is something incredibly grounding about the presence of the tandem. When team members need a physical rest, they drop into our draft to replenish. On days when the howling wind is innervating and demoralizing, the tandem keeps spirits up and lethargy down. When road conditions require us to drop into single file rather than our usual two lines, the tandem up front radiates a persona of fearless and perpetual leadership. If a member gets dropped, the team remains calm in the certainty that the tandem will retrieve them. This physical and emotional climate allows everyone on the team to ride their best. We become an optimal system, powering along, feeding on each others' momentum.
The psychological aura created by the tandem mimics all systems orbiting around a strong center. Well parented families, campers with good counselors, sanghas with committed teachers, well coached teams -- all combine to produce superior results. While watching my team, I have observed a vital component of these strong systems. The strength at the center is nurtured through occasional opportunities to rest. It is tempting to overly rely on the strong ones, especially when they appear to be indomitable. Our team shares the strength. Gassho to Randy, Phil, Ted, Sam, Dennis, and Mike for their willingness to care for the tandem. After pulling into a screaming headwind for endless miles, my spirit soars when one of them flies past and replaces us at the front. Sharing makes us stronger.
It may not occur to us to reciprocate when we are being led by the strongest of the strong. Alphas rarely ask for help, though it can be burdensome at the center. Every night, at the end of zazen, in the deepest of bows, I thank the Buddha at my center for making me strong. And for the reminder to always share my strength.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
The 23rd Minute
Do not follow the idea of others, but learn to listen to the voice within yourself. Your body and mind will become clear and you will realize the unity of all things. - Dogen in the Zen Calendar (October 5, 2009).
Day 92. This bout of fatigue is interminable. So was the wait for this fossil of a computer to boot.
Sometimes after I write a blog that resonates for me, I can't think of another thing to write. Like the refractory period after hot sex - for a while it feels physiologically impossible to repeat something as good. When writing, however, the refractory times may last longer. This is only a problem when you have promised to blog every single night. Maybe I should have committed to having hot sex every night for a year. I bet the blog would have more followers . . . .
I've noticed something interesting over the past several nights of zazen. Right around the twenty-third minute of sitting, the Monkeys wake up. It's as though they set their own timer, which sounds two minutes before mine. They resume a chaotic clamor: "Not much longer. . . the timer will soon go off. . . that went fast (or slow) . . . am I going to stretch? Do some yoga? Want to read? Headed for bed? Get any new ideas for the blog? Busy day tomorrow. . . got a ride coming up. . . are the cycling shorts washed? Tandem or single? Text my son? Shut the windows. Open the windows. Fill the dogs' water bowl. Take an Excedrin P.M.? Pack for Pilates . . . I am happy (sad, worried, exhausted, frustrated, apprehensive, angry . . .) Wait! Stop the chatter! What happened to my empty my mind? Did I bow to my cushion? This isn't mindfulness. Don't judge. Don't compare. Last night went better. . . . ."
I am mightily inept at silencing those Monkeys. Even after ninety-one consecutive days of trying. On some nights, for a brief time roughly between minutes eleven and twenty-two, there are periods when I think I am in meditation to some degree. For me, the seemingly effortless act of sitting on my cushion and not thinking is about as effortless as dusting the Pyramids with a Q-tip. I don't know what happens at the 23rd minute. I would like to relinquish my control clutch and be surprised by the sound of the timer, rather than fixate on the remaining 120 seconds of zazen. So far, that hasn't happened.
On two separate occasions, I have been told by different professionals that my body held more tension than any body they had experienced in their entire career, bar none. The first was a masseuse during her initial and only appointment with me. She had a stellar reputation among finicky athletes and prided herself on return customers who had fired numerous masseuses before her. Eerily, she spent three hours on the one-hour massage I had paid for, never accomplishing her personal standard of outcome. I was not conscious of the time passing, or her bewilderment at my body's inability to relax. We never discussed the massage. She never returned my calls. I think I freaked her out.
The second source of feedback was from my Pilates teacher. She is a perfectionist, schooled in the classic tradition of Joseph Pilates himself. I have studied with her for three years. Sometimes, when she is particularly exasperated with my poor form, she will physically attempt to position my body correctly. Mentally and emotionally, I feel utterly cooperative. I am invested in Pilates, committed to my teacher, and desirous of improving my skills in class. Doesn't matter. My body protests. I've noted before that I am freakishly strong, but so is my teacher. It's brutally embarrassing when my body is not malleable to even the most rigorous of her manipulations. In my mind, I want to receive her instruction and make a bodily change. Too often, even when working together, we just can't budge me.
I could spin out on analyzing this rigidity. I don't like it; it confuses me and is incongruous with the value I place on fluidity and willingness to change. It feels rooted in fear and control, neither of which I like in reference to myself. I suspect it is the bodily representation of my obsessive-compulsive wiring. Surrender is not in my genes. Meticulously tracking time, however, is.
Next month I will add five minutes to my zazen time, and I am curious about how this will affect the Monkeys. Will they chatter at the twenty-eighth minute? Will zazen help me learn to relinquish control? Will my rigid body and obsessive-compulsive mind fall away? Will I reach Nirvana? Will I ever fully trust the timer? Will I ever do the side-bend-Mermaid combination in Pilates correctly? Stay tuned - there are 273 days left to go.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 92. This bout of fatigue is interminable. So was the wait for this fossil of a computer to boot.
Sometimes after I write a blog that resonates for me, I can't think of another thing to write. Like the refractory period after hot sex - for a while it feels physiologically impossible to repeat something as good. When writing, however, the refractory times may last longer. This is only a problem when you have promised to blog every single night. Maybe I should have committed to having hot sex every night for a year. I bet the blog would have more followers . . . .
I've noticed something interesting over the past several nights of zazen. Right around the twenty-third minute of sitting, the Monkeys wake up. It's as though they set their own timer, which sounds two minutes before mine. They resume a chaotic clamor: "Not much longer. . . the timer will soon go off. . . that went fast (or slow) . . . am I going to stretch? Do some yoga? Want to read? Headed for bed? Get any new ideas for the blog? Busy day tomorrow. . . got a ride coming up. . . are the cycling shorts washed? Tandem or single? Text my son? Shut the windows. Open the windows. Fill the dogs' water bowl. Take an Excedrin P.M.? Pack for Pilates . . . I am happy (sad, worried, exhausted, frustrated, apprehensive, angry . . .) Wait! Stop the chatter! What happened to my empty my mind? Did I bow to my cushion? This isn't mindfulness. Don't judge. Don't compare. Last night went better. . . . ."
I am mightily inept at silencing those Monkeys. Even after ninety-one consecutive days of trying. On some nights, for a brief time roughly between minutes eleven and twenty-two, there are periods when I think I am in meditation to some degree. For me, the seemingly effortless act of sitting on my cushion and not thinking is about as effortless as dusting the Pyramids with a Q-tip. I don't know what happens at the 23rd minute. I would like to relinquish my control clutch and be surprised by the sound of the timer, rather than fixate on the remaining 120 seconds of zazen. So far, that hasn't happened.
On two separate occasions, I have been told by different professionals that my body held more tension than any body they had experienced in their entire career, bar none. The first was a masseuse during her initial and only appointment with me. She had a stellar reputation among finicky athletes and prided herself on return customers who had fired numerous masseuses before her. Eerily, she spent three hours on the one-hour massage I had paid for, never accomplishing her personal standard of outcome. I was not conscious of the time passing, or her bewilderment at my body's inability to relax. We never discussed the massage. She never returned my calls. I think I freaked her out.
The second source of feedback was from my Pilates teacher. She is a perfectionist, schooled in the classic tradition of Joseph Pilates himself. I have studied with her for three years. Sometimes, when she is particularly exasperated with my poor form, she will physically attempt to position my body correctly. Mentally and emotionally, I feel utterly cooperative. I am invested in Pilates, committed to my teacher, and desirous of improving my skills in class. Doesn't matter. My body protests. I've noted before that I am freakishly strong, but so is my teacher. It's brutally embarrassing when my body is not malleable to even the most rigorous of her manipulations. In my mind, I want to receive her instruction and make a bodily change. Too often, even when working together, we just can't budge me.
I could spin out on analyzing this rigidity. I don't like it; it confuses me and is incongruous with the value I place on fluidity and willingness to change. It feels rooted in fear and control, neither of which I like in reference to myself. I suspect it is the bodily representation of my obsessive-compulsive wiring. Surrender is not in my genes. Meticulously tracking time, however, is.
Next month I will add five minutes to my zazen time, and I am curious about how this will affect the Monkeys. Will they chatter at the twenty-eighth minute? Will zazen help me learn to relinquish control? Will my rigid body and obsessive-compulsive mind fall away? Will I reach Nirvana? Will I ever fully trust the timer? Will I ever do the side-bend-Mermaid combination in Pilates correctly? Stay tuned - there are 273 days left to go.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Three-Quarters Shut, One-Quarter Down
Sit fixedly, think without thoughts. How do you think without thoughts? Non-thinking. This is the essential art of zazen. Zazen is not the practice of meditation: it is the dharma gate of ease and joy. - Dogen in the Zen Calendar (May 6, 2006).
Day 91. I am one quarter of the way through my commitment to sit zazen and blog for a year. Three-quarters to go. I love fractions. They make my brain sparkle because they lend themselves so wholly to symmetry. Unfortunately, the distance to Nirvana is less calculable. I'm getting used to it. I may not know the distance, but zazen is proving to be a reliable compass. I'm certain I am headed in the right direction.
I have noticed over the past few weeks that I move deeper into meditation when I rest my eyes three-quarters shut. Not half, not one-quarter, not seven-eighths. Three-quarters. There is this precise positioning of my eyes that mysteriously mutes the Monkeys. It's as though that specific angle of my eyelids is connected to a trap door through which my thoughts drain out and away. My mind empties and quiets at three-quarters shut. This perspective allows a view of a small patch of floor in front of my cushion, which is not particularly stimulating. It is a resting place between full waking consciousness and the sleep signal associated with fully closed eyes. Apparently, it heralds meditation to my non-Self. Good thing to know.
It occurred to me following last night's zazen that three-quarters shut may signify something larger. The more I think about it, the more it feels accurate that three-quarters of EVERYTHING is best shut out. I'm betting that three-quarters of television shows are utterly worthless. Three-quarters of big-screen movies are tasteless drivel. Three-quarters of the news, weather and sports is redundant rubbish. Three-quarters of the average American diet is calorie-dense trash. Three-quarters of the work week is a wasteful loss of productivity. Three-quarters of texts, twitters, phone calls, and e-mails are nonsensical crap. Are you seeing a pattern here? I think I've discovered a Universal Truth. Right up there with Gravity.
For me, sitting zazen with my eyes three-quarters shut IS the dharma gate of ease and joy! Imagine what would get freed up if the world was only comprised of the one-quarter of everything that is good and necessary. The earth would probably spin off its axis and ricochet over to a superlative galaxy. And then where would we be? Beyond Nirvana?
I suppose if I apply my new Universal Truth to my current blog of 91 posts, there are about twenty-two and three-quarters that are good and necessary (there's that three-quarters phenomena again!) and sixty-eight and a quarter that are crap. My ego wants to believe that somehow, in my writing, I beat the odds. My sitting, however, tells me that the three-quarters rule is probably pretty accurate. Apply it everywhere. Grab that remaining quarter, and hold on tight. But don't get too attached.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 91. I am one quarter of the way through my commitment to sit zazen and blog for a year. Three-quarters to go. I love fractions. They make my brain sparkle because they lend themselves so wholly to symmetry. Unfortunately, the distance to Nirvana is less calculable. I'm getting used to it. I may not know the distance, but zazen is proving to be a reliable compass. I'm certain I am headed in the right direction.
I have noticed over the past few weeks that I move deeper into meditation when I rest my eyes three-quarters shut. Not half, not one-quarter, not seven-eighths. Three-quarters. There is this precise positioning of my eyes that mysteriously mutes the Monkeys. It's as though that specific angle of my eyelids is connected to a trap door through which my thoughts drain out and away. My mind empties and quiets at three-quarters shut. This perspective allows a view of a small patch of floor in front of my cushion, which is not particularly stimulating. It is a resting place between full waking consciousness and the sleep signal associated with fully closed eyes. Apparently, it heralds meditation to my non-Self. Good thing to know.
It occurred to me following last night's zazen that three-quarters shut may signify something larger. The more I think about it, the more it feels accurate that three-quarters of EVERYTHING is best shut out. I'm betting that three-quarters of television shows are utterly worthless. Three-quarters of big-screen movies are tasteless drivel. Three-quarters of the news, weather and sports is redundant rubbish. Three-quarters of the average American diet is calorie-dense trash. Three-quarters of the work week is a wasteful loss of productivity. Three-quarters of texts, twitters, phone calls, and e-mails are nonsensical crap. Are you seeing a pattern here? I think I've discovered a Universal Truth. Right up there with Gravity.
For me, sitting zazen with my eyes three-quarters shut IS the dharma gate of ease and joy! Imagine what would get freed up if the world was only comprised of the one-quarter of everything that is good and necessary. The earth would probably spin off its axis and ricochet over to a superlative galaxy. And then where would we be? Beyond Nirvana?
I suppose if I apply my new Universal Truth to my current blog of 91 posts, there are about twenty-two and three-quarters that are good and necessary (there's that three-quarters phenomena again!) and sixty-eight and a quarter that are crap. My ego wants to believe that somehow, in my writing, I beat the odds. My sitting, however, tells me that the three-quarters rule is probably pretty accurate. Apply it everywhere. Grab that remaining quarter, and hold on tight. But don't get too attached.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sometimes it Hurts
Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house. - Izumi Shikibu in the Zen Calendar (November 1, 2006)
Day 90. What is it with Mondays?
I went to my doctor today for a six month follow-up on some treatment she is rendering for . . . for lack of a more precise diagnosis . . . Adrenal Fatigue Syndrome. It has something to do with the extensive after effects I suffered following a couple of heat incidents. I am wary of both western medicine and anything ending in the generalization of "syndrome." I respect this care provider, who employs a skill rarely practiced by American physicians. She listens. Engages me in her decision process. Includes me in the treatment plan. Unconventional, indeed!
We began the visit with her inquiry into my general status. I replied that I had considered writing a "Thank you for giving me my life back" letter to her and the internal medicine doctor with whom she practices. I mentioned that I had been thinking about how to quantify the improvement in how I was feeling compared to eight months ago. I articulated my conclusion by saying, "When I first saw you I was functioning at about 15 percent of my optimal; now it's about 85 percent." I meant this as a gratified testimony to how much better I felt, mentioning my return to cycling, kicking butt in Pilates class, writing my blog, meditating, filing papers dating back to 2005, rediscovering jigsaw puzzles, and other flagrant and reliable barometers of my recovery. I was taken aback when she began writing a lengthy lab request while saying, "That's not where we want you to be. We want you at 110 percent!"
What, exactly, is one hundred and ten percent? And why would I want to function at that level? It makes me tired just thinking about it. I was reminded of one of my favorite episodes of "Family Affair" (incidentally, remembering this TV series is a valid indicator of age). It was the episode where Buffy had broken her leg. The x-rays were complete, the leg casted, and Buffy was at home in her room with her injured limb propped on a pillow and her beloved doll, Mrs. Beasley, nestled in her arms. Her brother Jody had done his best to cheer her up, Mr. French had delivered all of her favorite treats to the bedside, and Uncle Bill had made all the right nurturing sounds. Still, Buffy was blue. She cried. Despite the best efforts of Jody, Mr. French, and Uncle Bill, she remained sad. Something must be terribly wrong.
The doctor was called. As only Sitcom Doctors do, he promptly made a house call. He spent time with Buffy, and emerged from her room looking confident and decisive. Mr. French and Uncle Bill were summoned for his verdict. Pausing for effect, the doctor pronounced his diagnosis with a somber voice and twinkling eyes: Buffy hurt. That was all. She had a broken bone, and it hurt. It would continue to hurt while she healed. Hurting was part of the process. She needed time and patience, and permission to cry. Crying and being sad are the right things to do when you are in pain.
I think this doctor was brilliant. I think he has become obsolete. Our culture is so terrified of pain -- all pain: physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, financial -- that we have lost our ability to utilize pain to grow and heal. We no longer understand pain as a trustworthy communication that something is bad for us, or dangerous, or constricting. We have forgotten that coping with pain can mean experiencing, managing, and surviving it rather than numbing or escaping from it. We can learn from pain, and grow from it. But only if we feel it.
I don't want to function at 110 percent. I'm grateful and content with the progress I have made. Cycling has taken on dimensions of joy and gratitude that I never would have recognized had I not been grounded from the bike for several months. Feeling so physically rotten taught me amazing lessons like how to ask for help, develop more reasonable goals, set priorities, surrender perfectionism, trust in the goodness of others, and (best of all!) look inward for my salvation. Pain can be a gift if we have the courage to spend time with it. Sometimes it is the only gateway through which we may connect with higher parts of ourselves.
The Four Noble Truths in Buddhism are the gateway to alleviate suffering. None of the Truths includes "Life can be free of pain." In fact, the First Truth is: There is suffering. Never hurting is not a realistic goal. Relinquishing our attachment to pain avoidance is. Like Buffy and her broken leg, sometimes the accurate diagnosis is: It hurts. Like Buffy and her broken leg: Hurting is an integral part of healing.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 90. What is it with Mondays?
I went to my doctor today for a six month follow-up on some treatment she is rendering for . . . for lack of a more precise diagnosis . . . Adrenal Fatigue Syndrome. It has something to do with the extensive after effects I suffered following a couple of heat incidents. I am wary of both western medicine and anything ending in the generalization of "syndrome." I respect this care provider, who employs a skill rarely practiced by American physicians. She listens. Engages me in her decision process. Includes me in the treatment plan. Unconventional, indeed!
We began the visit with her inquiry into my general status. I replied that I had considered writing a "Thank you for giving me my life back" letter to her and the internal medicine doctor with whom she practices. I mentioned that I had been thinking about how to quantify the improvement in how I was feeling compared to eight months ago. I articulated my conclusion by saying, "When I first saw you I was functioning at about 15 percent of my optimal; now it's about 85 percent." I meant this as a gratified testimony to how much better I felt, mentioning my return to cycling, kicking butt in Pilates class, writing my blog, meditating, filing papers dating back to 2005, rediscovering jigsaw puzzles, and other flagrant and reliable barometers of my recovery. I was taken aback when she began writing a lengthy lab request while saying, "That's not where we want you to be. We want you at 110 percent!"
What, exactly, is one hundred and ten percent? And why would I want to function at that level? It makes me tired just thinking about it. I was reminded of one of my favorite episodes of "Family Affair" (incidentally, remembering this TV series is a valid indicator of age). It was the episode where Buffy had broken her leg. The x-rays were complete, the leg casted, and Buffy was at home in her room with her injured limb propped on a pillow and her beloved doll, Mrs. Beasley, nestled in her arms. Her brother Jody had done his best to cheer her up, Mr. French had delivered all of her favorite treats to the bedside, and Uncle Bill had made all the right nurturing sounds. Still, Buffy was blue. She cried. Despite the best efforts of Jody, Mr. French, and Uncle Bill, she remained sad. Something must be terribly wrong.
The doctor was called. As only Sitcom Doctors do, he promptly made a house call. He spent time with Buffy, and emerged from her room looking confident and decisive. Mr. French and Uncle Bill were summoned for his verdict. Pausing for effect, the doctor pronounced his diagnosis with a somber voice and twinkling eyes: Buffy hurt. That was all. She had a broken bone, and it hurt. It would continue to hurt while she healed. Hurting was part of the process. She needed time and patience, and permission to cry. Crying and being sad are the right things to do when you are in pain.
I think this doctor was brilliant. I think he has become obsolete. Our culture is so terrified of pain -- all pain: physical, mental, spiritual, emotional, financial -- that we have lost our ability to utilize pain to grow and heal. We no longer understand pain as a trustworthy communication that something is bad for us, or dangerous, or constricting. We have forgotten that coping with pain can mean experiencing, managing, and surviving it rather than numbing or escaping from it. We can learn from pain, and grow from it. But only if we feel it.
I don't want to function at 110 percent. I'm grateful and content with the progress I have made. Cycling has taken on dimensions of joy and gratitude that I never would have recognized had I not been grounded from the bike for several months. Feeling so physically rotten taught me amazing lessons like how to ask for help, develop more reasonable goals, set priorities, surrender perfectionism, trust in the goodness of others, and (best of all!) look inward for my salvation. Pain can be a gift if we have the courage to spend time with it. Sometimes it is the only gateway through which we may connect with higher parts of ourselves.
The Four Noble Truths in Buddhism are the gateway to alleviate suffering. None of the Truths includes "Life can be free of pain." In fact, the First Truth is: There is suffering. Never hurting is not a realistic goal. Relinquishing our attachment to pain avoidance is. Like Buffy and her broken leg, sometimes the accurate diagnosis is: It hurts. Like Buffy and her broken leg: Hurting is an integral part of healing.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, May 2, 2010
So Much More Than We Think
Like the moon, come out from behind the clouds! Shine. - The Buddha in the Zen Calendar (July 15, 2007).
Day 89. What an impeccable Spring day! Oklahoma has about 3-4 perfect days per season, and I'm certain today qualified as one for Spring. Low 80's in temperature, windy but none of those Mary-Poppins-ends-up-in-Canada gusts, low humidity, clear blue sky, and the mosquitoes haven't yet grown to the size where they may take off with children and small pets. Utterly beautiful.
Without a lot of conscious awareness, I try to balance the cycling and Buddha and Doc parts of me in the blog. They are intricately interwoven. Today the cyclist was front and center. It's the weekend, after all. My captain and I are preparing for another tandem rally in early June. The event takes place in eastern Tennessee, and word's out that the hills are monstrous. Needless to say, training for monster hills in Oklahoma can be a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, we live in far eastern Oklahoma county, where there are actually some decent elevation changes. I should know; the Garmin computer says so. According to the glamorous graph it provided after today's ride, our elevation changes totaled over 1,700 feet. That's a fair amount of climbing for a state where the wind comes sweeping down the plain.
Riding hills on a tandem is a plot straight out of a Dickens' novel: It is the best of times and the worst of times. Best because the combined weight of captain and stoker, with some help from the laws of physics, (especially momentum!) makes the downhills a screaming blur of speed and fun. Worst, because the same principles make the uphills a screaming blur of pain and heart hammering. I die a thousand deaths during hill training. My captain just pedals. He is a rock.
With the Tennessee rally looming in just over a month, we planned a 40-mile training route that included two of the most hilly east-west streets in the county. Short, steep climbs and long, moderate climbs, and (ugh!) a few lengthy AND steep climbs. Some brief but beautiful flats out toward Jones. Naturally, those miles passed way too quickly. The Monkeys weren't chattering much, perhaps due to an oxygen shortage. The air supply was definitely being channeled to my legs.
Even with rationed oxygen to my brain, I can get lodged up in my head while riding hills. The Beginner Cyclist in me thinks way too much. Despite experience recommending otherwise, I repeatedly look around my captain at what's ahead, no doubt to insure there is plenty of time to freak out over the upcoming climb. My heart rate soars with apprehension before the pavement begins to ascend. This is not conducive to strong climbing; I have no heartbeats to waste on psychological diversions. On the way home today, with a fairly strong headwind and 18 miles to go, I glanced up the road and was mortified to hear the words, "I don't want to do that" pop out of my mouth. My captain replied, "What do you want to do, walk around it?" It was a rhetorical question. He aimed us straight up the hill. Too bad cussing at your captain is a serious breech of tandem etiquette.
Somewhere during the second half of this hill-training-from-hell extravaganza, I found my Buddha Mind. I have no idea why calling to mind the fact that I have sat zazen for 88 days in a row suddenly infused me with strength, courage, and determination. Mostly, it yanked me out of my head. As I tapped into all the times I sat through discomfort, sadness, frustration, and pain while my timer measured out eternity, a feeling of irrational power flooded my body. Ride uphill with knotted quadriceps into a headwind while the sun beats down on my head? Cake, compared to sitting for interminable minutes chasing down Nothingness. We busted out the final hills like a team internationally ranked. Except we're not nearly as skinny.
I can hear my teacher's words: "Zazen will potently manifest in aspects of your life you never imagined." At the time, I wasn't cycling, so I wouldn't have dreamed that sitting zazen would help me robustly conquer hills on a tandem. But there it was: cushion time manifesting on the road from Jones. A reminder of the discrepancy between what my head says I can do, and what Reality shows I can do.
Don't trust your head. I'm convinced it is rarely an accurate gauge. Trust the Now. Trust the One. We are so much more than we think.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 89. What an impeccable Spring day! Oklahoma has about 3-4 perfect days per season, and I'm certain today qualified as one for Spring. Low 80's in temperature, windy but none of those Mary-Poppins-ends-up-in-Canada gusts, low humidity, clear blue sky, and the mosquitoes haven't yet grown to the size where they may take off with children and small pets. Utterly beautiful.
Without a lot of conscious awareness, I try to balance the cycling and Buddha and Doc parts of me in the blog. They are intricately interwoven. Today the cyclist was front and center. It's the weekend, after all. My captain and I are preparing for another tandem rally in early June. The event takes place in eastern Tennessee, and word's out that the hills are monstrous. Needless to say, training for monster hills in Oklahoma can be a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, we live in far eastern Oklahoma county, where there are actually some decent elevation changes. I should know; the Garmin computer says so. According to the glamorous graph it provided after today's ride, our elevation changes totaled over 1,700 feet. That's a fair amount of climbing for a state where the wind comes sweeping down the plain.
Riding hills on a tandem is a plot straight out of a Dickens' novel: It is the best of times and the worst of times. Best because the combined weight of captain and stoker, with some help from the laws of physics, (especially momentum!) makes the downhills a screaming blur of speed and fun. Worst, because the same principles make the uphills a screaming blur of pain and heart hammering. I die a thousand deaths during hill training. My captain just pedals. He is a rock.
With the Tennessee rally looming in just over a month, we planned a 40-mile training route that included two of the most hilly east-west streets in the county. Short, steep climbs and long, moderate climbs, and (ugh!) a few lengthy AND steep climbs. Some brief but beautiful flats out toward Jones. Naturally, those miles passed way too quickly. The Monkeys weren't chattering much, perhaps due to an oxygen shortage. The air supply was definitely being channeled to my legs.
Even with rationed oxygen to my brain, I can get lodged up in my head while riding hills. The Beginner Cyclist in me thinks way too much. Despite experience recommending otherwise, I repeatedly look around my captain at what's ahead, no doubt to insure there is plenty of time to freak out over the upcoming climb. My heart rate soars with apprehension before the pavement begins to ascend. This is not conducive to strong climbing; I have no heartbeats to waste on psychological diversions. On the way home today, with a fairly strong headwind and 18 miles to go, I glanced up the road and was mortified to hear the words, "I don't want to do that" pop out of my mouth. My captain replied, "What do you want to do, walk around it?" It was a rhetorical question. He aimed us straight up the hill. Too bad cussing at your captain is a serious breech of tandem etiquette.
Somewhere during the second half of this hill-training-from-hell extravaganza, I found my Buddha Mind. I have no idea why calling to mind the fact that I have sat zazen for 88 days in a row suddenly infused me with strength, courage, and determination. Mostly, it yanked me out of my head. As I tapped into all the times I sat through discomfort, sadness, frustration, and pain while my timer measured out eternity, a feeling of irrational power flooded my body. Ride uphill with knotted quadriceps into a headwind while the sun beats down on my head? Cake, compared to sitting for interminable minutes chasing down Nothingness. We busted out the final hills like a team internationally ranked. Except we're not nearly as skinny.
I can hear my teacher's words: "Zazen will potently manifest in aspects of your life you never imagined." At the time, I wasn't cycling, so I wouldn't have dreamed that sitting zazen would help me robustly conquer hills on a tandem. But there it was: cushion time manifesting on the road from Jones. A reminder of the discrepancy between what my head says I can do, and what Reality shows I can do.
Don't trust your head. I'm convinced it is rarely an accurate gauge. Trust the Now. Trust the One. We are so much more than we think.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Wanton Wanting
"Want is a growing giant whom the coat of
Have was never large enough to cover . . . " - Ralph Waldo Emerson, quoted in Being in Balance by Wayne Dyer.
Day 88. I love matching digits. They look so symmetrical, it makes my brain say, "Ahhhhhhh."
This molten marrow fatigue is still in my bones. I don't understand it. I'm not feeling ill, just a languid weariness. Maybe those zippy fast Paris miles have caught up with me. Maybe I'm a wimp. Maybe I need one hundred naps.
I started reading my Anonymous Gift book, and it is fairly provocative. The first chapter (Balancing Your Dreams with Your Habits) has reminded me of discrepancies between the life I lead and the life I desire. Thanks. Thanks for that. Denial and distraction had been working just fine. If I stay too frenetic to think, my "wants" and "haves" match up nicely. Wayne Dyer has a unique ability to pierce through perfectly good defense mechanisms and ask you to shine a beam into the dark side of your Self. Go, Wayne!
My wants have never been centered on material things. I wear many of my clothes from the '80's (the best decade ever!), drive a car into the well over 100,000 mile mark, and have lived in my 1,050 square foot "starter" house for 17 years. This lack of wanting spreads to services as well. I've had one pedicure in my life, and it was a gift from a friend who made me go with her so the gift certificate wouldn't turn yellow and brittle with age. I've had two massages, which were terrific, though it is awfully challenging for me to hold still that long. My hair dresser says to come back every six weeks; I double that and show up every three months or so. Maybe I'm just low maintenance. My partner would say otherwise.
I am acutely aware, however, of some wants that the Coat of Have is not large enough to cover. I want people to not be stupid. I want service providers - all types - to be competent. I want operators of motor vehicles to lock their cell phones in the trunk when they drive. I want people to remember the ancient art of navigating with paper maps. I want a live person to answer the telephone. I want days to consist of more than 24 hours. I want developers in Oklahoma to stop hacking down trees and incorporate green space into their havoc. I want road designers, FOR ONCE, to include bike lanes in the plan. I want to eat food that doesn't contain sugar or some strange byproduct of corn. I want unwanted things to find their way to the people who want them. I want ethical leadership. I want dogma to become obsolete and be replaced by compassionate, patient, non-judgmental acceptance. I want, I want, I want.
Acceptance of reality is at the heart of Buddhism - right up there with non-attachment. I must confess that I am attached to some of the wants I just listed. I am attached to reconciling the habits of my life more closely with my heart's desires. At the moment I'm confused about my Buddhist beliefs and the magnitude of my wanting. I didn't know I was confused about this until right now. This must be taken to my cushion. No doubt it will be grist for the blogging mill.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Have was never large enough to cover . . . " - Ralph Waldo Emerson, quoted in Being in Balance by Wayne Dyer.
Day 88. I love matching digits. They look so symmetrical, it makes my brain say, "Ahhhhhhh."
This molten marrow fatigue is still in my bones. I don't understand it. I'm not feeling ill, just a languid weariness. Maybe those zippy fast Paris miles have caught up with me. Maybe I'm a wimp. Maybe I need one hundred naps.
I started reading my Anonymous Gift book, and it is fairly provocative. The first chapter (Balancing Your Dreams with Your Habits) has reminded me of discrepancies between the life I lead and the life I desire. Thanks. Thanks for that. Denial and distraction had been working just fine. If I stay too frenetic to think, my "wants" and "haves" match up nicely. Wayne Dyer has a unique ability to pierce through perfectly good defense mechanisms and ask you to shine a beam into the dark side of your Self. Go, Wayne!
My wants have never been centered on material things. I wear many of my clothes from the '80's (the best decade ever!), drive a car into the well over 100,000 mile mark, and have lived in my 1,050 square foot "starter" house for 17 years. This lack of wanting spreads to services as well. I've had one pedicure in my life, and it was a gift from a friend who made me go with her so the gift certificate wouldn't turn yellow and brittle with age. I've had two massages, which were terrific, though it is awfully challenging for me to hold still that long. My hair dresser says to come back every six weeks; I double that and show up every three months or so. Maybe I'm just low maintenance. My partner would say otherwise.
I am acutely aware, however, of some wants that the Coat of Have is not large enough to cover. I want people to not be stupid. I want service providers - all types - to be competent. I want operators of motor vehicles to lock their cell phones in the trunk when they drive. I want people to remember the ancient art of navigating with paper maps. I want a live person to answer the telephone. I want days to consist of more than 24 hours. I want developers in Oklahoma to stop hacking down trees and incorporate green space into their havoc. I want road designers, FOR ONCE, to include bike lanes in the plan. I want to eat food that doesn't contain sugar or some strange byproduct of corn. I want unwanted things to find their way to the people who want them. I want ethical leadership. I want dogma to become obsolete and be replaced by compassionate, patient, non-judgmental acceptance. I want, I want, I want.
Acceptance of reality is at the heart of Buddhism - right up there with non-attachment. I must confess that I am attached to some of the wants I just listed. I am attached to reconciling the habits of my life more closely with my heart's desires. At the moment I'm confused about my Buddhist beliefs and the magnitude of my wanting. I didn't know I was confused about this until right now. This must be taken to my cushion. No doubt it will be grist for the blogging mill.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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