After ecstasy,
the laundry. - Zen Saying from the Zen Calendar (January 21, 2003)
Day 247. I am exhausted. The feeling state is eerily reminiscent of the concrete-veined fatigue I experienced before my endocrine system was righted. I suspect my adrenal gland is fine. Excessive mid-week bike miles are probably exacting their toll. That and moving possessions back home. I am ever so grateful that I have been relinquishing attachment (and cleaning out the orifices of my house). There is so much less to pack.
Today's quote is another one extracted from my "favorites" pile. My teacher reveled in reminding us about Suzuki Roshi's answer to students when they asked, "What happens after we achieve enlightenment?" The answer was always some derivative of, "You come back the next morning at 5:00 a.m. for zazen." The answer probably dismayed and disappointed some students, but I always found it oddly reassuring. It certainly assists me with practicing "no expectation, no aspiration . . . " We're Buddhists. We sit. It's what we do. After Enlightenment, we sit some more.
In the midst of my poetry rapture and occasional whirling In The Moment, the laundry beckoned. As did the bills, the quarterly tax statements, insurance preauthorizations, fall planting, and grocery shopping. Practicing Zen is not for the romanticist. Nor for the wimpy. Good thing I'm finding ecstasy in the ordinary. Because my life is chock full of it.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Phases
To the mind there is such a thing as news,
whereas to the inner knowing, it is all
in the middle of its happening.
To doubters, this is a pain.
To believers, it's gospel.
To the lover and the visionary,
it is life as it's being lived. - "The Mystery of the Moment" by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)
Day 246. I have discovered "Easy Listening" on one of the higher numbered cable channels I never before investigated. I stream it constantly. Read between the lines: I am listening to elevator music voluntarily. Surely this is just a phase.
Speaking of phases, (how I love a good segue!) I seem to have entered a couple of new ones. I shall call them my Poetry Phase and my In The Moment Phase. I would highly recommend them both. Since viewing the video on David Whyte, I took his advice and have been reading some poetry each evening. Whitman, Rumi, Kabir, Merwin, and (as soon as I buy his book) David Whyte himself (OMG!)
Poets speak to a part of my brain that has been laying dormant for quite some time. Some sleeping gray matter deep in my right hemisphere is waking up, coming alive, shooting sparks into the dark night of my soul! I think poetry is like history: most of us have to get a few decades under our life belt before we arrive at a place of deserving receptivity. There are some advanced beings, like my eldest nephew, who emerge from the womb spewing poetry with their first coos and gurgles. He happens to be a musician and an oracle, and probably read Rumi while me and my son entertained ourselves with the Berenstein Bears. He clearly inherited the bulk of the family right brain genes. I bet he doesn't major in accounting.
I have come to the conclusion that the current societal fuss about "living in the here-and-now" has been highly underrated. It is the best perspective EVER! Ironically, it is entirely antithetical to how most Americans live. I have been purposefully attempting it for 245 days now, and it continues to baffle and escape me. Seems so simple when it is viewed via the written word. So straightforward when it is painted on cheesy souvenirs. So frustratingly elusive when I pursue it for longer than a heartbeat.
My new theory is that the world may not be ready for seven billion people to comprehend living in the here-and-now. All that ecstatic whirling could potentially alter the earth's gravitational pull. Because that is exactly the sensation that accompanies truly understanding what In The Moment means. Ask Rumi: "He would spin round a pillar in the mosque, absorbed in the depths of his loving, and words would fly out of his mouth like honeybees. A scribe would catch them on the wing with his quill. Out of his spinning, the Whirling Dervishes arose . . . " (from Roger Housden in Ten Poems to Change Your Life, page 44). Rumi knew the beauty of The Moment. So did Whitman. Now that I am mindfully tending to my "In the Moment Phase," so do I. A tiny bit. I go in and out, in and out, in and out (of the here-and-now). The mind habit of swirling everywhere else is incredibly difficult to break. But those heartbeats of communing with Reality, exactly as it is, are rapturous indeed. No wonder Rumi spun around pillars with honeybees flying from his mouth. He lived from the sweetest place imaginable.
This is the focus of my practice. The days of sitting melt into one another, and the profundity of change in my life shows no sign of abating. The shift from my lofty goals and exaggerated impact on the world to ecstasy in the ordinary is something I never saw coming. Wonder how long I will dwell in the Poetry Phase and the In The Moment Phase? No way of knowing. Like everything else in the galaxy, I'm sure they will run their course.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
whereas to the inner knowing, it is all
in the middle of its happening.
To doubters, this is a pain.
To believers, it's gospel.
To the lover and the visionary,
it is life as it's being lived. - "The Mystery of the Moment" by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks)
Day 246. I have discovered "Easy Listening" on one of the higher numbered cable channels I never before investigated. I stream it constantly. Read between the lines: I am listening to elevator music voluntarily. Surely this is just a phase.
Speaking of phases, (how I love a good segue!) I seem to have entered a couple of new ones. I shall call them my Poetry Phase and my In The Moment Phase. I would highly recommend them both. Since viewing the video on David Whyte, I took his advice and have been reading some poetry each evening. Whitman, Rumi, Kabir, Merwin, and (as soon as I buy his book) David Whyte himself (OMG!)
Poets speak to a part of my brain that has been laying dormant for quite some time. Some sleeping gray matter deep in my right hemisphere is waking up, coming alive, shooting sparks into the dark night of my soul! I think poetry is like history: most of us have to get a few decades under our life belt before we arrive at a place of deserving receptivity. There are some advanced beings, like my eldest nephew, who emerge from the womb spewing poetry with their first coos and gurgles. He happens to be a musician and an oracle, and probably read Rumi while me and my son entertained ourselves with the Berenstein Bears. He clearly inherited the bulk of the family right brain genes. I bet he doesn't major in accounting.
I have come to the conclusion that the current societal fuss about "living in the here-and-now" has been highly underrated. It is the best perspective EVER! Ironically, it is entirely antithetical to how most Americans live. I have been purposefully attempting it for 245 days now, and it continues to baffle and escape me. Seems so simple when it is viewed via the written word. So straightforward when it is painted on cheesy souvenirs. So frustratingly elusive when I pursue it for longer than a heartbeat.
My new theory is that the world may not be ready for seven billion people to comprehend living in the here-and-now. All that ecstatic whirling could potentially alter the earth's gravitational pull. Because that is exactly the sensation that accompanies truly understanding what In The Moment means. Ask Rumi: "He would spin round a pillar in the mosque, absorbed in the depths of his loving, and words would fly out of his mouth like honeybees. A scribe would catch them on the wing with his quill. Out of his spinning, the Whirling Dervishes arose . . . " (from Roger Housden in Ten Poems to Change Your Life, page 44). Rumi knew the beauty of The Moment. So did Whitman. Now that I am mindfully tending to my "In the Moment Phase," so do I. A tiny bit. I go in and out, in and out, in and out (of the here-and-now). The mind habit of swirling everywhere else is incredibly difficult to break. But those heartbeats of communing with Reality, exactly as it is, are rapturous indeed. No wonder Rumi spun around pillars with honeybees flying from his mouth. He lived from the sweetest place imaginable.
This is the focus of my practice. The days of sitting melt into one another, and the profundity of change in my life shows no sign of abating. The shift from my lofty goals and exaggerated impact on the world to ecstasy in the ordinary is something I never saw coming. Wonder how long I will dwell in the Poetry Phase and the In The Moment Phase? No way of knowing. Like everything else in the galaxy, I'm sure they will run their course.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Here. Now.
Everything is miraculous. It is a miracle that one doesn't melt in one's bath. - Pablo Picasso in the Zen Calendar (June 21, 2004).
Day 245. This quote has been at the top of my "Favorites" pile of saved Zen Calendar pages for several years. Since beginning the blog, I have always envisioned I would choose it for a day when something particularly astounding - nay, MIRACULOUS! - had occurred. Imagine my surprise when last night, while sitting quietly on my cushion, the quote arose in my mind, and I knew I would open tonight's blog with it. I can't quite decide whether to categorize the occasion as perfectly ordinary, or miraculous indeed. Upon reflection, the answer is (as always): It is both. How very Zen.
After blogging on the subject of being impeccable in my word, I approached my cushion with particular focus. I vowed to remain keenly centered upon refraining from effort at getting keenly centered. I briefly reflected upon Suzuki Roshi's reminders to assume the posture, breathe in and out, and - That's All! You're already there. Smack in the midst of Buddha nature. I sat with my breath for many moments. The omnipresent Monkeys whispered in the periphery. I focused on my breath. The Monkeys attempted to plan and ruminate and time travel. I focused on my breath. They chattered. I breathed. They upped their raucousness. I upped my resolve.
At that point, I grasped for a mantra, which has proven to be a useful talisman on nights the Monkeys are especially tenacious. The one that entered my consciousness was simply this: "Here" (inhale). "Now" (exhale). Here. Now. Here, Now. Here now here now here now. This place. This time. This moment - oh! it's gone. This moment - it's gone! This moment - gone! This moment - over! This moment - past! Butt still on the cushion. Buddha nature simply this: drawing breath, fully present, merged with the moment. This moment held a cricket's song. That moment, a tree frog's tune. Another moment, the first blast of a train whistle. Another moment, a louder train whistle. Another moment, whistle echoing in the distance. Consciousness narrowed such that my essence could alight on a pinhead. A pinprick in the cosmos contained all that has ever been and all that ever will be. Me - dissolved in Buddha nature - perched on the cushion, breathing through it all.
The miracle is this: Dissolving in Buddha nature freed me from suffering. Approaching the cushion I felt fatigue and grief and distress and erratic, misappropriated attachment. Wracked with miserable emotions I was invested in alleviating. The experience of disappearing within the here and now did not balance my checkbook, repair my son's car, cure my clients, or make insurance companies competent. It did, however, reconnect me with the sublime perfection of Reality. An actualization of the truth I read a few nights ago in the Roger Housden book: Reality isn't good or bad. It just is. Miraculous, indeed!
I am going to take a shower. I had considered a hot bath, but I'm certain I would melt in it.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 245. This quote has been at the top of my "Favorites" pile of saved Zen Calendar pages for several years. Since beginning the blog, I have always envisioned I would choose it for a day when something particularly astounding - nay, MIRACULOUS! - had occurred. Imagine my surprise when last night, while sitting quietly on my cushion, the quote arose in my mind, and I knew I would open tonight's blog with it. I can't quite decide whether to categorize the occasion as perfectly ordinary, or miraculous indeed. Upon reflection, the answer is (as always): It is both. How very Zen.
After blogging on the subject of being impeccable in my word, I approached my cushion with particular focus. I vowed to remain keenly centered upon refraining from effort at getting keenly centered. I briefly reflected upon Suzuki Roshi's reminders to assume the posture, breathe in and out, and - That's All! You're already there. Smack in the midst of Buddha nature. I sat with my breath for many moments. The omnipresent Monkeys whispered in the periphery. I focused on my breath. The Monkeys attempted to plan and ruminate and time travel. I focused on my breath. They chattered. I breathed. They upped their raucousness. I upped my resolve.
At that point, I grasped for a mantra, which has proven to be a useful talisman on nights the Monkeys are especially tenacious. The one that entered my consciousness was simply this: "Here" (inhale). "Now" (exhale). Here. Now. Here, Now. Here now here now here now. This place. This time. This moment - oh! it's gone. This moment - it's gone! This moment - gone! This moment - over! This moment - past! Butt still on the cushion. Buddha nature simply this: drawing breath, fully present, merged with the moment. This moment held a cricket's song. That moment, a tree frog's tune. Another moment, the first blast of a train whistle. Another moment, a louder train whistle. Another moment, whistle echoing in the distance. Consciousness narrowed such that my essence could alight on a pinhead. A pinprick in the cosmos contained all that has ever been and all that ever will be. Me - dissolved in Buddha nature - perched on the cushion, breathing through it all.
The miracle is this: Dissolving in Buddha nature freed me from suffering. Approaching the cushion I felt fatigue and grief and distress and erratic, misappropriated attachment. Wracked with miserable emotions I was invested in alleviating. The experience of disappearing within the here and now did not balance my checkbook, repair my son's car, cure my clients, or make insurance companies competent. It did, however, reconnect me with the sublime perfection of Reality. An actualization of the truth I read a few nights ago in the Roger Housden book: Reality isn't good or bad. It just is. Miraculous, indeed!
I am going to take a shower. I had considered a hot bath, but I'm certain I would melt in it.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Monday, October 4, 2010
Impeccable in My Word
Be impeccable in your word. - Don Miguel Ruiz in "The Four Agreements" (2001).
Day 244. During my walk this evening, I found two pennies. It reminded me of the blog in which I wrote about my two cents worth. Sometimes it feels like this year is flying by. Other times, it feels like I wrote that blog about a thousand years ago. Also on this walk, I stopped right in the middle of the road to fiddle with my watch band. It took me about two seconds to realize that I had just acted like a dumbass; I had literally committed one of the maneuvers I described with such loathing last night. I quickly moved to stand by the curb. What a humbling reminder that Karma can come back FAST!
In a session today, I had the opportunity to explain the idea of being impeccable in your word. This did not occur in a moralizing context; rather, we were discussing how to use mindfulness to say "Yes" only when there is a high likelihood that you intend to keep your word. I noted that I particularly like the phrase because of Ruiz's elegant wording. "Being impeccable" sounds important and prestigious. It also sounds somewhat daunting.
Technology and culture enable us to stray far from being impeccable in our word. I have mentioned before how convenient it has become to blame our failure to behave ethically, or at least courteously, on technology: "I didn't get your message (phone turned off, lost my charger, computer wouldn't boot, cyber-traffic jam, Blackberry dementia . . . .") The excuses are endless. We avoid contact through caller ID, and cowardly rely upon text messaging to deliver content that should never have transpired outside of an actual human interaction. Volumes are being written about the psychological ramifications of computer social networking. Suffice it to say, they are mechanisms that have evolved into a boundless medium through which individuals can disappoint and betray one another. Delight and connect with each other as well. A mixed blessing, indeed.
I have observed that caring and responsible people unintentionally struggle with being impeccable in their word because of the complexity of society. I've watched myself inadvertently accept four different invitations for approximately the same time span. Superficially, this appears to be exceedingly poor time management (I probably need a Blackberry). The irony is that, at the time each invitation was issued, my acceptance was genuine. I had every intention of keeping my word.
It is easy to automatically assume that duplicity accounts for the bulk of broken promises and failed commitments. Present society is much more tolerant of etiquette breaches than past generations. Popular television would lead one to believe that deception is culturally sanctioned. I believe there are a few additional ways to understand why people often say one thing and do another. Personally, I overestimate my energy level and time availability. I feel enthusiastic when I say "Yes" to something, and end up exhausted and/or overscheduled when it is time for the event. I have not perfected an accurate calculation method for my "interested-in-and-desire-to-support" and "actually-able-to-be-there-and-contribute" ratio.
It is very important to me to increasingly be impeccable in my word. The concept reminds me of Andy Griffith and Pa Ingalls - times when a firm handshake would seal a deal. Zazen practice is conducive to improving my ability to faithfully keep my word. Mindfulness - of reality, my priorities, and my limits - is increasing the accuracy with which I can match my "Yes" answers to "yes" actions. It results in saying "Yes" less and "No" more, which still feels a little squirmy for me. Yet somehow, for 244 days, I have been impeccable in my word to sit and blog. That doesn't feel squirmy at all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 244. During my walk this evening, I found two pennies. It reminded me of the blog in which I wrote about my two cents worth. Sometimes it feels like this year is flying by. Other times, it feels like I wrote that blog about a thousand years ago. Also on this walk, I stopped right in the middle of the road to fiddle with my watch band. It took me about two seconds to realize that I had just acted like a dumbass; I had literally committed one of the maneuvers I described with such loathing last night. I quickly moved to stand by the curb. What a humbling reminder that Karma can come back FAST!
In a session today, I had the opportunity to explain the idea of being impeccable in your word. This did not occur in a moralizing context; rather, we were discussing how to use mindfulness to say "Yes" only when there is a high likelihood that you intend to keep your word. I noted that I particularly like the phrase because of Ruiz's elegant wording. "Being impeccable" sounds important and prestigious. It also sounds somewhat daunting.
Technology and culture enable us to stray far from being impeccable in our word. I have mentioned before how convenient it has become to blame our failure to behave ethically, or at least courteously, on technology: "I didn't get your message (phone turned off, lost my charger, computer wouldn't boot, cyber-traffic jam, Blackberry dementia . . . .") The excuses are endless. We avoid contact through caller ID, and cowardly rely upon text messaging to deliver content that should never have transpired outside of an actual human interaction. Volumes are being written about the psychological ramifications of computer social networking. Suffice it to say, they are mechanisms that have evolved into a boundless medium through which individuals can disappoint and betray one another. Delight and connect with each other as well. A mixed blessing, indeed.
I have observed that caring and responsible people unintentionally struggle with being impeccable in their word because of the complexity of society. I've watched myself inadvertently accept four different invitations for approximately the same time span. Superficially, this appears to be exceedingly poor time management (I probably need a Blackberry). The irony is that, at the time each invitation was issued, my acceptance was genuine. I had every intention of keeping my word.
It is easy to automatically assume that duplicity accounts for the bulk of broken promises and failed commitments. Present society is much more tolerant of etiquette breaches than past generations. Popular television would lead one to believe that deception is culturally sanctioned. I believe there are a few additional ways to understand why people often say one thing and do another. Personally, I overestimate my energy level and time availability. I feel enthusiastic when I say "Yes" to something, and end up exhausted and/or overscheduled when it is time for the event. I have not perfected an accurate calculation method for my "interested-in-and-desire-to-support" and "actually-able-to-be-there-and-contribute" ratio.
It is very important to me to increasingly be impeccable in my word. The concept reminds me of Andy Griffith and Pa Ingalls - times when a firm handshake would seal a deal. Zazen practice is conducive to improving my ability to faithfully keep my word. Mindfulness - of reality, my priorities, and my limits - is increasing the accuracy with which I can match my "Yes" answers to "yes" actions. It results in saying "Yes" less and "No" more, which still feels a little squirmy for me. Yet somehow, for 244 days, I have been impeccable in my word to sit and blog. That doesn't feel squirmy at all.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Too Many Dumbasses
I have lived on the lip
Of insanity, wanting to know the reasons,
Knocking on the door. It opens.
I've been knocking from the inside! - Jalaluddin Rumi in the Zen Calendar (November 24, 2003).
Day 243. Two-thirds of my blog year has past. Normally when a significant fractional milestone regarding the blog is reached, I am in my happy place. No so today. Humanity is grating on my nerves.
I'm just going to jump right in and say this: There are way too many Dumbasses in the world. And there appears to be a disproportionate concentration of them within a thirty mile radius of me. I am exhausted by this particular demographic. They constitute a significant impediment to the values and virtues I am studiously trying to cultivate. In fact, they consummately piss me off.
I have been logging a lot of miles in the car this weekend, so dumbass drivers are at the top of my list. This elite group is comprised of people who are behind the wheel of an automobile but are not DRIVING said motor vehicle. Instead, they are talking (on the phone, to a passenger, to God, to themselves), or texting, or talking WHILE texting, or eating, or drinking, or pushing buttons on some dumbass piece of electronic plastic designed to make our world a safer and more stimulating environment in which to live. They are inevitably occupying the fast lane, driving under the speed limit, and never bother to shift their gaze from the electronic distraction to check something as archaic as a rear view mirror. They can't be bothered to change lanes when my front bumper (the one attached to a car that is actually going the speed limit) is a half-inch from their rear bumper, much less use a turn signal (this is because most lane changes nowadays are simply indicated by the vehicle erratically crossing the lane markers as the driver focuses on her/his phone. I have difficulty imagining a text message that could be urgent enough to justify killing four people on the interstate.)
The next group of dumbasses is the population segment that still experiences American demographics and social mores as though it were about 1952. Women don't work. They certainly don't hold positions of power, prestige, status, or achievement. The only legitimate family is a white man married to a white woman and their (preferably more than two) biological children. Sex, of course, is for procreation, with slight allowances for married people on Saturday night, if they assume the missionary position and sit in their regular pew on Sunday. Except, of course, for white males, who can do anything sexual they want. To anyone they want. Christmas and Easter are the only legitimate religious holidays. There are no people of color outside of entertainment, athletics, and jail. Gay people are all promiscuous, abhorrent, pathological sinners. Doctors know everything. Preachers know more than doctors. The only existing language on the planet is English. The earth is ours to abuse and exploit. There is plenty of everything.
The final group of dumbasses I would like to delineate is the exorbitantly large cohort of morons who are clueless about anything that exists beyond the realm of their Ego. These are the people who stop in the middle of aisles and roads and intersections and hallways and movie exits as though they are the only persons in existence. They have absolutely no awareness of, or concern for, the consequences of their dumbass actions on others. They litter, they are loud, they take the biggest piece and the last piece, they are irretrievably attached to everything they own (and many things they don't), and they are quick to buy heavy gauge plastic sheeting and duct tape to seal their windows at the slightest hysteria regarding chemical warfare. The only question that ever crosses the tiny amount of gray matter that occupies their skull is, "Where's mine?" I, Me, My, Mine comprise the bulk of their vocabulary. Concepts such as connectivity, interconnectedness, interdependence, interrelatedness, mutuality, and globalization are incomprehensible to them.
It is probably a good thing that the Buddha isn't attached to the content of my blog. Today's post is a wee bit askew from the bulk of what he teaches. I readily acknowledge that it is more than a wee distance from the attitude that usually prevails on my blog. I have been feeling like a Goody Two Shoes of late, and it is choking me. Sometimes the burden of being a psychologist and a parent and a blogger and a budding Buddhist and a strong cyclist and a conscientious inhabitant of the planet is overwhelming. Perhaps this is a natural byproduct of the reality that I truly do take those roles seriously and ethically. I'm pretty sure the material on the blog and the hours on the cushion emanate from sincere intent. This journey we call life matters to me.
I always reassure my clients that the distinction between thought, feeling and action is a crucial one. I don't tell the dumbasses they are dumbasses. Certainly, no dumbasses read my blog, so I am not worried about personally offending anyone with this post. Most of the time, I try to breathe and practice loving kindness. Summon some compassion, even when circumstances threaten to elicit its antithesis. These are the practices I will continue to cultivate. When they elude me, an occasional word purge at the keyboard will likely be my alternative coping mechanism.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Of insanity, wanting to know the reasons,
Knocking on the door. It opens.
I've been knocking from the inside! - Jalaluddin Rumi in the Zen Calendar (November 24, 2003).
Day 243. Two-thirds of my blog year has past. Normally when a significant fractional milestone regarding the blog is reached, I am in my happy place. No so today. Humanity is grating on my nerves.
I'm just going to jump right in and say this: There are way too many Dumbasses in the world. And there appears to be a disproportionate concentration of them within a thirty mile radius of me. I am exhausted by this particular demographic. They constitute a significant impediment to the values and virtues I am studiously trying to cultivate. In fact, they consummately piss me off.
I have been logging a lot of miles in the car this weekend, so dumbass drivers are at the top of my list. This elite group is comprised of people who are behind the wheel of an automobile but are not DRIVING said motor vehicle. Instead, they are talking (on the phone, to a passenger, to God, to themselves), or texting, or talking WHILE texting, or eating, or drinking, or pushing buttons on some dumbass piece of electronic plastic designed to make our world a safer and more stimulating environment in which to live. They are inevitably occupying the fast lane, driving under the speed limit, and never bother to shift their gaze from the electronic distraction to check something as archaic as a rear view mirror. They can't be bothered to change lanes when my front bumper (the one attached to a car that is actually going the speed limit) is a half-inch from their rear bumper, much less use a turn signal (this is because most lane changes nowadays are simply indicated by the vehicle erratically crossing the lane markers as the driver focuses on her/his phone. I have difficulty imagining a text message that could be urgent enough to justify killing four people on the interstate.)
The next group of dumbasses is the population segment that still experiences American demographics and social mores as though it were about 1952. Women don't work. They certainly don't hold positions of power, prestige, status, or achievement. The only legitimate family is a white man married to a white woman and their (preferably more than two) biological children. Sex, of course, is for procreation, with slight allowances for married people on Saturday night, if they assume the missionary position and sit in their regular pew on Sunday. Except, of course, for white males, who can do anything sexual they want. To anyone they want. Christmas and Easter are the only legitimate religious holidays. There are no people of color outside of entertainment, athletics, and jail. Gay people are all promiscuous, abhorrent, pathological sinners. Doctors know everything. Preachers know more than doctors. The only existing language on the planet is English. The earth is ours to abuse and exploit. There is plenty of everything.
The final group of dumbasses I would like to delineate is the exorbitantly large cohort of morons who are clueless about anything that exists beyond the realm of their Ego. These are the people who stop in the middle of aisles and roads and intersections and hallways and movie exits as though they are the only persons in existence. They have absolutely no awareness of, or concern for, the consequences of their dumbass actions on others. They litter, they are loud, they take the biggest piece and the last piece, they are irretrievably attached to everything they own (and many things they don't), and they are quick to buy heavy gauge plastic sheeting and duct tape to seal their windows at the slightest hysteria regarding chemical warfare. The only question that ever crosses the tiny amount of gray matter that occupies their skull is, "Where's mine?" I, Me, My, Mine comprise the bulk of their vocabulary. Concepts such as connectivity, interconnectedness, interdependence, interrelatedness, mutuality, and globalization are incomprehensible to them.
It is probably a good thing that the Buddha isn't attached to the content of my blog. Today's post is a wee bit askew from the bulk of what he teaches. I readily acknowledge that it is more than a wee distance from the attitude that usually prevails on my blog. I have been feeling like a Goody Two Shoes of late, and it is choking me. Sometimes the burden of being a psychologist and a parent and a blogger and a budding Buddhist and a strong cyclist and a conscientious inhabitant of the planet is overwhelming. Perhaps this is a natural byproduct of the reality that I truly do take those roles seriously and ethically. I'm pretty sure the material on the blog and the hours on the cushion emanate from sincere intent. This journey we call life matters to me.
I always reassure my clients that the distinction between thought, feeling and action is a crucial one. I don't tell the dumbasses they are dumbasses. Certainly, no dumbasses read my blog, so I am not worried about personally offending anyone with this post. Most of the time, I try to breathe and practice loving kindness. Summon some compassion, even when circumstances threaten to elicit its antithesis. These are the practices I will continue to cultivate. When they elude me, an occasional word purge at the keyboard will likely be my alternative coping mechanism.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Saturday, October 2, 2010
A Slit in My Umbrella
Man fixes some wonderful erection of his own between himself and the wild chaos, and gradually goes bleached and stifled under his parasol. Then comes a poet, enemy of convention, and makes a slit in the umbrella; and lo! the glimpse of chaos is a vision, a window to the sun. - D. H. Lawrence in the Zen calendar (May 6, 2002).
Day 242. I attended an open house and movie viewing at Nick's dojo this evening. It was invigorating on many levels. I still feel mildly nonplussed when I see more than five Buddhists gathered in one spot in Oklahoma. There were over 20 people in attendance tonight. Before the movie began, several individuals spoke about various activities held at the dojo. Several forms of meditative practices are held each week, including Japanese, Korean, and Tibetan traditions. It was remarkable to hear the teachers as they briefly described their practice. There was such implicit respect, collaboration, and cohesion across the disciplines. To my ear, a total absence of competition and ego. Inspiring. I am intrigued by the concept of interfaith corroboration. I suspect it is a prerequisite for healing the world.
The movie was titled David Whyte, Live in San Francisco. I am blown away. I can't fathom how I have gone this long with no exposure to David Whyte's poetry. He made a slit in my umbrella. More accurately, he blew it inside out and ripped it from my hands. After hearing him read from his poems, it feels blasphemous for me to type a single written word. Yet here I am. Stringing them together with utmost humility and painful self-consciousness of what a neophyte work-stringer I am.
Mr. Whyte spoke of Self and Awareness and Presence. He said we need to spend much more time in silence, and recommended that we say about three "No's" for every "Yes" we commit to. He drew parallels from nature. He reminded us to be merciful towards ourselves. These are standard ideas and practices in Buddhism, yet the words and gestures Mr. Whyte chose in their expression was astounding. It was more than his eloquence and lovely, mesmerizing gesticulations. He opened my soul and poured in clarity and comprehension in the exact ventricle where chaos clamors. How do poets DO that?!
I will be purchasing a collection of Mr. Whyte's poems in the near future because my soul still has chambers echoing with chaos. Read his works, and don't get too attached to your umbrella. Pulsating gratitude for the gifts of my practice (especially connecting with the dojo) is throbbing in my veins. I anticipate an unprecedented number of bows before I get my butt on my cushion.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 242. I attended an open house and movie viewing at Nick's dojo this evening. It was invigorating on many levels. I still feel mildly nonplussed when I see more than five Buddhists gathered in one spot in Oklahoma. There were over 20 people in attendance tonight. Before the movie began, several individuals spoke about various activities held at the dojo. Several forms of meditative practices are held each week, including Japanese, Korean, and Tibetan traditions. It was remarkable to hear the teachers as they briefly described their practice. There was such implicit respect, collaboration, and cohesion across the disciplines. To my ear, a total absence of competition and ego. Inspiring. I am intrigued by the concept of interfaith corroboration. I suspect it is a prerequisite for healing the world.
The movie was titled David Whyte, Live in San Francisco. I am blown away. I can't fathom how I have gone this long with no exposure to David Whyte's poetry. He made a slit in my umbrella. More accurately, he blew it inside out and ripped it from my hands. After hearing him read from his poems, it feels blasphemous for me to type a single written word. Yet here I am. Stringing them together with utmost humility and painful self-consciousness of what a neophyte work-stringer I am.
Mr. Whyte spoke of Self and Awareness and Presence. He said we need to spend much more time in silence, and recommended that we say about three "No's" for every "Yes" we commit to. He drew parallels from nature. He reminded us to be merciful towards ourselves. These are standard ideas and practices in Buddhism, yet the words and gestures Mr. Whyte chose in their expression was astounding. It was more than his eloquence and lovely, mesmerizing gesticulations. He opened my soul and poured in clarity and comprehension in the exact ventricle where chaos clamors. How do poets DO that?!
I will be purchasing a collection of Mr. Whyte's poems in the near future because my soul still has chambers echoing with chaos. Read his works, and don't get too attached to your umbrella. Pulsating gratitude for the gifts of my practice (especially connecting with the dojo) is throbbing in my veins. I anticipate an unprecedented number of bows before I get my butt on my cushion.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Friday, October 1, 2010
A Hush-Filled Speck of Time
We have to get quiet. We have to be still, and that's harder and harder in this century. - Jane Kenyon in the Zen Calendar (October 6, 2007).
Day 241. First of October. Could the weather be in any more glorious? (At least, in my little fragment of the galaxy!) My cycling legs have a mind of their own this week. A manic mind. Through all those torturous, heinously hot days during the summer in which I had to keep myself in check to avoid overheating, I must have been storing speed and stamina at the cellular level. In recent rides explosive bursts of energy radiate through my legs, making them churn the pedals like pistons on an ocean liner. I hope it keeps up. This would make for a heckuva mountain bike season!
Short blog tonight. While meditating over the past few days, I became aware that my grip has gradually been tightening on certain aspects of life. Starkly un-Zenlike. "Let go your hold!" may be my mantra over the next few days. There have been a few moments of "Just This!" during zazen recently. I believe these are sneak previews - sneaky and brief - of enlightenment. They are the most remarkable glimpses of a peacefulness that defies description. I do know this: it is definitely not a cerebral phenomena. There is simply a hush-filled glimmer of utterly, completely, and effortlessly occupying a singular speck of time. Sort of like a Hollywood version - larger than life - of dwelling in the here-and-now.
As if that weren't singularly incomprehensible, the sensation is accompanied by a sublimely ecstatic sense of, "How could I ever have thought there was anything wrong? All things are perfect, exactly as they are!" Within a second or two my Monkey Mind, to my great dismay, indubitably thunders in with all manner of reminders of suffering. Strange how my mind is so suspect of joy. Those sacred, fleeting time specks seem like something upon which I would want to linger.
I will close for now to be with a friend whose marriage is teetering on the brink. Regrettably, my Monkey Mind isn't the only reminder of suffering.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
Day 241. First of October. Could the weather be in any more glorious? (At least, in my little fragment of the galaxy!) My cycling legs have a mind of their own this week. A manic mind. Through all those torturous, heinously hot days during the summer in which I had to keep myself in check to avoid overheating, I must have been storing speed and stamina at the cellular level. In recent rides explosive bursts of energy radiate through my legs, making them churn the pedals like pistons on an ocean liner. I hope it keeps up. This would make for a heckuva mountain bike season!
Short blog tonight. While meditating over the past few days, I became aware that my grip has gradually been tightening on certain aspects of life. Starkly un-Zenlike. "Let go your hold!" may be my mantra over the next few days. There have been a few moments of "Just This!" during zazen recently. I believe these are sneak previews - sneaky and brief - of enlightenment. They are the most remarkable glimpses of a peacefulness that defies description. I do know this: it is definitely not a cerebral phenomena. There is simply a hush-filled glimmer of utterly, completely, and effortlessly occupying a singular speck of time. Sort of like a Hollywood version - larger than life - of dwelling in the here-and-now.
As if that weren't singularly incomprehensible, the sensation is accompanied by a sublimely ecstatic sense of, "How could I ever have thought there was anything wrong? All things are perfect, exactly as they are!" Within a second or two my Monkey Mind, to my great dismay, indubitably thunders in with all manner of reminders of suffering. Strange how my mind is so suspect of joy. Those sacred, fleeting time specks seem like something upon which I would want to linger.
I will close for now to be with a friend whose marriage is teetering on the brink. Regrettably, my Monkey Mind isn't the only reminder of suffering.
Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc
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