Our Soto way puts an emphasis on shikan taza, or "just sitting." Actually we do not have any particular name for our practice; when we practice zazen we just practice it, and whether we find joy in our practice or not, we just do it. Even though we are sleepy, and we are tired of practicing zazen, of repeating the same thing day after day; even so, we continue our practice. Whether or not someone encourages our practice, we just do it. - Shunryu Suzuki in "Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind."
Day 315. OMG! Fifty, FIFTY, Five-Oh more blogs to write! Not that I am counting how many are left rather than how many have been written . . . Not that I am attached to this year being over. . . Not that I am concerned that a book contract hasn't arrived . . . Not that it ever even occurs to me to wonder how far in advance Kate Hudson signs her movie contracts . . .
Last night I was sitting on my cushion and it felt like I had never sat zazen before in my life. Like I knew nothing. Like I was a total novice, and I don't mean the good kind of "beginner" that Suzuki Roshi refers to. I felt like a caricature of a Westerner. A Westerner trying to meditate for the first time. The average Jane who's read a couple of articles on meditation and decides one night, "Okay, I can do that. No problem. What's the big deal? Sit down and breathe. I bet I'm enlightened by the weekend." An impatient, desirous, attached, egotistical, goal oriented, looking to attain something, waiting for the reward, Monkey-Minded American.
I was mildly perturbed and a little perplexed. How could this be? What about my ten months of solid practice? What about my erect spine, balanced mudra, and symmetrical half lotus? What about emptying my mind, sinking into my amygdala, focusing on my breath, silencing the Monkeys, falling into the abyss, becoming enveloped in the blue/black beauty of nothingness? Where did it all go?!
The more I searched, the more my mind scurried like shoppers scoring Kohl's Cash. I managed to remain on my cushion, but it's a wonder my frenetic cerebral spinning didn't levitate me off the floor like an Army chopper leaving a M*A*S*H unit. "I've lost it I'm bored I'm a bad sitter It's gone on too long The blog is boring Nobody cares anymore There is nothing to write about It was a dumb idea Stop thinking Just breathe There is nothing to attain Pick something and focus on it Where's a mantra Don't use a mantra That just makes you think more Nothing is working I wish I could sit like I used to I am getting worse not better Only two months left to reach Nirvana You are not supposed to care about reaching anything This isn't how I thought it would be Time is running out This is so disappointing You'd better get to the dojo and sit with the sangha again I don't care Yes I do . . . . . " The Monkeys went for a frolic in my brain cells like toddlers in the ball pit at Discovery Zone. The timer went off, and still I was thinking, "Where'd it all go?"
I grabbed for Suzuki Roshi's book like a nun clutches her rosary. Opened it to page 78 and read the above quote. Sighed, breathed, and bowed. For real. Gassho to my teacher's teacher for managing to speak to everything that ails me in my practice. He didn't answer my confusion about "Where did it all go?" He just reminded me that the question doesn't really matter.
Gotta go. I have some shikan taza to do.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
The Full Christmas Moon
I took one deep breath for every step (he) took away from me. That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are - rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best foot forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 314. While flipping through the Christmas edition of one of the few magazines I subscribe to, I discovered another blogger with a commitment to post every day for a year. It is San Francisco artist Lisa Congdon. Her blog, collectionaday2010.blogspot.com, features a picture of her "carefully curated collections" every day. Hum. I just read further and learned that Lisa's book, "A Collection a Day" will come out in March. That was fast. As far as I know, my book will not be coming out in March. Probably not in April, either. Not that I'm attached to publishing a book or anything . . .
It occurred to me that I have not blogged a story for quite some time. Today I was reminded of one of my favorites from my son's childhood. It happened around Christmas, so the telling seems timely. As I recall, this was the highlight of my 1993 Christmas letter. I never was one of those moms who sent pictures of the family dressed in matching plaid sweaters. I'm fairly sure my son has never even owned a plaid sweater. And if he did, I am certain he never actually put it on.
At the ripe old age of just over three, my son was told "No" for perhaps the first time in his life. In my defense (to the completely legitimate questions about my suitability as a parent that undoubtedly just entered your mind), the child did spend a majority of his toddlerhood in Children's Hospital. We were decorating the living room for the holidays. My son, rapidly recapturing the time he missed indulging his "Terrible Two's," was bossily "helping" me with every single bow and bell. We had just finished arranging his hefty collection of Christmas stuffed toys along the back of the love seat ("hefty" being the operative word here - there is nothing like an extensive hospital stay to rake in an array of plush bounty that rivals the Disney Store). I had stepped into the kitchen to take something from the oven when he asked if he could hang the fragile, hand-painted ornaments I had collected during my teaching trips to Germany. I said, "No - wait for me to come in and help you" and continued shoveling cookies onto the cooling rack. It got very quiet. That should have been a clue.
I slid the next batch of cookies into the oven (in 1993, you couldn't buy gluten-free cookies in the store), shut the door, set the timer, and walked back into the living room. Stopped and stared. Stood and stared some more. My child was nowhere in sight. I tried to summon a stern parental voice and failed completely. Instead, I burst into laughter. Collapsing into a helpless puddle of mirth upon the tinsel-strewn rug, I laughed until tears streamed down my face. My startled toddler emerged from his bedroom and warily watched as his mother helplessly tried to compose herself. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I motioned for him to come sit on my lap. Together, we gazed up at the love seat.
With the lightening fast speed only a chagrined toddler is capable of, my son had executed a swift and thorough protest to his first experience of "No." In the time it took me to shove a dozen cookies into the oven, he had systematically turned every single one of his stuffed animals (the ones we had just finished artistically arranging into a cheerful holiday greeting committee) around backward. With precision indicative of the excessive loading of OCD genes inherited from his mother, he had effectively turned a row of colorful, happily smiling Christmas creatures into a linear arrangement of backsides. A 21-bun salute. The top of the love seat now proudly displayed a line of stuffed posteriors. I was the intended recipient of what we still fondly refer to as "The Full Christmas Moon."
Talk about making a statement. My child has always been a clear communicator. Still is. It doesn't take guesswork to know when he is displeased. For the record, we left the stuffed animals that way the entire holiday season. As oppositional acts go, this one was way too creative to prematurely correct. Besides, the moment of intervention sort of passed about the time I fell to the floor cracking up.
I recalled this story because I was told "No" today. Since my stitches won't come out for another couple of weeks, my partner insisted I phone the surgeon's office to ask if it would be medically safe to ride the mountain bikes this weekend. Grumbling and embarrassed for troubling her office, I complied. It never occurred to me she would say anything other than, "Sure, go, have fun!" Not thirty seconds after I left my question with the receptionist, my cell phone rang with an answer: "The doctor really doesn't think that would be a good idea. She said we need to be conservative so that you can heal, and you should wait until the stitches are removed. It could be really bad if you fell on your face." I was most displeased. I thought about marching to her office and executing a Christmas Moon, but reconsidered when I remembered this person will be cutting on me again in February. Resigned myself to a couple more weeks of riding the trainer around my living room. At least there are decorations to look at. And several stuffed animals smilingly posed along the back of the love seat.
I'm not sure where, exactly, the Zen is in either of these stories. But I'm not worried. As I demonstrated in yesterday's blog, Zen is everywhere. Even during a Full Christmas Moon.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 314. While flipping through the Christmas edition of one of the few magazines I subscribe to, I discovered another blogger with a commitment to post every day for a year. It is San Francisco artist Lisa Congdon. Her blog, collectionaday2010.blogspot.com, features a picture of her "carefully curated collections" every day. Hum. I just read further and learned that Lisa's book, "A Collection a Day" will come out in March. That was fast. As far as I know, my book will not be coming out in March. Probably not in April, either. Not that I'm attached to publishing a book or anything . . .
It occurred to me that I have not blogged a story for quite some time. Today I was reminded of one of my favorites from my son's childhood. It happened around Christmas, so the telling seems timely. As I recall, this was the highlight of my 1993 Christmas letter. I never was one of those moms who sent pictures of the family dressed in matching plaid sweaters. I'm fairly sure my son has never even owned a plaid sweater. And if he did, I am certain he never actually put it on.
At the ripe old age of just over three, my son was told "No" for perhaps the first time in his life. In my defense (to the completely legitimate questions about my suitability as a parent that undoubtedly just entered your mind), the child did spend a majority of his toddlerhood in Children's Hospital. We were decorating the living room for the holidays. My son, rapidly recapturing the time he missed indulging his "Terrible Two's," was bossily "helping" me with every single bow and bell. We had just finished arranging his hefty collection of Christmas stuffed toys along the back of the love seat ("hefty" being the operative word here - there is nothing like an extensive hospital stay to rake in an array of plush bounty that rivals the Disney Store). I had stepped into the kitchen to take something from the oven when he asked if he could hang the fragile, hand-painted ornaments I had collected during my teaching trips to Germany. I said, "No - wait for me to come in and help you" and continued shoveling cookies onto the cooling rack. It got very quiet. That should have been a clue.
I slid the next batch of cookies into the oven (in 1993, you couldn't buy gluten-free cookies in the store), shut the door, set the timer, and walked back into the living room. Stopped and stared. Stood and stared some more. My child was nowhere in sight. I tried to summon a stern parental voice and failed completely. Instead, I burst into laughter. Collapsing into a helpless puddle of mirth upon the tinsel-strewn rug, I laughed until tears streamed down my face. My startled toddler emerged from his bedroom and warily watched as his mother helplessly tried to compose herself. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I motioned for him to come sit on my lap. Together, we gazed up at the love seat.
With the lightening fast speed only a chagrined toddler is capable of, my son had executed a swift and thorough protest to his first experience of "No." In the time it took me to shove a dozen cookies into the oven, he had systematically turned every single one of his stuffed animals (the ones we had just finished artistically arranging into a cheerful holiday greeting committee) around backward. With precision indicative of the excessive loading of OCD genes inherited from his mother, he had effectively turned a row of colorful, happily smiling Christmas creatures into a linear arrangement of backsides. A 21-bun salute. The top of the love seat now proudly displayed a line of stuffed posteriors. I was the intended recipient of what we still fondly refer to as "The Full Christmas Moon."
Talk about making a statement. My child has always been a clear communicator. Still is. It doesn't take guesswork to know when he is displeased. For the record, we left the stuffed animals that way the entire holiday season. As oppositional acts go, this one was way too creative to prematurely correct. Besides, the moment of intervention sort of passed about the time I fell to the floor cracking up.
I recalled this story because I was told "No" today. Since my stitches won't come out for another couple of weeks, my partner insisted I phone the surgeon's office to ask if it would be medically safe to ride the mountain bikes this weekend. Grumbling and embarrassed for troubling her office, I complied. It never occurred to me she would say anything other than, "Sure, go, have fun!" Not thirty seconds after I left my question with the receptionist, my cell phone rang with an answer: "The doctor really doesn't think that would be a good idea. She said we need to be conservative so that you can heal, and you should wait until the stitches are removed. It could be really bad if you fell on your face." I was most displeased. I thought about marching to her office and executing a Christmas Moon, but reconsidered when I remembered this person will be cutting on me again in February. Resigned myself to a couple more weeks of riding the trainer around my living room. At least there are decorations to look at. And several stuffed animals smilingly posed along the back of the love seat.
I'm not sure where, exactly, the Zen is in either of these stories. But I'm not worried. As I demonstrated in yesterday's blog, Zen is everywhere. Even during a Full Christmas Moon.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Even Bruce is Zen
She'll let you in her car
To go drivin' around,
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down.
She'll let you in her heart,
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice.
You've gone a million miles,
How far'd you get?
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget. - Bruce Springsteen in "Secret Garden."
Day 313. You guessed it. I am in a Bruce Mood. Always happens when something has made me feel vulnerable. All I want to do is take my mountain bike and bust out some gnarly miles on a really technical trail. Maybe crash onto some rocks and bleed a little. Just to remind myself that I will get right back on and ride some more.
For most of this year, I have been proud (in a non-attached sort of way) of keeping my commitment to practice zazen every day and blog about it. It has felt authentic to direct sincere intent to loving kindness, mindfulness, accepting Reality, and surrendering my ego (to whatever degree that is possible on any given day!) I have enjoyed reading about Buddhism and sharing what I am learning with those who are interested. I have tried to be courageous and centered through the numerous twists and turns the Big R has hurled my way. With varying levels of success, I have attempted to refrain from highly politicized writing and spewing irrelevant personal drama. I've blogged through boredom, repetition, tedium, rage, despair, grief, and distraction.
Frankly, I am sick to death of it. Eyeball deep in disenchantment toward the whole shebang. All that emotion I have been channeling over to the Isle of Equanimity has evidently been stockpiling itself into deep bunkers on the shores of Histrionicville. Must be time to start the novel. I want to write juicy drama based on convoluted plots involving conflicted, tragic characters who make very bad mistakes and fail to learn from them. I want to write about wicked sex and politically incorrect situations and creative crimes hidden deeply in layers of subterfuge. I want to pen insensitive sarcasm directed at hyper-religiosity. I plan on creating a couple of characters who say, think, and do the most unZenlike things imaginable. In all likelihood, one will be pathologically avoidant of any display of vulnerability.
I'm going to cut lose. I'm going to express. I'm going to create. I'm going to deviate so far from the Middle Path not even a Garmin can lead me back. I won't be wise or patient or moderate. I'm going to write down my bones, exactly like Natalie Goldberg teaches. I'm going to be excessive, audacious, inappropriate, and a wee bit offensive. I'm going to write this book like I ride down and across that ridge at the Womble: never touching the brakes and hoping to hell I don't careen off the edge and smash to the bottom of the ravine. In other words, like a bad ass. It will be fun. It will be outrageous. Who knows, it may even be read.
Sometimes Zen is bad ass, and some times it is just sitting there. Most of the time, it's just sitting there. The thing is, if you can keep sitting there when all it is is just sitting there, you ARE bad ass! Because that is the hardest thing in the world to do. A zillion times harder than riding the rough spots at the Womble.
I guess it's good to remind myself of that every once in a while. I had sort of forgotten the bad ass aspect of Zen. And, despite my boldest intent to end tonight's blog without my predictable, formulatic, satisfying, "tie it all together with a ribbon" finish, I suspect it is going to happen anyway. I so wanted to build the case that a Bruce Mood stands outside the realm of Zen. Absurd. Nothing stands outside of Zen. Big Mind holds it all. That's what makes it Bad Ass.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
To go drivin' around,
She'll let you into the parts of herself
That'll bring you down.
She'll let you in her heart,
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don't think twice.
You've gone a million miles,
How far'd you get?
To that place where you can't remember
And you can't forget. - Bruce Springsteen in "Secret Garden."
Day 313. You guessed it. I am in a Bruce Mood. Always happens when something has made me feel vulnerable. All I want to do is take my mountain bike and bust out some gnarly miles on a really technical trail. Maybe crash onto some rocks and bleed a little. Just to remind myself that I will get right back on and ride some more.
For most of this year, I have been proud (in a non-attached sort of way) of keeping my commitment to practice zazen every day and blog about it. It has felt authentic to direct sincere intent to loving kindness, mindfulness, accepting Reality, and surrendering my ego (to whatever degree that is possible on any given day!) I have enjoyed reading about Buddhism and sharing what I am learning with those who are interested. I have tried to be courageous and centered through the numerous twists and turns the Big R has hurled my way. With varying levels of success, I have attempted to refrain from highly politicized writing and spewing irrelevant personal drama. I've blogged through boredom, repetition, tedium, rage, despair, grief, and distraction.
Frankly, I am sick to death of it. Eyeball deep in disenchantment toward the whole shebang. All that emotion I have been channeling over to the Isle of Equanimity has evidently been stockpiling itself into deep bunkers on the shores of Histrionicville. Must be time to start the novel. I want to write juicy drama based on convoluted plots involving conflicted, tragic characters who make very bad mistakes and fail to learn from them. I want to write about wicked sex and politically incorrect situations and creative crimes hidden deeply in layers of subterfuge. I want to pen insensitive sarcasm directed at hyper-religiosity. I plan on creating a couple of characters who say, think, and do the most unZenlike things imaginable. In all likelihood, one will be pathologically avoidant of any display of vulnerability.
I'm going to cut lose. I'm going to express. I'm going to create. I'm going to deviate so far from the Middle Path not even a Garmin can lead me back. I won't be wise or patient or moderate. I'm going to write down my bones, exactly like Natalie Goldberg teaches. I'm going to be excessive, audacious, inappropriate, and a wee bit offensive. I'm going to write this book like I ride down and across that ridge at the Womble: never touching the brakes and hoping to hell I don't careen off the edge and smash to the bottom of the ravine. In other words, like a bad ass. It will be fun. It will be outrageous. Who knows, it may even be read.
Sometimes Zen is bad ass, and some times it is just sitting there. Most of the time, it's just sitting there. The thing is, if you can keep sitting there when all it is is just sitting there, you ARE bad ass! Because that is the hardest thing in the world to do. A zillion times harder than riding the rough spots at the Womble.
I guess it's good to remind myself of that every once in a while. I had sort of forgotten the bad ass aspect of Zen. And, despite my boldest intent to end tonight's blog without my predictable, formulatic, satisfying, "tie it all together with a ribbon" finish, I suspect it is going to happen anyway. I so wanted to build the case that a Bruce Mood stands outside the realm of Zen. Absurd. Nothing stands outside of Zen. Big Mind holds it all. That's what makes it Bad Ass.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Crisp and Clear
We thought we were looking, but could not see what was before us. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."
Day 312. Two days post-op and I feel like a weenie. My razor-sharp mind feels like it couldn't slice yogurt. My lightening quick reflexes look like Tai Chi performed in slow motion. My sardonic wit hasn't produced a decent one-liner in 48 hours, and my elephantic memory can't even recall on which side of the car my gas tank is located. This is getting serious. With what concoction of medicinal wonders do they produce that mystical state called "conscious sedation?" I think mine may have been a double. That, or I am the world's slowest drug metabolizer. Which cannot be the case; I don't do ANYTHING slow!
I don't feel like me at all, which you might think I would interpret as a major Zen coup (being as how the central idea is to "lose myself.") Instead, I feel foggy and discomfited. Self conscious and timorous. Not a person with whom my ancestors would leave their sheep.
The Big R, previously so crisp and clear, is presently blurred around the edges. My precious state of equanimity (not that I was attached to it) has been upended - toppled by something as trivial as a botched maxillofacial procedure. Reality has an annoying and incessant habit of interrupting my mastery of it. Damn it to hell. This practice - this enigma called Zen - is the most humbling, infuriating, inciting, and disconcerting endeavor I have ever approached. With the slightest provocation, I could dash it on the rocks. Smash it to pieces. Grind it into ash.
Alas and alack! In the past 311 days, I have as yet to encounter anything that holds a candle to Zen when it comes to going head-to-head with Reality. Especially those frequent pieces of It that fail to commence according to my Preferred Version. Where else would I be provided with a method through which I can relinquish attachment, accept Reality exactly as It Is, and be freed from all suffering? Even the squirmy discomfort associated with (arghhh!) being human. All from the comfort of a sofa cushion.
Methinks I doth protest too loudly. This feels disingenuous: I am lauding the role of Zen in my life to avoid blasting out a keyboard purge of self-pitying drivel. Wash my cup, clap with one hand, listen for a tree falling in the forest. At the moment, it's all crap. My mouth hurts, my face hurts, my head hurts, my hope hurts. I want to sit on my cushion about as much as I want another scalpel inserted through my palate. I want to chant about as much as I want to go gargle with my prescription strength antiseptic. I want to bow about as much as I want to sign my next check to the IRS.
Oh - that's better! It's back. Reality. Crisp and clear!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 312. Two days post-op and I feel like a weenie. My razor-sharp mind feels like it couldn't slice yogurt. My lightening quick reflexes look like Tai Chi performed in slow motion. My sardonic wit hasn't produced a decent one-liner in 48 hours, and my elephantic memory can't even recall on which side of the car my gas tank is located. This is getting serious. With what concoction of medicinal wonders do they produce that mystical state called "conscious sedation?" I think mine may have been a double. That, or I am the world's slowest drug metabolizer. Which cannot be the case; I don't do ANYTHING slow!
I don't feel like me at all, which you might think I would interpret as a major Zen coup (being as how the central idea is to "lose myself.") Instead, I feel foggy and discomfited. Self conscious and timorous. Not a person with whom my ancestors would leave their sheep.
The Big R, previously so crisp and clear, is presently blurred around the edges. My precious state of equanimity (not that I was attached to it) has been upended - toppled by something as trivial as a botched maxillofacial procedure. Reality has an annoying and incessant habit of interrupting my mastery of it. Damn it to hell. This practice - this enigma called Zen - is the most humbling, infuriating, inciting, and disconcerting endeavor I have ever approached. With the slightest provocation, I could dash it on the rocks. Smash it to pieces. Grind it into ash.
Alas and alack! In the past 311 days, I have as yet to encounter anything that holds a candle to Zen when it comes to going head-to-head with Reality. Especially those frequent pieces of It that fail to commence according to my Preferred Version. Where else would I be provided with a method through which I can relinquish attachment, accept Reality exactly as It Is, and be freed from all suffering? Even the squirmy discomfort associated with (arghhh!) being human. All from the comfort of a sofa cushion.
Methinks I doth protest too loudly. This feels disingenuous: I am lauding the role of Zen in my life to avoid blasting out a keyboard purge of self-pitying drivel. Wash my cup, clap with one hand, listen for a tree falling in the forest. At the moment, it's all crap. My mouth hurts, my face hurts, my head hurts, my hope hurts. I want to sit on my cushion about as much as I want another scalpel inserted through my palate. I want to chant about as much as I want to go gargle with my prescription strength antiseptic. I want to bow about as much as I want to sign my next check to the IRS.
Oh - that's better! It's back. Reality. Crisp and clear!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Other Panacea
Itchy wet stitches
Hidden behind swollen cheeks
Post-op haiku flows.
Hollow hunger shouts
Whirling blender miracle
Straw slowly slurping. - Desperate attempts at haiku to stave off boredom (December 10, 2010).
Day 311. Okay. So I'm not the best patient. Recall that I was raised in a family that is freakishly awkward around infirmity. My ancestors roamed the Scottish highlands, protecting sheep herds while fighting off rogue enemy clans. My origins reflect dauntlessness and indomitability. I was made to be hardy, not to take pain meds. Which, incidentally, make my head wonky. It is tempting to sell them on the street for some extra holiday cash. At least that would break up the tedium of recovery. Pedaling something with two wheels has always been my panacea.
The universe, with its damnable and sadistic sense of humor, is conspiring against me. My partner came home from his sunset mountain bike ride all grins. Seems he met a dentist in the parking lot, and they rode the entire 10-mile lap together. What are the odds? My partner mentioned the irony of me at home recovering from a botched sinus lift while he is on a bike ride with a dentist, and the frigging dentist proceeded to tell him how dangerous it would be for me to ride in the next several days. According to this random, satanic, dentist-cum-mountain-biker, something as mild as blowing my nose could rupture my fragile sinus and require another surgery to repair it. Whatever. Sounds like a bunch of histrionic whooey to me.
I wasn't even going to believe the story, but my partner produced a business card from the guy that looks dangerously legit. Besides that, he was using some pretty convincing vocabulary that sounded remarkably similar to my surgeon's explanation (the remnants I recall through my analgesic fog). Being grounded from my bikes is definitely impeding my convalescence. And that was BEFORE the galaxy plunked a conservative, know-it-all, proffering unsolicited precautions, busybody of a dentist on the same trail at the same time my partner elected to grab a quick ride.
It's enough to make me swallow one of the scheduled narcotics my surgeon so generously and prolifically wrote out scripts for. But I will refrain. My neurons are saturated with Monkey chatter before I drape them in pharmaceuticals; I certainly don't need to agitate them further. At the risk of sounding anticlimactic, I'll cope the way I have been for the past 310 days. By getting my butt on the cushion. My other panacea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Hidden behind swollen cheeks
Post-op haiku flows.
Hollow hunger shouts
Whirling blender miracle
Straw slowly slurping. - Desperate attempts at haiku to stave off boredom (December 10, 2010).
Day 311. Okay. So I'm not the best patient. Recall that I was raised in a family that is freakishly awkward around infirmity. My ancestors roamed the Scottish highlands, protecting sheep herds while fighting off rogue enemy clans. My origins reflect dauntlessness and indomitability. I was made to be hardy, not to take pain meds. Which, incidentally, make my head wonky. It is tempting to sell them on the street for some extra holiday cash. At least that would break up the tedium of recovery. Pedaling something with two wheels has always been my panacea.
The universe, with its damnable and sadistic sense of humor, is conspiring against me. My partner came home from his sunset mountain bike ride all grins. Seems he met a dentist in the parking lot, and they rode the entire 10-mile lap together. What are the odds? My partner mentioned the irony of me at home recovering from a botched sinus lift while he is on a bike ride with a dentist, and the frigging dentist proceeded to tell him how dangerous it would be for me to ride in the next several days. According to this random, satanic, dentist-cum-mountain-biker, something as mild as blowing my nose could rupture my fragile sinus and require another surgery to repair it. Whatever. Sounds like a bunch of histrionic whooey to me.
I wasn't even going to believe the story, but my partner produced a business card from the guy that looks dangerously legit. Besides that, he was using some pretty convincing vocabulary that sounded remarkably similar to my surgeon's explanation (the remnants I recall through my analgesic fog). Being grounded from my bikes is definitely impeding my convalescence. And that was BEFORE the galaxy plunked a conservative, know-it-all, proffering unsolicited precautions, busybody of a dentist on the same trail at the same time my partner elected to grab a quick ride.
It's enough to make me swallow one of the scheduled narcotics my surgeon so generously and prolifically wrote out scripts for. But I will refrain. My neurons are saturated with Monkey chatter before I drape them in pharmaceuticals; I certainly don't need to agitate them further. At the risk of sounding anticlimactic, I'll cope the way I have been for the past 310 days. By getting my butt on the cushion. My other panacea.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Little Glitches
"We have a little glitch. . . . . . do you have any mesh in your car?" My surgeon to the doctor assisting her. (December 9, 2010).
Day 310. Surgery this morning. I elected not to be put all the way under, but next time I may rethink that. Surgery isn't the best place to practice mindfulness, alertness, or even wakefulness, for that matter. Mainly because I could hear everything going on. At first, that was kinda cool; I got to participate in the process (not to mention the other doc was a former mountain biker - if I hadn't had a mouth full of stainless steel instruments, think of the stories I could have told!) Being awake had been going along swimmingly until I heard my surgeon utter her blogworthy quote. "There's a glitch," isn't exactly what you want to hear if you are the glitchee.
My sinus was perforated, which necessitated an unanticipated repair, which necessitated eight weeks healing time for the "glitch," which necessitated scheduling another surgery to do what they were supposed to be doing today. I had them pencil me in for February 8th. They first suggested February 3rd, but I thought surely I can find a better way to spend my 50th birthday. So we're waiting until the 8th. Whoopee. At least I won't be blogging about it!
It was humorous to watch the Monkeys bumbling through my drug-clouded brain, trying to figure out why "mesh" was being requested, and why it might be in the car. I guess the doc assisting mine travels to different surgical offices and keeps an odd square of mesh or two in his car. The mesh must have been located, and was combined with cow achilles tendon to fix the perforations. Very cool. Another version of being interconnected with the universe. I didn't register that the rest of the plan had been abandoned until I saw and heard the surgeon begin to stitch things back up. At that point I inquired (with my best ventriloquist effort) about the bone grafting. That's when the doctor told me that working with sinus is like manipulating wet tissue paper, and she "liked to be conservative" when they tear. Read between the lines: Done for today; you'll be coming back for more.
Not exactly my Preferred Version for today's outcome. I sort of had my sights set on the Reality where I am back on the bike by next weekend. I still may be, and will just plan for another temporary interruption in February. Thank the Buddha for a strong zazen practice. It's so efficient to bypass all of the analyzing, questioning, regretting, second guessing, and being attached to things going better, etc. that may have flooded my consciousness a year ago. Now I can just flop down smack in the middle of Reality, and try to remember to schedule the right days off in February. It is what it is. Glitches and all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 310. Surgery this morning. I elected not to be put all the way under, but next time I may rethink that. Surgery isn't the best place to practice mindfulness, alertness, or even wakefulness, for that matter. Mainly because I could hear everything going on. At first, that was kinda cool; I got to participate in the process (not to mention the other doc was a former mountain biker - if I hadn't had a mouth full of stainless steel instruments, think of the stories I could have told!) Being awake had been going along swimmingly until I heard my surgeon utter her blogworthy quote. "There's a glitch," isn't exactly what you want to hear if you are the glitchee.
My sinus was perforated, which necessitated an unanticipated repair, which necessitated eight weeks healing time for the "glitch," which necessitated scheduling another surgery to do what they were supposed to be doing today. I had them pencil me in for February 8th. They first suggested February 3rd, but I thought surely I can find a better way to spend my 50th birthday. So we're waiting until the 8th. Whoopee. At least I won't be blogging about it!
It was humorous to watch the Monkeys bumbling through my drug-clouded brain, trying to figure out why "mesh" was being requested, and why it might be in the car. I guess the doc assisting mine travels to different surgical offices and keeps an odd square of mesh or two in his car. The mesh must have been located, and was combined with cow achilles tendon to fix the perforations. Very cool. Another version of being interconnected with the universe. I didn't register that the rest of the plan had been abandoned until I saw and heard the surgeon begin to stitch things back up. At that point I inquired (with my best ventriloquist effort) about the bone grafting. That's when the doctor told me that working with sinus is like manipulating wet tissue paper, and she "liked to be conservative" when they tear. Read between the lines: Done for today; you'll be coming back for more.
Not exactly my Preferred Version for today's outcome. I sort of had my sights set on the Reality where I am back on the bike by next weekend. I still may be, and will just plan for another temporary interruption in February. Thank the Buddha for a strong zazen practice. It's so efficient to bypass all of the analyzing, questioning, regretting, second guessing, and being attached to things going better, etc. that may have flooded my consciousness a year ago. Now I can just flop down smack in the middle of Reality, and try to remember to schedule the right days off in February. It is what it is. Glitches and all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Three Little Buddhas
"I am enlightened, and always have been, simultaneously with the beginning of the universe." - The Buddha, First Words After Realizing the Truth. In the Zen Calendar (December 11, 2002).
When the bright star appeared, the Buddha said: "Together as one, I and the great Earth have at this moment attained the Tao." - Zen Calendar (December 9, 2006).
Day 309. Happy Bodhi Day! Happy Rohatsu! Gassho to Buddha for his wisdom and compassion!
At mid-day, I celebrated Rohatsu with my favorite 4-year-olds: Reece, Clark and Grace. When I mentioned in Pilates class I would be observing Buddha's enlightenment today, their mom Amy asked if I could share a 4-year-old version of some of the rituals with her triplets. I said I would be delighted. They trooped into my home around 11:30. Grace was the only one who had her shoes on at the time. I said, "Perfect! We take our shoes off for zazen anyway. You all came prepared!"
After some wandering around the house, pausing in my son's room to play with a few sturdy remnants from his childhood, we proceeded to the Zen room. It is lovely at noon: lots of bright green plants soak up the ample sunshine flooding through a south facing window. Everyone selected a cushion from the colorful ones I carted home from the office. We looked at, held, and passed around some of the Buddha statues I have collected from around the world. It didn't take Reece long to observe, "He has a really big belly!" I agreed, then paused to gather some thoughts about Buddha in a version suitable for 4-year-olds. I knew I had about three sentences. Four, tops.
I asked the Three about their teachers. They shouted a couple of names, then Clark wisely pointed out, "Anybody can be a teacher." Could I have scripted a better segue? Not one to miss a cue, I launched into my first Dharma talk for children. It went something like this:
"Buddha was a great teacher who lived about two thousand years ago. He taught us about being kind to each other and loving each other. He also taught us how to live in the world with no worries . . . and showed us that everything is all right - just the way it is. And you know what the most important thing he taught us was?" Complete silence. All eyes on me. Rapt attention. "That, from the second we are born, and even BEFORE then, we are perfect. Absolutely perfect. Each and every one of us. Exactly as we are."
So there we have it. A transcript of my first Dharma talk. It was a couple of sentences longer than planned, but they hung right with me like the amazing little Buddhas they are. Next, we practiced experiencing how long 30 seconds is. I figured that was just about the perfect length for zazen when you're four. We started the timer and Grace shouted out a sequence of impeccable counting to 10, which gave me a splendid opportunity to say we were going to sit for three of what she had just counted. Amy asked, "What are we supposed to do with our thoughts while we are sitting?" I answered, "Good question! After over three hundred days, I still don't know the answer!" The triplets appeared to intuitively grasp my explanation of Monkey chatter (we should all begin our Zen study at the age of 4!) and my suggestion that they just watch their thoughts and think about their breathing. At that point, I showed everyone how to make a mudra "shaped like a half moon. . . and hold it by your belly button so your breath can come in and out of it." Bam - three perfect, miniature mudras appeared.
We all stood up and bowed deeply, first facing our respective cushions, then with our backs to them. Those pliable, low to the ground four-year-old bodies were just made for bowing. Everyone then sat back down on our zafus, bowed once more, formed our mudras, and watched me set the timer. Then: A Miracle. For thirty long, consecutive, brilliant, pristine, amazingly memorable seconds, absolute and complete silence in the Zen room. Three sublime little Buddhas on Bodhi Day. Peak Experience. Peak Experience. Peak Experience.
The timer sounded and we all bowed once more. My eyes met Amy's across the room and we burst into laughter. "Holy cow!" she exclaimed, "That was amazing! I don't believe it! I can't believe they all stayed quiet the entire time!" I got a Triplet High Five and almost spontaneously combusted with a remarkable sense of giddy happiness. "They are brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! My 42-year-old brother can't even sit zazen for 30 seconds! That was the best meditation EVER!"
Next, we chanted, and everyone giggled exquisitely when I said, "... shiki shiki soku ze ku ku soku ze." We went over all the new words we used to celebrate Buddha's enlightenment: Zafu, zazen, Bodhi, gassho, mudra. Anticipated that their Dad would be pretty impressed when they spoke to him in Japanese. Sated with satisfaction at our bows and sitting and chanting, we tromped into the kitchen for green tea served in the tiny Japanese tea set I brought back from Yokosuka long ago. We ate warm pumpkin bread with it. Then I gave Grace, Reece and Clark a Buddha statue to remember our day - one each from a three-piece set I had purchased on a teaching trip to Okinawa. We allocated Buddha names to each one: Ho-Tei, Dogen, and Sidd. They were impressively gracious receivers.
Alone, I have been bowing, sitting, chanting and drinking tea every day for over 10 months. Sharing my practice was immensely special. This was the best Bodhia Day EVER. Being part of a Sangha rocks. Especially when it's comprised of Three Little Buddhas. Resplendent in their Buddha nature. Gassho, Clark, Reece, and Grace. Happy Rohatsu!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
When the bright star appeared, the Buddha said: "Together as one, I and the great Earth have at this moment attained the Tao." - Zen Calendar (December 9, 2006).
Day 309. Happy Bodhi Day! Happy Rohatsu! Gassho to Buddha for his wisdom and compassion!
At mid-day, I celebrated Rohatsu with my favorite 4-year-olds: Reece, Clark and Grace. When I mentioned in Pilates class I would be observing Buddha's enlightenment today, their mom Amy asked if I could share a 4-year-old version of some of the rituals with her triplets. I said I would be delighted. They trooped into my home around 11:30. Grace was the only one who had her shoes on at the time. I said, "Perfect! We take our shoes off for zazen anyway. You all came prepared!"
After some wandering around the house, pausing in my son's room to play with a few sturdy remnants from his childhood, we proceeded to the Zen room. It is lovely at noon: lots of bright green plants soak up the ample sunshine flooding through a south facing window. Everyone selected a cushion from the colorful ones I carted home from the office. We looked at, held, and passed around some of the Buddha statues I have collected from around the world. It didn't take Reece long to observe, "He has a really big belly!" I agreed, then paused to gather some thoughts about Buddha in a version suitable for 4-year-olds. I knew I had about three sentences. Four, tops.
I asked the Three about their teachers. They shouted a couple of names, then Clark wisely pointed out, "Anybody can be a teacher." Could I have scripted a better segue? Not one to miss a cue, I launched into my first Dharma talk for children. It went something like this:
"Buddha was a great teacher who lived about two thousand years ago. He taught us about being kind to each other and loving each other. He also taught us how to live in the world with no worries . . . and showed us that everything is all right - just the way it is. And you know what the most important thing he taught us was?" Complete silence. All eyes on me. Rapt attention. "That, from the second we are born, and even BEFORE then, we are perfect. Absolutely perfect. Each and every one of us. Exactly as we are."
So there we have it. A transcript of my first Dharma talk. It was a couple of sentences longer than planned, but they hung right with me like the amazing little Buddhas they are. Next, we practiced experiencing how long 30 seconds is. I figured that was just about the perfect length for zazen when you're four. We started the timer and Grace shouted out a sequence of impeccable counting to 10, which gave me a splendid opportunity to say we were going to sit for three of what she had just counted. Amy asked, "What are we supposed to do with our thoughts while we are sitting?" I answered, "Good question! After over three hundred days, I still don't know the answer!" The triplets appeared to intuitively grasp my explanation of Monkey chatter (we should all begin our Zen study at the age of 4!) and my suggestion that they just watch their thoughts and think about their breathing. At that point, I showed everyone how to make a mudra "shaped like a half moon. . . and hold it by your belly button so your breath can come in and out of it." Bam - three perfect, miniature mudras appeared.
We all stood up and bowed deeply, first facing our respective cushions, then with our backs to them. Those pliable, low to the ground four-year-old bodies were just made for bowing. Everyone then sat back down on our zafus, bowed once more, formed our mudras, and watched me set the timer. Then: A Miracle. For thirty long, consecutive, brilliant, pristine, amazingly memorable seconds, absolute and complete silence in the Zen room. Three sublime little Buddhas on Bodhi Day. Peak Experience. Peak Experience. Peak Experience.
The timer sounded and we all bowed once more. My eyes met Amy's across the room and we burst into laughter. "Holy cow!" she exclaimed, "That was amazing! I don't believe it! I can't believe they all stayed quiet the entire time!" I got a Triplet High Five and almost spontaneously combusted with a remarkable sense of giddy happiness. "They are brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! My 42-year-old brother can't even sit zazen for 30 seconds! That was the best meditation EVER!"
Next, we chanted, and everyone giggled exquisitely when I said, "... shiki shiki soku ze ku ku soku ze." We went over all the new words we used to celebrate Buddha's enlightenment: Zafu, zazen, Bodhi, gassho, mudra. Anticipated that their Dad would be pretty impressed when they spoke to him in Japanese. Sated with satisfaction at our bows and sitting and chanting, we tromped into the kitchen for green tea served in the tiny Japanese tea set I brought back from Yokosuka long ago. We ate warm pumpkin bread with it. Then I gave Grace, Reece and Clark a Buddha statue to remember our day - one each from a three-piece set I had purchased on a teaching trip to Okinawa. We allocated Buddha names to each one: Ho-Tei, Dogen, and Sidd. They were impressively gracious receivers.
Alone, I have been bowing, sitting, chanting and drinking tea every day for over 10 months. Sharing my practice was immensely special. This was the best Bodhia Day EVER. Being part of a Sangha rocks. Especially when it's comprised of Three Little Buddhas. Resplendent in their Buddha nature. Gassho, Clark, Reece, and Grace. Happy Rohatsu!
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
