Snow Branches

Lifeless or Just Leafless?

2012-03-03T10:48:00.001-08:00

Slogging through a stretch of writer's block, it seems I'm bogged down in a quagmire of mental molasses, vainly hoping that monkey mind will pull me out.

Like that will ever happen.

Standing in the morass, weighed down by a bagful of ideas, it still seems inanely logical that if I think hard enough, I'll come up with the perfect post and be able to play the Get Out Of Bog Free card. If I could only dream up a profound subject and add just the right amount of righteous self-deprecation and a dash of humour, surely I could transform what would otherwise be drivel into a blogosphere classic.

Makes me think of the guy who said that in retirement he was going to take up chemistry and develop a process for converting expensive single malt whiskey into urine...

As my harshest critic, let me assure you that I have no intention of doing any such thing. At least, not on purpose. I'm going to patiently wait until, like a sculptor gazing at a block of stone, I see my next post beckoning to be liberated.

But while I'm waiting, there is one thing I just wanted to mention.

As the husband of a propagator of rescue plants, I'm no stranger to the angst of deciding whether a wretched creature that has lost all its leaves is going to make it or not.

More often than not (especially with my wife's touch) after exactly the right amount of time, leaf buds appear. By their own nature and in their own time, plants bud, wounds heal, broken hearts mend and writer's block dissolves.

Oh and just one other thing. When I lapse into judgmental mode, I often use the opening bud analogy to excuse all sorts of perceived deficiencies in others - you know, evolutionary felonies like promoting the death penalty and slavery, and all manner of misdemeanours ranging from smoking and needing to display wealth to being lazy in practice and judging others.

It's not that the analogy doesn't have merit - undeniably there are degrees of awareness, maturity and development. The image of a bud emphasizes the potential for growth. It puts an unspoken "yet" at the end of sentences like "S/He doesn't realize the value of self-forgiveness."

My problem is forgetting that I'm looking at a mirror. Your tightly closed bud is my tightly closed bud. After all, we are the same tree, aren't we? We will flower when the time is right.

Break open a cherry tree and there are no flowers,
But the spring breeze brings forth myriad blossoms.

- Ikkyu Sojun

Braid Station

2012-02-15T00:37:00.000-08:00

In the night air,
My breath drifted away
In the lights of the stairway
At Braid Station.
Remembering,
I turned to look at the place
Where, in his old truck,
My brother-in-law used to pick me up,
Cigarette considerately held out the window.
Garrulous. Opinionated.
Seriously Italian.
Our good-natured philosophical arguments
Went on for twenty years of late nights
At your kitchen table.
Too often,
On the patio you built,
You smoked and we talked.
You smiled at my sincerity,
Striving to shoehorn your thinking
Into a twenty-first century mold,
To embrace animal rights,
And to quit smoking.
I could never tell you anything, could I?
For you, family
Was more important than anything else.
But first your little cough, and then
Your oxygen bottle
Condemned me to the seer's curse.
Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form.
But you still died, dammit!
I turned back
And continued up the stairs
To wait on the windy platform
At Braid Station.

Homely as a Mud Fence

2012-02-03T02:10:00.000-08:00

Travelling in a car rather than taking public transit, you don't have to mingle tightly with people of different colours, cultures and smells. The problem is, you don't get to mingle tightly with people of different colours, cultures and smells.

In my earlier adult years, I had a habit of walking down the sidewalk and holding my breath as I passed people of different colours, cultures and smells, as well as disabled people, the elderly, and people that I just thought were odd, as if their otherness would contaminate me if I breathed their air.

Thankfully, that old demon has pretty much faded away, except when it comes back in other forms to give me a prod.

I remember an older relative's favourite put down being "She's as homely as a mud fence." Although it used to make me cringe, I don't think I ever had the guts to call him on it. More frequently than I like to admit, similar uninvited unkind thoughts bubble up when I meet a face that will never be on the cover of Cosmopolitan.

I wonder how many young women have mastered the art of smiling only with their mouths but not with their eyes in order to delay the onset of one of my very favourite features of the human anatomy: crow's feet wrinkles.

We seem to have an irresistible urge to appear young and attractive, although I suspect our fear of looking old, or being thought of as old, is really a fear of being old, i.e. mortal.

The cosmetics companies, having hired the very brightest consultants and psychologists, know precisely how to manipulate us.

Use our product and you will look like, and then become, this glamour model. People will swarm after and swoon over you. Don't use our product and you will remain ugly, or at best, plain, and people will spurn you, or at best, ignore you. They will swarm after and swoon over the Beautiful People, but you will remain unnoticed, unloved, and alone.

So many of us, at some level, believe the sad fairy tale. We spend the money and buy the products and then spend years of our lives in front of a mirror perfecting our appearance because it's normal and necessary. Unfortunately, since we only believe the myth on one level, on another, we know it's a lie.

Although we sing the tune I'm beautiful, the tune I'm frumpy, I'm dumpy, I'm pudgy, I'm fat plays in the background and follows us out into our lives. Too often, the tale ends in depression, anorexia, bulimia, family breakups, addiction to alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling, and in suicide.

This is probably only the visible tip of an iceberg of unhappiness. While not clinically depressed, how many feel beaten down by the culture of beauty paraded by the seemingly self-confident? How much are you and I responsible? What can we do about it?

Next time we encounter an 'ugly' face, rather than turn away, if we look closer, we may discover a very kind person, only thinly disguised, looking back. Someone different in appearance but in nature so familiar that we ask, "Why do I know this person?" Then we go home and look in the mirror.

Knock on a thousand doors

The same familiar friend

Answers each one

Unification Anxiety and Nonduality Terrors

2012-01-25T22:00:00.000-08:00

You're losing your grip on reality. Your identity is in doubt, slipping through your fingers like sand. You compulsively grasp at anything within reach as you spiral into dreams from which you may not awaken, in which your separate existence is also a dream. You have a strong feeling that your secret is about to be exposed, but you don't know what your secret is.

Is this the beginning of a descent into madness or dementia? It could be, but you know what it really is.

A monstrous truth lurks just below the surface. When you drop your guard and doze off, you awaken with a jolt, terrified. You shout, "I do exist, I do exist! I think, therefore I am! The more I think, the more I am, so I shall think and think and think!"

Shiva the Destroyer, one hand in 'fear not' mudra

To escape the growing feeling of dread, you overshop, overeat, overspeak, overact over anything that will bolster your crumbling sense of being a separate and distinct entity unconnected to anything else. You seek respite in the distraction of adventure novels and science fiction movies. But even there, images and words remind you and frighten you.

"I am Locutus of Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."

Submerged, you look up and see the surface of the water from below. On the other side is yourself, enjoying the warmth of a sunny day, smiling in the blossoming awareness of interdependence. Below, your painstakingly constructed personal identity fabricated over a lifetime, begins to come to terms with its illusory and temporary nature like a wave on the ocean.

As we unfold, may we be considerate of the part of us which literally fears for its life, and be understanding of its desperate and sometimes destructive attempts to cling to a separate identity.

May we practice and be kind.

May we take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma and the beloved Sangha.

The Rescue of Dallas and Austin

2012-01-20T02:15:00.000-08:00

Austin surveying the snow - we're definitely not in Texas anymore.

This is just a little adventure story.

2006 had a sad beginning. Both of my wife's parents passed away three days apart. Her very dear friend died after suffering a head injury. And Duke died.

Duke was our elderly springer spaniel. His litter-mate, Duchess, had been put down a year earlier. For the previous ten years, they were our constant companions and our daughter's playmates. Duke's departure left a big hole in our lives.

It wasn't long before my wife began combing the internet and found English Springer Rescue America. There were hundreds of springers up for adoption all over North America, but only a few available pairs. We narrowed these down to a couple of boys, Austin and Dallas, of Dallas, Texas.

As rescue situations went, theirs was far better than most. They had been well treated, but their humans were splitting up and moving into smaller premises and neither could take take the dogs.

We started to correspond with Lori, the dogs' mum. So that they would recognize me, Lori suggested I send a 'snapshot' of myself, in the form of an old t-shirt. For the benefit of US Customs, the package was labeled: "This envelope contains one used t-shirt (no monetary value). Sender will be visiting addressee on November 4, 2006 to adopt 2 spaniel dogs. T-shirt is to acquaint dogs with sender before arrival."

To get from Victoria to Dallas, I took the Coho, a Washington State ferry, from Victoria to Port Angeles and drove to the Sea-Tac airport near Seattle. Because I arrived in the evening and was catching a morning flight out, I just slept in the parkade in the back of our station wagon.

I arrived at Dallas-Fort Worth and checked into a motel. Beth, the dogs' 'social worker' from the agency, drove me across town to meet Lori and the dogs. Whether they recognized me from my 'snapshot' or were just friendly, I'm not sure, but when I arrived, Austin and Dallas ate me alive. Although Lori was clearly glad that we got along so well, I was sure she was dying inside, trying not to think about saying goodbye in the morning.

The flight would be leaving at 7 a.m., and because I was transporting dogs, I was supposed to arrive at the airport by 5 a.m. Which meant I had to be at Lori's around 3 a.m. Which meant I had to get up around 1 a.m. for Beth to pick me up at 2 a.m.

My cell phone alarm went off at 1 a.m. and I groggily had a shower, got dressed, packed, went downstairs, checked out, turned in my key to a rather puzzled desk clerk, and went outside to wait for Beth. For some reason, I glanced through the lobby window and noticed that the wall clock said 11:45. I don't recall exactly what I said, but WTF??? comes to mind. After the clerk confirmed that the clock was right, I sheepishly asked if I could check back in for a couple of hours. Evidently, my not so smart phone re-set the time to PST thinking I was still in British Columbia.

At Lori's, the goodbyes were as heart wrenching as I had feared. We loaded Dallas and Austin into their large brand new crates in the back of Beth's van while Lori tried unsuccessfully to keep a brave face. I gave her a big hug and promised to look after her boys.

After the plane landed at Sea-Tac, a porter and I trundled the surprisingly cheerful dogs in their crates on trolleys out to the parkade, only to discover that evidently, not so smart Dave had neglected to check some important measurements. There was no way the crates would fit into the station wagon. We had to take them apart and nest the four halves together, and let Dallas and Austin loose inside the car.

Although I politely asked the boys to stay in the back seat, they weren't having any of it, and insisted on keeping me company in the front. In fact, Dallas insisted on sitting on my lap and trying to drive, which made for an interesting trip up Interstate 5. By the time we reached the ferry, we had bonded nicely.

On the Coho, the dogs were rather subdued. I don't know if they were missing their mum, or whether it was just the strangeness of the smell of the salt air and a floor that moved.

When we got home, the dogs ran inside and immediately ate not only my wife but also my daughter alive, confirming that they found us to be satisfactory, and the big hole in our lives was instantly filled.

We corresponded with Lori to let her know how the boys were doing, and sent her some photos of them doing what they love most.

Running when it's sunny

Running when it's rainy

Running when it's snowy

After running

Dallas watching Patsy Cline - Austin not so much...

Take a Bow

2012-01-08T00:15:00.000-08:00

Leonard Cohen at the 2011 Prince of Asturias Awards Ceremony (watch video)

The audience, only moments ago transfixed by a flawless performance, erupts. Cheers and whistles punctuate the applause. Everyone stands up, unspoken message clear: "We are honoured by your performance and appreciate you from the bottom of our hearts!"

The performer, hand over heart, bows deeply, unspoken message clear: "I am honoured by your response and appreciate you from the bottom of my heart!"

Performer and audience, their previous actions so different, yet in that moment, in their hearts, so similar, perhaps even identical.

Did something in one, recognize and bow to itself in the other? But what bows?

The present moment is continually unfolding. As life evolves, awareness of self and other, and self in other, emerges. Life bows to life.

Of course, these are only thoughts and words. What actions will bring them to life? Well, yes, bowing to each other, but what I had in mind was manifesting respect in our lives. Respect what? Literally everything. With our every thought and action. Just another never-ending chore - you know, like liberating every last sentient being. One moment at at time.

Respect for little things like keeping the floor swept. Respect for all of creation by diligently attending to our daily practice. Respect for the person behind by holding the door open. Respect for our bodies by giving them healthy food and exercise. Respect for nothing in particular by whistling a happy tune.

One of my favourite Zen personalities is Kosho Uchiyama Roshi, author of Opening the Hand of Thought, former abbot of Antaiji, disciple of Homeless Kodo Sawaki.

This was Uchiyama Roshi's final poem, completed on the last day of his life.

Just Bow

Putting my right and left hands together as one, I just bow.
Just bow to become one with Buddha and God.
Just bow to become one with everything I encounter.
Just bow to become one with all the myriad things.
Just bow as life becomes life.

Before I sign off, I'd like to put in a plug for Why Do Buddhists Bow? posted last year by Seth Segall over at his terrific blog The Existential Buddhist.

Music Hath Charms

2012-01-01T18:42:00.000-08:00

Some things are just a big mystery to me. Music is one of them. How vibrations in the air that move your eardrum can completely change your mood boggles my mind.

Here are a few YouTube clips that made an impression on me. Some are a bit lengthy, but you can get the gist of them in the first minute.

The first clip makes me think of the cybersangha practising together all around the world.

The second clip is a graphical representation of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. It's hard to imagine that one person is playing all those notes. Apparently both hands and both feet are required.

If you're feeling a bit down, a little bluegrass might raise your mood a notch - especially Earl Scruggs and friends playing Foggy Mountain Breakdown.

If that music didn't make you smile, perhaps this might... OK maybe the image helps too...

The last clip is Suo Gan, a Welsh lullaby that was made popular by the movie Empire of the Sun. I don't know if music can make you feel compassion, but this one must come close.

On that 'note', warm wishes for a harmonious New Year!

And Now We Are One: Thanks From a New Kid on the Blog

2011-12-30T06:00:00.000-08:00

The title could suggesta celebration of the emptiness of our form, but it just means that SnowBranches is one year old today.

A year and a day or soago, I wasn't totally sure what a blog was or whether I'd even read one. Acouple of friends in the 'other' world had encouraged me to share my thoughts,and blogging seemed logical. After a bit of exploring with Google andclicking around user-friendly Blogger, the site was up and running.

Snow Branches was thetitle of a tiny collection of poems I wrote five years earlier andcirculated by e-mail to all of half a dozen friends and relatives. I kept thetitle because I couldn't think of a better one. The photo is a bush outside thefront door.

A few writing rules took shape: Listen to your heart - you head's too sneaky; If you wouldn't read it, chuck it; No BS; Yes, acknowledging your humanity is uncomfortable - get over it; Try not to cause toomuch damage; For god's sake attenuate your proclivity for polysyllabery.

A year later, I'vebeen honoured by 9,300 visits from about 75 countries. I know these aren'thuge numbers for the first year of a blog, but my socks are officially knockedoff. Thank you so much.

Although I don't usually subject my clients to the blog, Google is merciless. I was on thephone to a new client who was looking me up while we spoke. She asked, "Oh,are you the Buddhist poet?" I muttered, "...er, well..." She said,"I just love those little poems - what do they call them?""...er, haiku, but I don't count the syllables..." Thankfully theconversation meandered back to her case.

The blog is mostly aboutkindness, and it has been nurtured by the kindness of so many, for whichI'm deeply grateful: the generous encouragement of other bloggers who havewelcomed me into the family, and the kind retweets, mentions and likes by thebeloved Twitter people and Facebook friends.

Specialthanks to everyone who left comments. You know who you are.

Incase you don't, here are your names linked to your blogs: Andressa,Anonymous, Barry, Bea,Caine,Carole,Charity,Darragh, Dawid, Debra,Elizabeth, Elliott, Herb,James, Jeff,Jess,Jomon,Julie, Kara,Karina,Kate, Kathy, Kel, Kellie,Kyle,Lola,Lynette,Maia,Marguerite,MTK,Nishant,Nancy,Nicola, Rizal, Scott, Stream_enterer,Sue, Susan, Tara,Thane, TMC and Wendy.

And to the person who drove onto my blog on a Google searchlooking for "luckybeard bonali mediafire", I hope you find whatyou're looking for. Please feel free to come back any time and stay for a cup of tea!

Image courtesy of http://www.birthday-clip-art.com

What? What?

2011-12-23T16:38:00.000-08:00

I just figured out why, despite his outrageously politically incorrect opinions, I'm so fond of Archie Bunker. He had a kind heart, and he was absolutely genuine.

Other than his own, no nationality, ethnic group (including hippies), race, religion, sexual orientation or social class was spared. Sometimes he would lambaste several at once, as when he called England a "fag country" because of the upper class accents. Coming from anyone else, the bigoted things he said would be offensive in the extreme. Coming from him, somehow they weren't.

You don't scold an infant for grabbing and breaking your necklace. It's what they do, with no thought of causing harm. Tell Archie Bunker he's a bigot and he won't have a clue what you're talking about.

Some years ago, I went to a restaurant with a charming elderly gentleman and his grown up daughters. I knew that the lady serving us was in fact the new owner-manager and told him so. He looked up at her with a big smile and said, after thinking How could a mere woman own a restaurant?, "Good for you!" When we hung our heads in embarrassment, some with our hands to our foreheads, like Archie, he said, "What? What?"

Over the Christmas season, I found myself quick to criticize (in my head) kindly people at dinner parties, talking about peace and goodwill while gnawing on body parts of murdered animals. Sorry - I'm starting to rant...

I think another reason I like Archie's well-meaning cluelessness is that I know I'm looking in the mirror. It feels like I'm, for the most part, genuine and kind-hearted. But an oblivious person by definition doesn't realize s/he is oblivious. Since I'm not aware of everything, I must be oblivious too.

Something to work on.

Oh dear - I feel a joke coming on.

A blind man walks into a bar, and says loudly, "Hey do you guys wanna hear a blonde joke?" The bartender says, "Sir, I realize you are blind, so I am making an allowance here, but I am female, and a blonde. Also, the two ladies beside you are professional wrestlers, and they are blondes. And the two ladies behind you are Hell's Angels, and they are blondes. Are you sure you still want to tell that blonde joke?" The blind man said, "Nah, I don't want to have to explain it five times."

You Must Forgive Them All

2011-12-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

You must forgive them all; for though their hearts are faithful,

to face fear ... is not what they were made for.
Tom Bombadil

Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela

Recently, I saw The Way, a beautiful movie about a father who, after the death of his son, finished his son's journey walking the Camino de Santiago, the pilgrimage route of Saint James that ends at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

When he arrived, the camera began to take the movie audience inside, and I had the strange sensation of really not wanting to go any further. I recognized that I was having strong feelings of judgmental anger towards the Roman Catholic Church.

The enormous cathedral, with all its ornaments and statues, was a monument to the horrific abuse of power that it had wielded over the centuries. Its wretched victims came to mind: the heretics burned for their beliefs, the tens of thousands of innocents executed for witchcraft in Europe and the American Colonies, the men and women tortured during the Inquisition, the victims of the Crusades, and the countless trusting children sexually abused by monks and priests all over the world.

The movie rolled on, but I was frozen in that moment, hating, and not comprehending, the monsters who were capable of such cruelty.

It dawned on me how completely the road ahead was blocked. Until I forgave them all, I would never advance another step. It was clear to me that I not only had to forgive them - I also had to love and unreservedly embrace each one of them as if my own child, in fact, as myself, because as uncomfortable as it was to acknowledge, each one was myself.

Sitting there in the theatre, I did forgive them. It felt like a weight had been lifted, and I watched the rest of the movie a bit stunned, but at peace.

Of course, that isn't the end of the story.

A few days later, I went to a choir concert where I knew some of the singers. I noticed that I felt resentment towards a couple of them for one reason or another. Turning the love light on them, as I watched them sing, they transformed from people I avoided, into people I cherish.

There are many that I have not forgiven, hidden away in my forgetfulness. I need to seek them out in the dark corners of the hall and invite them onto the dance floor for a hug and a lively polka, and in the joy of the dance, forgive myself as well, for harbouring resentments for so long.

Shall we dance?

Seven Links - Browsing through the Branches

2011-12-02T23:43:00.000-08:00

I was encouraged to write this post by Lynette over at 108 Zen Books, who was encouraged to write 7 links - how to appreciate yourself by Carole over at ZenDotStudio, who was similarly encouraged to write Wandering Down Memory Lane (My 7 Links) by what must be a long lineage of introspecting bloggers that may have started here.

Here are the rules. Bloggers named in a "7 Link" blog are encouraged to list seven of their posts that fit these categories:

1. Most beautiful
2. Most popular
3. Most controversial
4. Most helpful
5. Most surprisingly successful
6. Most neglected
7. The post that makes you most proud

Then they nominate five other bloggers to do the same.

This is not easy. Brain immediately offers divers reasons why not to do it: (a) It's an ego trip. (b) Who cares what I think about my posts? (c) It's like picking which of your children you love most. (d) Choosing 5 bloggers will offend everyone else or hurt their feelings. (e) I should be writing something meaningful (f) Blah blah blah. Hmm - these are sounding pretty persuasive...

OK, if Lynette and Carole survived, I guess I'll give it a go.

Most beautiful
As in beautiful phenomenon (not beautiful writing!). I picked An Ancient Tree Blooms: The Awakening of Compassion because I can't think of anything more beautiful than that.

Most popular
That's easy. Mindful Blindness: A Rant Against Speciesism got about four times more hits than any other. That's really heartwarming.

Most controversial
My posts haven't generated much debate, except for Do Bodhisattvas Go To Heaven? (See the last four comments - an altercation I seem to have incited with a comment over at The Zennist)

Most helpful
(to me) The Oak Tree in the Garden is a short piece about realizing that my need to feel like I'm making a difference is misplaced. What I really need is just to fearlessly plow ahead with all I've got. Where? I have absolutely no idea.

Most surprisingly successful
I didn't expect Car 16: A Reminiscence to climb so fast. It must have been the funny conversation at the end.

Most neglected
Who Are These Faithful Friends? Not the least visited, but my first. I still marvel at how the animals that we know the most intimately are the victims of such mindless abuse. Who are they? Here's a hint: they are wearing our clothes.

The post that makes you most proud
This is cheating, but I'm not going to play favourites. Some Poems, Some More Poems, Another Batch of Poems and Poems Batch 4. I don't think proud is the right word, but I kind of like some of them.

Enough about me. I've been trying to think of criteria that will fairly yield about five bloggers without stooping to favouritism (or sadism, depending on how you view it....). Most frequent commenters seems to work. Without further ado, here they are: (now ducking for cover, maybe never to come back...) Tara at Out of the Lotus, Bea at PROVOKED, Kellie at off-peak, Susan at Sincerity, Cleanliness & Good Presentation and Karina at Senshin. I'll pass on the note that was passed to me: please don't feel obligated in any way to play - you didn't put your name in the hat, so I hope you just do whatever feels right. Just reading your blogs is good enough for me.

Well, Dave, that wasn't so hard, was it? Yes, Dave, it was.

Car 16 - A Reminiscence

2011-11-23T21:57:00.000-08:00

Looking back, most of my 62 years have been a gradually changing landscape, except for the times when I just dropped what I was doing and took up something completely different.

The first time was in the late '70's part way through a PhD in biochemistry. I still don't really know why I quit, but I spent the next three years working in a plywood mill figuring out what to do next.

To alleviate the boredom, I took up singing lessons and practiced at work, where my melodic warbling was drowned out by the loud machines. Not entirely, it seems, as I remember some wiseass up on a catwalk hollering down asking if I was calling out for first aid. In the end, I left the mill and went into law school.

Most recently, I tried to retire from law and took a job in a microbiology lab. Compared to law practice, I had a pretty idyllic life looking after the typhoid, cholera and pneumonia collections. Sherlock Holmes in retirement on the Sussex downs tending his beehives. But after a couple of years, my two favourite lawyers from the old firm started their own shop and asked me to join them, so my valiant attempt to be a recovering lawyer happily ended in a relapse.

Both of those detours were deliberate. But there was one that took me by surprise: a burnout. I wrote about it in When I Fell. That was like stumbling into a pothole.

Casting around for something to do, I ended up driving the night shift for a taxi company. At first, I was dealing with self-created shame because I had 'failed' to keep my act together as a lawyer, but when I look back now, those two years as a cabbie were golden.

Driving alone to pick up a fare, I could practice being mindful, waiting for a trip was a chance to meditate, but best of all, transporting customers was a never-ending lesson in kindness.

One of my regular fares was a 'working girl' who also happened to be a heroin addict. I was touched that she would take long cab rides to the hospital to visit her husband, whose foot had been amputated because of diabetes. She wore her best clothes to look pretty for him and insisted on introducing me. They obviously cared for each other and somehow, her occupation didn't seem to be an issue for him.

I didn't see her for a few weeks, but when I finally did, she seemed subdued. Her husband had died. She told me she had gone to a native ceremony held for him and found much comfort in it. She asked me if I could possibly take her on a $5 trip but only charge her $4. All I could say was "No, but I'll take you there for nothing."

One evening I drove a lady to church. She suffered from a mental disorder of some kind and spent the whole trip talking to herself, rummaging frantically through her purse looking for $2 for the offering. When we arrived at the church, she paid the fare with a coupon and rather bleakly started to get out. As she did, I asked her if she would mind doing me a favour. She gave me a puzzled look as I gave her a $2 coin and asked if she would please put it in the collection plate for me. Her face lit up like the sun and she said yes, she would! I thanked her very much.

In due course, things changed. A door opened and I walked into a law office and sat down behind the desk. I have many fond memories of those years. Some conversations I will never forget.

DA: Car 16.
Dispatch: Go ahead, Car 16.
DA: My rear end is making a weird noise.
Dispatch: Say again?
DA: ... er, the car's that is...
Dispatch: Glad you cleared that up, 16.

Straight From the Heart (Sutra)

2011-11-09T21:50:00.000-08:00

One of the most beloved figures in Buddhist cosmology is thebodhisattva of compassion Avalokiteśvara, who hears and responds to the criesof all sentient beings. In some countries and cultures s/he is considered to bemale, and in others, female. In Chinashe is the goddess Kuan Yin (Guanyin; in Japanese, Kannon). In Tibetan Buddhism, each Dalai Lama is hisreincarnation.

The Heart Sutra may be the best-known and most popular of theBuddhist sutras. It describes the bodhisattvaof compassion's liberating insight gained while engaged in deep meditation.

Statueof Kannon at Daien-in Temple, Japan

Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva … clearly saw that … form is no other thanemptiness, emptiness no other than form; form is exactly emptiness, emptinessexactly form; sensation, perception, mental reaction, consciousness are alsolike this. … all things are essentially empty - not born, not destroyed ...Therefore in emptiness there is no form, no sensation, perception, mentalreaction, consciousness; no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind, no color,sound, smell, taste, touch, object of thought; ... no ignorance and also noending of ignorance, ... no old age and death, and also no ending of old ageand death; no anguish, cause of anguish, cessation, path; no wisdom and noattainment. Since there is nothing to attain, the Bodhisattva lives by [the perfection of wisdom], with no hindrance in the mind; no hindrance and therefore no fear;far beyond delusive thinking, right here is Nirvana.

When you refer to yourself, where do you instinctively point - to your heart or to your head?

Straight from the heart: we know what this means without thinking.

Kind words spoken - direct, sincere, unrehearsed.

Acompassionate act - complete before the brain has a chance to modify or muddle.

Straight from the heart: without fear, far beyond delusive thinking.

Right here is Nirvana.

The excerpt is from Robert Aitken's translation of the Heart Sutra.
The top photo is the rather sad looking stump of a sidewalk tree in North Vancouver.

Poems Batch 4

2011-10-29T17:50:00.000-07:00

Hereare a few new poems and some old ones gathered from other posts.

Gazing at the child

That inhabits

Your sleeping face

~~~

Throughthe window, winter

Afalling snowflake

Shakesthe house

~~~

The Waterfall

Chaosand bedlam

Nodroplet misplaced

Pandemonium

Cacophony

Everysplash harmony

Eventhe moment

Ofthunderous impact

Silentwater

Givessilent birth

Tosilent spray

Thewaterfall

Is thewater

Is therocks

Is thetrees

Thewaterfall

Writesthis

Readsthis

Is this

Is just

A waterfall

~~~

Takeheart!

Everymoment

Asecond chance

~~~

Mycowardice is in vain

Thereis nowhere

To hide

~~~

Paddlingdown the rapids

No timeto reflect

Onskilful strokes

~~~

In adreamless sleep

TheRocky Mountains

Strideacross the prairies

~~~

Countlesscries

Onevoice

Can’tignore

~~~

Who isasking this question?

Whatwants to know?

Anancient tree blooms

~~~

Thinkingabout thinking about thinking

Rippleson the pond

Wherethe frog jumped in

~~~

When Ifell

Youstopped

To helpme up

~~~

Morning stretch

Reach out

And touch the moon

You can find other poems at Some Poems, Some More Poems and Another Batch of Poems

Homecoming

2011-10-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of Marjon Hollander

No matter how far you have gone down the wrong road, turn back!

~ Turkish proverb

Twice in the past week, dharma friends have told me they are making changes in their lives partly because of reading this blog. The first time it happened, I was humbled; the second time was like being hit by a sandbag. Perhaps I was overreacting, but I got choked up and mildly terrified at the same time.

The idea of returning home as an aspect of practice had been percolating on the back burner for a while. Last week just pushed it to the front.

I think of it as coming back to a path or a state from which we have strayed. Not that straying is necessarily bad - we are the sum total of our strayings, and a little wiser for each one.

Returning home can range between a minor course correction, as in mindfulness practice or zazen when we return to the the present from a daydream, and a 180 degree life-changing about face.

The variations are endless. Here are a few that occurred to me, in no particular order:

walking past someone in distress, then going back to help
saying "I'm sorry"
letting go of a grudge
forgiving a debt
doing or saying something kind that you have been putting off, no matter how belated it is
returning something you stole
forgiving yourself, no matter what you did
quitting smoking
allowing yourself to cry
deciding to eat a healthy or ethical diet
cuddling after a fight
coming out
deciding to watch TV, then changing your mind and going for a walk
picking up litter you dropped
going into rehab or an AA meeting
sitting down to meditate after deciding to go to bed
asking for help when you don't want to

Each time, our two old friends, the fruits of practice: wisdom and compassion, seem to play a part. Wisdom to realize we have strayed, and compassion to motivate us with the courage to make the change.

The distance we go down wrong roads varies. There is a saying in recovery circles that some people realize they are riding on a garbage truck, figure out where it's going, and jump off, while others ride it all the way to the end. I suspect that as our practices progress, the distances we tend to stray before returning will become shorter, and more and more, we will see a road leading the wrong way, and just pass it up.

I'm avoiding Zen questions like "are we not home already?" or venturing into places where words don't belong, but I do have a question:

So long as one sentient being is suffering, can we ever truly be home?

Smart People on Dumb Animals

2011-10-07T23:33:00.000-07:00

I've already told you whatI think about how we treat ourmute cousins.

Here is what some really great minds had to say:

Abraham Lincoln:

I am in favor of animal rights as well as human rights. That isthe way of a whole human being.

Thomas Edison:

Non-violence leads to the highest ethics, which is the goal of allevolution. Until we stop harming all other living beings, we are still savages.

Mohandas Gandhi:

To my mind, the life of a lamb is no less precious than that of ahuman being. I should be unwilling to take the life of a lamb for the sake ofthe human body.

Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy:

A human can be healthy without killing animals forfood. Therefore if he eats meat he participates in taking animallife merely for the sake of his appetite.

Albert Schweitzer:

There slowly grew up in me an unshakable conviction that we haveno right to inflict suffering and death on another living creature, unlessthere is some unavoidable necessity for it.

Leonardo da Vinci:

The time will come when men such as I will look upon the murder ofanimals as they now look on the murder of men.

Henry David Thoreau:

I have no doubt that it is part of the destiny of the human race,in its gradual improvement, to leave off eating animals, as surely asthe savage tribes have left off eating each other when they came in contactwith each other.

Albert Einstein:

Nothing will benefit human health and increase chances forsurvival of life on Earth as much as the evolution to a vegetarian diet.

Ralph Waldo Emerson:

You have just dined, and however scrupulously the slaughterhouseis concealed in the graceful distance of miles, there is complicity.

Plutarch:

But for the sake of some little mouthful of meat, we deprive asoul of the sun and light, and of that proportion of life and time it had beenborn into the world to enjoy.

Plato:

The gods created certain kinds of beings to replenish our bodiesthey are the trees and the plants and the seeds.

Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple:

The animals of the world exist for their own reasons. They werenot made for humans any more than blacks were made for whites, or women for men.

Cardinal John Henry Newman:

Cruelty to animals is as if humans did not love God.

Sir Paul McCartney:

If slaughterhouses had glass walls, everyone would be a vegetarian.

Sir Ian McKellen:

Although he's a vegetarian, I couldn't find any quotes by him on thesubject. This one will have to do instead: "I'm Gandalf and Magneto- get over it!"

Franz Kafka:

Now I can look at you in peace; I don’t eat you anymore.

George Bernard Shaw:

Animals are my friends... and I don't eat my friends.

Fred Rogers:

I don't want to eat anything that has a mother.

And on thesubject of kindness to animals, let's not forget to be kind to theoften mistreated animal wearing our clothes!

Pen Pals and Kindness in the Cybersangha

2011-09-18T13:06:00.000-07:00

My father and mother met as pen pals during the war. Dad was in North Africa rebuilding things that had been blown up. Mum was in a bunker in England plotting the location of incoming bombers. Both of them painted watercolours.

It seems a group of the ladies started it, each writing a little about themselves in a batch of letters delivered to the boys overseas.

Someone with a stack of letters came into my dad's camp and said, "Harry, this one must be for you - she paints too." And so began a very sweet exchange of letters that lasted until Dad took a posting in England to be closer to Mum. The only catch was he had to dig up unexploded bombs! Happily, none went off, the war ended, and they married soon after.

As a newcomer to the cybersangha, I at first thought this was the crest of a new wave of spreading compassion, a fresh way for bodhicitta to manifest in the wonderful world of our evolving appreciation of our interdependence - Indra's Net on the internet.

I still believe this, however the idea is certainly not new.

In the 1994 Summer issue of Tricycle, Gary L. Ray wrote:

"There's nothing lonelier than a Buddhist in Alabama" is the kind of comment I hear from many Buddhists who live in outlying regions of North America where their sangha is small or nonexistent and information about Buddhist practice and philosophy is scarce. By tapping into computer networks, however, geographic isolation can be overcome. This rapidly expanding "cybersangha" provides support and community for Buddhists around the world. From your home, you can now send a message to anyone (who has a computer, a modem, and a telephone line) within seconds, and usually at the cost of a local phone call.

Old or new, I am constantly touched by the kindness and generosity of those who take the time to write in cyberspace, from little tweets of sympathy for a personal loss, to words of wisdom and encouragement in widely read blogs by practitioners like Marguerite Manteau-Rao, exhortations to compassionate action by socially engaged Buddhists like Maia Duerr, online sermons from our Unitarian Universalist Zen friends James Ford Roshi and Meredith Garmon, and online journal posts by Lewis Richmond and Joan Halifax Roshi, to name only a very, very few. Online meditation communities, like the Online Meditation Crew (#OMCru on Twitter) have sprung up to bridge the gaps of distance and disablility. The Buddhist blogs listed in my blogroll (over 100 at last count) are surely just the tip of a much greater iceberg.

Whatever we call our practice, may it flourish, spreading the wonderful mystery that is kindness, one link at a time.

Another Batch of Poems

2011-09-11T11:22:00.000-07:00

Surrounded, and rather overwhelmed, by the media coverage of the 9/11 anniversary, I put up a few more poems, some posted elsewhere and some new, as a little oasis from the storm.

Tiger eats the strawberry
Cliff eats the tiger
Strawberry eats the cliff

~~~

Crabs in a tank
Money to the clerk
Crab in the sea

~~~

Knock on a thousand doors
The same familiar face
Answers each one

~~~

Orchid
The moon
Pointing to a finger

~~~

An old tree
Sharing a moment
Cheek to bark

~~~

Smiling eyes meet
Waves bow
A cow is spared

~~~

Reflection
Connection
Affection

~~~

Fearlessly unfolding
Destination unknown
The oak tree in the garden

~~~

You and I
High five
One hand claps

~~~

From the wood
Of the table top
My face looks out

~~~

Leaves of thought
Bud, flourish and fall
In an eyeblink

~~~

Round cushions
Square mats
Kind hearts

You can find other poems at Some Poems, Some More Poems and Poems Batch 4.

The Demon Whisperers

2011-08-25T20:38:00.000-07:00

Saint Anthony of Egypt lived in the second half of the third century. At 34, he gave away his belongings and became a Christian ascetic. He spent the next 13 years in Wadi El Natrun, a harsh alkali desert. Although he actually sought out martyrdom, he ended up living to be 105.

His teachings were recorded in Sayings of the Desert Fathers. Here is one of them:

Abbot Pastor said: If a man has done wrong and does not deny it, but says: I did wrong, do not rebuke him, because you will break the resolution of his soul. And if you tell him: Do not be sad, brother, but watch it in the future, you stir him up to change his life.

Here's another:

Abba Theophilus, the archbishop, came to Scetis one day. The brethren who were assembled said to Abba Pambo, 'Say something to the Archbishop, so that he may be edified.' The old man said to them, 'If he is not edified by my silence, he will not be edified by my speech.'

This last one is a little reminiscent of Case 1 from the Blue Cliff Record, in which Emperor Wu of Liang asked the great master Bodhidharma, "What is the first principle of the holy teaching?" Bodhidharma said, "Vast emptiness, nothing holy." The Emperor asked, "Who stands before me?" Bodhidharma said, "I don't know."

Enter the demons. (I was tempted to caption the painting - by Michelangelo when he was only 12 or 13 - "Just Another Day At the Office"...)

The Torment of Saint Anthony (Michelangelo, c. 1488)

The story is that Saint Anthony was besieged by demons in the form of evil thoughts, boredom, laziness and phantoms of women and wild beasts. On one occasion, when beset by a group of demons apparently about to attack him, he laughed at them and pointed out that if they were truly powerful, it should only take one to fight him, whereupon they left him alone. For awhile.

John Nash, who won the 1994 Nobel Prize in Economics (and whose story is told in the 2001 movie, A Beautiful Mind) suffered from schizophrenia for most of his adult life. His demons were hallucinations. Ultimately, he had to choose between taking anti-psychotic drugs and suffering their mind-numbing side effects, or living with his disease. He chose the latter, and is shown in the movie in his later years as a university professor, walking among people on campus, knowing that most of them are real, but recognizing and not interacting with those who are not.

This scene made a lasting impression on me, because it brought home the fact that no matter how skillful I may eventually become in my practice, I should be prepared to live alongside my demons for the foreseeable future. To name a couple, my tendency to procrastinate and avoid (which I touched on in When I Fell) have dogged me for a very long time. I've come to recognize that they both arise out of fear that bubbles up when I forget my connection with everything, which is to say, 99.9% of the time.

Pretending we don't have demons is silly. But I do it all the time. I know as I continue to practice (when I don't put it off...), I get braver, and on rare occasions, downright bold! But the demons are never far away, and the best I can do, at least for now, is to acknowledge them, occasionally give them a little cuddle or a scratch behind their pointy ears, and then return to the matter at hand.

Over at her wonderful blog ZenDotStudio, Carole posted a charming account of attending a retreat led by Gil Fronsdal and his description of the compassionate and gentle approach taken by the Japanese government to their soldiers who were discovered after 25 years still believing they were at war, and suggesting that we "do the same for our fears, our anxieties, our habitual tendencies that no longer serve us well."

Bows of gratitude to the skillful demon whisperers who have gone before.

New Year's Day

2011-08-20T23:30:00.000-07:00

Why is New Year's Eve such a popular time for celebration and gathering? Why are so many resolutions to change for the better made on New Year's Day?

When midnight strikes, the year has a brand new number, and the month, day, hour and second are rolled back to 1.

The moment is also special because it is shared by so many - everyone using the Gregorian calendar in the same time zone, and within 24 hours, the whole world.

A fresh page is turned, a new book opened at the beginning, a brand new diary started, an empty canvas is placed on the easel.

In the innocent purity of the moment, we stand like little children on our doorsteps, about to embark on our first journey to school. When nothing is yet started, everything is possible.

But that isn't the whole story, is it? In fact, everything is already started, and what we perceive as the present moment, as distinct from the past and the future, is just a mental construct, like the illusion that a candle flame is a fixed "thing".

Heat melts the wax, capillary action draws it up the wick, heat vapourizes and ignites it, creating new flame, which in turn melts more wax.

Meanwhile, the original flame has become hot air and cooler air has rushed in to become new flame. Because the cycle is seamless, the flame seems unchanging. So does the present moment.

But as we say the word "now", by the time we have pronounced the letter 'n' and moved on to the letter 'o', the 'n' is in the past and the 'w' is still in the future. As the flame is continually being re-created, so is this moment. So are we.

So if right now everything is new, beginning at 1, and everyone is sharing it, isn't now a good time to celebrate and gather, and to resolve to change for the better?

Take heart!
Every moment
A second chance

Going First Class

2011-08-11T09:09:00.000-07:00

In April, 1957, I left the Old Country and traveled to the New World with my mum and dad and little sister. I was almost eight years old. For all of us, it was a Big Adventure leaving Scotland, where my dad had worked as a carpenter, to go to Canada, where my aunt had assured my parents that there were great opportunities and lots of jobs.

We boarded the Empress of Scotland, one of the Canadian Pacific Steamships. Because we were not “well off”, we had Tourist Class tickets, but were tickled pink when they told us because Tourist Class was full, we would have to go First Class. First Class!

We knew we didn’t fit in, but it was wonderful pretending we did. The First Class dining room (shown in the photo) was like an immense ornate ballroom. We ate out of nice china with fancy silverware, served by polite men in white uniforms. I think we actually said silly things like, “I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight.”

Soon enough we arrived in Canada. After a scenic train ride across the country (I remember going through the Rockies in the Dome Car), we reached Victoria, where we came back to earth.

My aunt’s idea of the job market had been a bit optimistic. Not finding carpentry work, my dad took a job as the night janitor in a big thrift store. It was great fun for me because the family went with him. My mum helped with the cleaning, and I roller skated around and played on the conveyor belt.

My dad seemed to take these ups and downs in his stride, but my mum not so much. I think she was the most elated by the First Class treatment, which was above her station, and felt the most humiliated by the janitor job, which was beneath it. Fairly soon afterward, my dad got a job with a cabinet maker and our family settled comfortably into the lower middle class where we belonged.

Whether it was an unexpected benefit or an unwelcome setback, I think my mother's response can be summed up in one sentence: I don't deserve this.

I recognize both my dad's equanimity and my mother's class-consciousness in my own character. As much as I'm reluctant to admit it, every day I catch myself making comparisons - "she's wealthy", "he's uneducated", "he's refined", "she's crude" - all measured against my current notion of who I think I am, or even, who I think I ought to be. It even creeps into my practice as uninvited thoughts critical of others' insight or commitment. And these are just the thoughts I catch.

These antics of monkey mind, if pursued or encouraged (or grappled with) tend to divert our awareness from our true nondual nature and interdependence with everything, which in turn, I think, weakens our drive to act compassionately.

The more I see you as me - whether you are wealthy but miserable, poor, dirty and hungry, addicted or deluded - and the less I set myself apart as better or worse, or just plain separate, the better are my chances of being compassionate to you.

And I need all the chances I can get.

The Call

2011-08-01T03:29:00.000-07:00

A number of years ago, I had been listening to Bette Midler's version of God Help the Outcasts, a touching Alan Menken composition from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and was quite moved by it, well actually, a lot moved by it. As I listened to the silence after the song ended, I began to hear, inside my head, a distant sound that seemed to be a blend of sorrowful weeping, groans of pain, and fearful moaning, of countless humans and animals. In the brief time that it lasted, I felt a deep sadness, and somehow knew that it was the sound of the suffering that we, as the human race, have inflicted.

I don't think this was a celestial vision. I believe it was a Makyo, a waking dream, or perhaps some flatulence of the temporal lobe. It did leave a lasting impression, however, and my memory of it is still clear. A couple of times, the thought has even occurred to me: I wonder if what I heard was the Call?

There are many stories of people responding to a call to become missionaries, to become priests, to feed the hungry or to heal the sick. We use the terms "calling" and "vocation" (from the Latin vocare, 'to call') to describe pursuits that have meaning for us. Something beckons to us to leave behind the compulsive cycle of working harder to earn more money to buy more things to enjoy more pleasure for ourselves. How this process happens is a wonderful mystery to me.

It seems the call that turns our head, that draws our attention to suffering, can come from anywhere and take any form - a sudden shock, or just a nagging feeling that something isn't quite right. A feeling that won't go away and eventually knocks on our door so loudly that we have to open it and embrace whatever greets us on the other side.

A young monk asked Zen master Gensha where he should start to enter Zen. Gensha asked, "do you hear the sound of the mountain stream?" The monk said, "yes". Gensha said, "enter Zen from there."

Do we feel an urge to listen for that call? A desire to hear it? A wish to be, or even feel, more compassionate? That is the call.

Do Bodhisattvas Go To Heaven?

2011-07-24T20:32:00.000-07:00

Twenty-Five Bodhisattvas Descending from Heaven - Japanese painting c. 1300

In the legal business we say there are two times you should never speculate: when you need to, and when you don't need to. I'm pretty sure some of this post falls into the second category.

Once again I feel liberated by my profound ignorance about the subject matter.

I can hear the Christian and Buddhist scholars getting up to leave, so I'll skip right to the last page. My answer to the question, meant in the nicest possible way, is "At the moment, I don't see why I should care." Not just about the fate of bodhisattvas, but about the whole question of what will happen to me after death.

In my limited understanding, a bodhisattva is a being who has chosen to become awakened just to relieve the suffering of all other beings, forgoing buddhahood, whatever that may mean, until everyone else gets there first. Sounds very heroic and celestial, but I would focus on the words "has chosen" and "relieve the suffering," so that the term can include the likes of you and me. With no authority whatsoever, I would say that a frilly cloud to stand on and almost-perfect enlightenment are not prerequisites - just an intention to put others first.

Then what? For me, I tend to favour a ‘need to know’ approach. Although I’m very curious about a lot of things, at the moment, Buddhist and Christian cosmologies aren’t high on my list. Being part scientist, I’m reluctant to take anyone’s word for things like reincarnation and heaven, hell, purgatory and the recently abolished limbo. When I know that I need to know, then I’ll try to find someone who’s been there and lived to tell the tale.

In any discussion about these concepts, my only question is, “What would I do differently at this moment if there really is reincarnation and/or heaven and hell?” I’m hard pressed to think of anything. This may have something to do with choosing the bodhisattva path.

Assuming that going to heaven is desirable and going to hell is not, and assuming that being reincarnated as a lower life form or as a more miserable person is to be avoided, and assuming further that virtuous or selfless actions will land you in heaven rather than hell, or cause you to be reborn as a more evolved being, or even not be reborn at all, then knowing all this, would we not choose to act compassionately, for the benefit of all beings?

Wait a minute – this sounds like the qualities of a bodhisattva.

So the upshot seems to be, once we put our feet on the bodhisattva path, the afterlife becomes less relevant. Who knows – perhaps going to heaven may not be desirable, as there is probably a lot more suffering in hell.

If I may make an exhortation: May we just practice hard, whatever our practice is, take aim at the next thing that needs our kind attention, and let our arrows fly!

Some More Poems

2011-07-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

No matter how large I built the deck, I knew this would happen......

Dewdrops
Brief lives in bright sun
Each containing all

~~~

Sitting in darkness
A flash of lightning
Your face

~~~

Staggering along
I wonder why
The ox is so heavy

~~~

Eyes unseeing
Skin like wax
Outside, the wind

~~~

Ignoring the full moon
I search for a pool
To gaze at its reflection

~~~

Shining
From a thousand pools
The moon

~~~

After the rain
A walk on wet pavement
Helping stranded worms

~~~

Right hand struggles
Left hand without thought
Jumps to assist

~~~

Forgetting to remember
I while away the hours
Inspecting shadows

~~~

Going away
To be here
Somewhere else

~~~

Seagull
Comical walking
Soaring majestic

~~~

Lazy water
And my old habits
Take the easy way

~~~

Everything
A doorway
To everywhere

~~~

Dog breath
In my face
It must be morning

You can find other poems at Some Poems and Another Batch of Poems.

A Cautious Homage to Words

2011-07-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

"A woman without her man is nothing."

Demeaning ... but wait ........ the punctuation is missing.

"A woman: without her, man is nothing."

Words have great power to uplift or to crush.

I love what you do!
I hate what you do!

Small change, big difference.

Used by some, words can be instruments of healing, teaching and nurture; wielded by others, they can be weapons of war and instruments of destruction.

Realist landscape paintings use many brushstrokes to convey a detailed scene.

Sumi-e paintings use only a few strokes to capture their object.

In the same way, a verbal description can be highly detailed, or, like haiku, stark but capturing the essence of a moment.

Although enormously powerful, words have enormous limitations. In the same way that a flat picture can only suggest a three dimensional scene, words can only suggest the objects they describe.

To make me imagine a full moon, you only have to say, "full moon" ... unless I have never seen one. Then you will have to use more words to describe it, and even then, the image created in my imagination may be very different from the one you are trying to convey.

But the crux is that words are not the object. They are only a finger pointing at the moon. I tend to think that the closer you get to 'the moon', the more you run into contradictions and paradox because, in the end, words fail.

This is the dangerous realm of koans and word games. I could say that the finger is not the moon, and you could say that the finger and the moon are one. I could say we are both correct, and you could say that neither of us is correct. We are at the place were every opposite is true ... and false.

Does this mean we can't use words to describe what is beyond description, to convey what is outside words and scriptures? In the Heart Sutra, we recite, "Form is none other than emptiness. Emptiness is none other than form." So, yes, we can. But I would add, with extreme caution. To pursue this subject any further is way above my pay grade.

Because words are both powerful and severely limited, they are dangerous. In the hands of a Zen master with the wisdom to see the state of a student's realization, a few skilful words spoken at the right moment may help the student's awakening to unfold. In unskilful hands, the same words could lead the student far astray.

Which is to say, we who are not Zen masters ought to steer well away from this danger zone - especially if we are seen as any kind of font of wisdom. In our eagerness to be compassionate (how wonderful!) may we remember to treat words with respect and use them wisely.

After all, actions speak louder than words.

Skilful Action and Collateral Damage

2011-06-25T01:18:00.000-07:00

On a narrow rocky ledge, a beautiful caterpillar is basking in the sun. I see it, and nevertheless crush it with my foot. A shocking act, except that a few feet above, a little boy has crawled under a guard rail and slipped. He has grasped a tree root, but his grip is failing. The only way to reach him is to step on the narrow ledge, exactly where the caterpillar sits. Perhaps if I were a skilful mountaineer, I could have saved the boy without stepping on the caterpillar.

AP Photo/Fraidoon Pooyaa

I don’t know the official definition, but I understand ‘skilful action’, in the Buddhist sense, to mean an action that is wise, compassionate and effective, that causes the least harm.

Our skilfulness is acquired over years of practice. Our imperfectly wise and compassionate actions will inevitably cause some collateral damage.

Our perpetual choice is whether to act now out of compassion, or refrain from acting, to avoid causing collateral damage. Perhaps we should wait until we have developed greater skill. We could stew over that question forever.

Surely each choice must be met as it arises, and once made, bravely and directly carried out. If we choose to step on a caterpillar to save a boy, we must do it, and live with the consequences.

This post came out of nagging recriminations over my last post on speciesism. I felt I had been a bull with a mission loose in a china shop, not sure what I had stepped on but pretty sure I must have broken a few things. Old self-doubt crept back wondering if it was worth it.

The skill we develop in our practice is not just skill in our actions, but also skill in making choices. As our wisdom grows, our choices become wiser. As our compassion grows, our actions become braver.

May we accept being where we are, our inevitable mistakes, and be diligent in our practice!

Mindful Blindness: A Rant Against Speciesism

2011-06-14T23:14:00.000-07:00

Every time,
A twinge of sadness:
The meat department

Warning! This is a rant.

As you may have noticed, I love you all dearly. The last thing I want to do is cause you pain. Because this is a rant, I’m not taking aim at anyone in particular, but if you stand too close, you may get thwacked, I may hit a nerve, or even step on your beliefs. No hard feelings if you bail out at any time.

You could think of this as an address to the jury on behalf of a group of sentient beings facing the death penalty that can’t speak for themselves.

Photograph: AP/Alexandre Meneghini

I’ve been a vegetarian for the past six years, and in total, about 15 of my 62 years, but have only been phasing eggs and dairy out of my diet for the past six months or so.

I am grateful to Peter Singer’s classic book Animal Liberation for helping to crystallize my thoughts on the subject. I have drawn freely from his ideas.

Speciesism, like cannibalism, slavery, religious persecution, racism and sexism, is the imposing of the will of a powerful group upon a weaker group - in this case, by humans upon other sentient species. We take it so much for granted that it often goes unnoticed. But it's everywhere - not just on our dinner plates and covering our feet, but also at the rodeos, circuses, bullfights, hunting and fishing trips, the fur trade and clothing stores. Last but not least, the worst atrocities are hidden behind the walls of the factory farms and slaughterhouses.

The idea of animal liberation isn’t new. Plato and Pythagoras were vegetarians for ethical reasons. So was Leonardo Da Vinci. He would buy caged birds sold at the marketplace for food and then set them free. Edison and Einstein were another couple of smart guys that decided they didn't need meat and stopped eating it.

The amount of suffering we inflict on animals is staggering. Of course, physical pain causes suffering – branding, de-horning, castrating, tail docking, de-beaking – all without anaesthetic.

But so does the psychological pain caused by frustrating the natural instincts to run, to root around, snuggle with a mother or an offspring, socialize normally, exercise and play. It’s not uncommon for pigs in factory farms to literally go insane, making endless repetitive movements and biting their own tails and their cage bars. Pigs are as intelligent and affectionate as dogs, but the idea of subjecting puppies to the same cruelty we bestow on pigs, and then killing and eating them, is unthinkable.

Photograph: Christopher Furlong/Getty Images

Fish suffer too, when they are pulled out of the water and left to die in a heap.

So why do we eat animals? What benefit can we possibly get that outweighs the suffering and killing?

I like the taste. You can make some really delicious veggie meals – avocados, ginger, oranges, roasted nuts, garlic – the combinations are endless. My dad used to say “hunger makes the best sauce”. I think eating with a glad heart makes things taste pretty good too.

They are dead already or I didn’t kill them. Every time you take a chicken home from the store, another chicken has to be killed to take its place on the shelf. By eating them, we are causing their deaths. Like the starfish story posted over at Jomon's lovely blog nothing to attain, every little bit of meat not eaten makes a difference.

I need my protein. True, but you can get it from plants. Beans and grains provide all the essential amino acids our bodies require. End of story. If you don’t believe me (I’ve got a degree in nutritional biochemistry), ask the vegetarian Olympic athletes. If vegan Carl Lewis can win nine gold medals, surely I can drag my sorry ass to work and back without eating meat. The omega unsaturated fatty acids found in fish oil are abundant in flax seeds. The only thing lacking in a vegan diet is vitamin B12, which you can take as a supplement.

Our bodies are designed to eat meat – we have canine teeth. True, but we are also designed to eat plants – we have molars. Unlike other animals, we have the ability to choose our foods. We tell our bodies what to eat, not the other way around. Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.

You are killing plants. As far as we know, plants don’t experience pain. As Alan Watts said, “cows scream louder than carrots.” Besides, it takes about ten pounds of plants to produce one pound of beef. So if you eat a pound of beef, ten pounds of plants are killed as well. Maybe in a perfect world, we will live on fruit and nuts and grains and no plants will be killed.

You may want to skip over the next paragraph. It's a little unkind.

I eat meat mindfully. This one really gets me, and I’m sorry if I’m talking about you. Nothing personal, but I don’t care how many prayers you say, how many candles or sticks of incense you light, or how “in the moment” you are; and I don’t care what the sutras say, or what the Buddha said – the animal on your plate was still killed, and another will be killed to take its place. Maybe the smells and bells and chanting will make you feel better or change your karma, but that’s not the point. If it is the point, then I’ve missed it. The same reasoning would justify the death penalty, killing in battle and all manner of atrocities. How can you be mindful and in the moment, and not hear the screams from the abbatoir?

I only eat meat from animals raised and killed compassionately. Good for you. I mean it. But if you go to all that trouble to eat something you don't need, why not just stop?

What about eggs and dairy? Ouch. This is where I get hit by my own flailing. There is plenty of suffering associated with the milk and egg industry, but I'm still only 95% vegan, for interpersonal reasons. You know the old saying, "take my advice - I'm not using it." Besides, if they only allowed perfect people to rant, it would be awfully quiet.

What can I do? Lots. Here are a few suggestions. Start by cutting dead critters out of your diet. If you eat eggs, make sure they are free range. If you eat dairy, make sure the cheese doesn't contain rennet and the yogurt doesn't contain gelatin. Consider giving up leather and silk. Consider only using detergents, shampoos and cosmetics that are labelled 'not tested on animals'. Learn about this stuff. Check out blogs like vegan.com and organizations like PETA. And of course, spread the word. If you're looking for company, I posted a list of some famous veggies here.

Here's something to consider: If all the land in North America now used to raise and feed animals were used to grow crops, it would produce enough food to eliminate hunger on the entire planet.

If you managed to read this to the end, my heart gives you a big hug! Thank you.

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." - Margaret Mead

If you're up for it, watch the trailer for the award-winning documentary Earthlings, but be prepared to weep (seriously!). You can watch the trailer and the entire movie here.

I also recommend seeing the documentary Forks over Knives just released, about the health benefits of a plant-based diet and unrefined foods.

Acts of Kindness: Does Size Matter?

2011-06-05T01:33:00.000-07:00

One morning I noticed a tiny insect drowning in a cup of water and rescued it. As I watched it drag itself to safety, a flood of emotions took me by surprise: love for the little creature, joy that it didn't drown, and gratitude that I happened to notice it and could help. Fortunately, I had to leave for work before I really started wallowing in feelings.

I walked to work with a glad heart, and a sort of koan took shape: What effect does saving the short life of a tiny being have in the grand scheme of things? When I reached the office, more pressing matters took my attention and I forgot about it.

That evening, I read a beautiful blog post over at ZenDotStudio called Gladdening the Heart which reminded me of the question. A couple of days later, a simple but moving story called Three Gifts at Mind Deep reminded me again that the question was not going to go away.

One of my all-time favourite movie scenes is near the end of Schindler's List where Itzhak Stern (Ben Kingsley) gives Oskar Schindler (Liam Neeson) a ring made from a gold bridge given by one of the 1,100 Jews he saved from the gas chambers by employing them in his factory. He essentially bought their freedom with his own money. He realizes to his dismay that he still has an expensive car and a gold pin that he could have sold, and in that heart-wrenching moment he breaks down, crying "I could have got more out, I could have got more - but I didn't!" (Watch the scene here - make sure you have hankies. It gets me every time.)

The inscription in the ring is from the Talmud: "Whoever saves one life saves the world entire."

That line is reminiscent of the statements attributed to the Buddha: "On the day I became enlightened, the whole universe became enlightened," and to Jesus, referring to feeding the hungry and caring for the sick: "Inasmuch as you have done it to the least of one of these, you have done it to me."

One thing is for sure: because of the interconnectedness of every single thing with every other single thing, there is no way that our tiny intellects can ever calculate every possible outcome of a simple action. Science fiction stories have described how a seemingly trivial event could prevent Hitler from being born, averting the second world war. Perhaps a child watching you rescue a stranded worm from the wet pavement will be inspired to become another Mother Teresa. Or perhaps the child will just think you're a nut.

You could say that saving an insect matters because it's connected to everything, or that it matters because it is everything, or, that it doesn't matter.

So the question remains: In an act of kindness, does size matter?

The ox goes through the window
But it's tail does not
Why was the little bug saved?

Prayers 2.0

2011-05-29T00:44:00.000-07:00

This post is a promised follow-up to Prayer Pruning: Goodbye Jesus?

It's just a snapshot of a work in progress. Jesus and the Christian God have been edited out. The bodhisattva prayer and vows remain. If Buddhists don't worship a god, one might ask who or what is being prayed to. Good question. I don't know the answer. For that matter, who is doing the praying? Another good question. Same answer. I don't know.

These are not intended to be an example of what Buddhist prayers should look like. They are just words that have been percolating in my heart for a long time that I wanted to share with you.

As a self bounded by space and time, in gratitude forhere and now, to the self that is boundless, I bow.

May wisdom and compassion guide my actions.

May every being that suffers find comfort.

While space and sentient beings exist, may I remain tohelp relieve their pain.

May every being find me that needs whatever I may haveto give. May I find wisdom to know who they are and what to give, the strengthand means to give it, and courage when fear holds me back.

I repent the suffering caused by my actions andinaction. May I learn from my mistakes to better serve those in need.

Those who have hurt me, those I resent, and those Ifear, I love, forgive and release.

All beings without number, I vowto liberate.

Endless blind passions, I vow touproot.

Dharma gates beyond measure, Ivow to penetrate.

The Great Way of Buddha, I vow toattain.

The Ten Commandments Cross-Examination

2011-05-22T22:55:00.000-07:00

Courtroom war stories are a bit off the beaten track for this blog, but I couldn't resist sharing this one.

Occasionally people have told me I’m too nice to be a trial lawyer, pointing out that I don’t even eat meat. My standard comeback is “yes, but I do eat lying witnesses...”

I represented a father in a custody dispute with the mother of their young child. No need to go into details except to say the character of the mother’s new boyfriend was critical.

When she was on the witness stand, she described her boyfriend as being her fiancé. She also testified that he was a very religious person, that he said grace at each meal, and gave Bible readings every day.

Next day, it was his turn to testify.

He was a tall skinny guy with a little beard and very long hair, looking a bit like the caucasian Jesus pictures. He wore his stovepipe jeans tucked into cowboy boots and actually sauntered, I thought rather arrogantly, up the aisle and got into the witness stand.

My cross-examination went something like this:

DA: Yesterday your fiancée swore under oath that you are a very religious fellow. Are you?

Witness: Yes. (What else could he say?)

DA: She swore under oath that you say grace at each meal. Do you?

Witness: Yes.

DA: She also swore under oath that you give Bible readings every day. Is that true?

Witness: Yes. (possibly sensing the paint brush in his hand)

DA: So ... what’s your favourite Bible passage?

Witness: I don’t have to answer that.

Judge: Yes you do. It’s a fair question.

There was a long pause while the witness stared off into a far corner of the ceiling. Just as I was about to say, “What’s the matter? Can’t you think of one?” he blurted out:

Witness: The Ten Commandments.

DA: The Ten Commandments? That’s your favourite passage in the entire Bible?

Witness: Yes.

DA: OK. I suppose different people have their own preferences. Are you familiar with the book of Exodus, chapter 20, verse 15?

Witness: No. (dimly sensing paint covering most of the floor)

DA: Are you sure?

Witness: Yes. (feeling his feet get sticky)

DA: Well, the Bible is right beside you. Why don’t you read it to us?

Witness: I don’t have to do that.

DA: That’s OK, I’ll read it (reaching over to pick up the Bible)

Judge: Mr. Ashton, what is the passage you intend to read out?

DA: Oh, it’s the Ten Commandments, your honour. (The witness, just before losing consciousness, realizes that it isn’t paint on the floor, it’s his blood...)

Footnote: I am not a walking biblical encyclopedia [younger generation: An encyclopedia is an archaic multi-volume set of books with articles on a wide range of topics, something like Wikipedia but way heavier and not updated every second].

It was pure coincidence that I had written on my notepad, “Thou shalt not steal – Exodus 20:15,” and that Mr. Fiancé chose the Ten Commandments as his favourite Bible passage.

I was planning to use that quote in my next line of questions (You believe in the Bible, don’t you? You believe in the Ten Commandments, don’t you? You believe in “Thou shalt not steal”, don’t you? You would never steal, would you?) to set him up for the witness I had waiting out in the hall, a waitress from a local restaurant where he had recently done a “dine and dash”. Since he so obligingly shot his own foot off, I didn’t need to call her, and my client got custody.

I may get struck off the Buddhist blogrolls for knowingly publishing a blog post with no perceptible Buddhist content, but hey, I'm still giddy from surviving the Rapture....

Prayer Pruning: Goodbye Jesus?

2011-05-16T23:05:00.000-07:00

Until very recently, except for a short stint as an atheist in my early teens, I considered myself a Christian.

During that stint, I remember our sunday school superintendent telling us he would use logic to prove God exists. Wanting to base his argument on a solid assumption, he asked us to confirm that we all believed in 'good'. I chirped, "define 'good'" and it went downhill from there. In my late teens, I discovered mysticism, spirituality and Zen Buddhism, and allowed Christianity back into my belief system because I found concepts like "Christ Consciousness" and the Holy Spirit appealing.

In my twenties, because they seemed like the logical things to do at the time, I went looking for a prayer tent and got born again, joined an Anglican church, got confirmed, got on the board of directors of the chaplaincy, and got involved with what used to be the Ecumenical Institute out of Chicago with plans to reform the church.

And then life moved on. By my thirties, all that was left was Zen and being Anglican. And now the Anglican is fading away.

Over the years, like me, my prayers have changed. Always a home-made hodgepodge of standard Christian prayers, Buddhism and various odds and ends, they were seriously due for a re-write. In the process, it struck me that there was only one tangential reference to Jesus Christ in the whole thing. It also struck me that I didn't really have any reason for having Him there at all.

A further thought struck me: inasmuch as the Rapture is scheduled to occur five days from now on May 21, this may be a singularly poor time to edit His Nibs out of my prayers.
Oh well...

God, I don't have a problem with, just not the Christian version.

As James Ford said over at Monkey Mind in Seeking the God Beyond God,

"When we start to think of a deity that will fix things, or can, if we move for a second beyond sentimentality, we encounter serious problems. A deity that intervenes for this person but not that, who allows whole populations to starve or be murdered while blessing others is not a god I want to encounter in a dark alley."

I can't relate to a god that we project our human emotions onto, except perhaps love.

I don't want my dear Christian friends to think for a moment that I am disparaging their beliefs. The fact is, I just don't have the strength to hold onto mine.

In What God isn't. What God is. And a Question, James said,

"There is a quality to both life and to the makeup of things that we human beings encounter as wonder, as awe. And for which it is difficult to refrain from naming. It's a human thing. However incomplete that name might be, we feel a deep and real need to try... Probably the best name is no name. Only don't know. Shut up within the presence. It is the place where such distinctions as self and other collapse, where I no longer know I am and you are."

So the revisions proceed. It's too early to say what Prayers 2.0 will look like, but I wanted to share this before anything unpleasant happens on Saturday.

P.S. Here is Prayers 2.0

Grandma

2011-05-08T20:03:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Nate DeMontigny over at Precious Metal and the 2K11 Article Swap he organized, I'm honoured to host a guest post by TMC who writes a charming blog at Return to Rural, a place I happily frequent.

My life is filled with remarkable women. They’re remarkable in all the ways you’d expect: kind, loving, supportive, determined, concerned. They’re each unique unto themselves, and I feel their love and support in different ways. Their example makes me want to be a better woman myself.

If I had to pick one to model my life on, it’d be my grandmother, my mother’s mother, Georgia Hougaard Davis. She’s 98 now and I’m staying with her and my grandfather, helping around the house and just making sure everyone is safe. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to spend so much time with my grandmother. She is a classic woman: a dutiful wife, a mother of 5. She’s a modern woman: she graduated college, encouraged by her father, and taught home economics for many years.

Her nature is one of softness and grace, even with all the hooks and snags of old age. Her character is enviable, so sweet and caring, always wondering if people need something to eat or if the beds have enough bedding to keep us comfortable. Ever the lady, she gets up every morning to wash and dress, being sure to include a modest camisole regardless of what type of blouse she’s wearing. It’s simply something that a lady does, she once told me, in not so many words. Grandma’s humor is sharp and witty, playful almost. She makes jokes about her situation, her age (she doesn’t like to be reminded of her age but we all think 98 is pretty amazing), and pokes fun at grandpa.

She’s so amiable as we push and pull her through her day: sit here, grandma; come here, grandma; time to go to bed, grandma. But she doesn’t make any complaints. I hope she knows that we do what we do in her best interest, to keep her moving, to keep a sense of normalcy in her life, a sense of comfort.

Her short term memory is spotty these days. I know she doesn’t remember my name, and I wonder sometimes if she knows I’m her first grandchild. Even if she doesn’t know, her hospitality is unmatched – make yourself at home, what can we get you – without any sense of concern on her part.

My grandmother is a woman among women who’s had the same ups and downs that we all have. But you’d never know that she’d worried a day in her life, such is her cheerful demeanor. Everyone should be so lucky to have this kind of woman in their life. Any of us would be lucky to live up to even half of the invisible bar she’s set. And because of who grandma is, she’d tell any one of us that we can do anything, be anything, go anywhere.

Let us all heed her example and know ourselves well. Let’s not be swayed or feel powerless when we’re overwhelmed. Let us each be grandma’s kind of person for each other.

Some Poems

2011-05-04T19:09:00.000-07:00

Puddin' enjoying the absence of the Dogs

Rather than blog about the sadness I feel about the outbreak of festivities at the killing of Osama Bin Laden, I thought I would post a few poems instead.

~ ~ ~

As I contemplate

The cherry tree

Another blossom falls

~ ~ ~

Yellow cedar mill

The scent awakens

My father's workshop

~ ~ ~

Crane fly

Died in the hot shower

I forgot to check

~ ~ ~

Wasting time

Regretting

Wasted time

~ ~ ~

Through the window

The valley

Gazes back

~ ~ ~

1. Mind

2. No Mind

~ ~ ~

Why are my dogs

Always

Happy to see me?

~ ~ ~

You can find other poems at Some More Poems, Another Batch of Poems and Poems Batch 4.

Just a reminder about the upcoming blogging on May 8. Nate DeMontigny over at Precious Metal has organized Article Swap 2K11 and paired up volunteers to write guest blog posts. TMC from Return to Rural will be posting here, and I'll be writing a post for Danny Fisher's blog at Rev. Danny Fisher.

Stage Fright

2011-04-27T21:54:00.000-07:00

My cowardice is in vain

There is nowhere
To hide

Lately, I’ve been noticing the interplay of three characters on my mental stage.

Actor number one is my intellect, recently mused about in Mental Fractals.

Having avoided taking psychology at university (it wasn’t “real” science), I’m not hampered by knowing what to call the other two. Looking them up in Wikipedia would spoil the fun.

The intellect lives in the brain and generally talks too much. The other two can be hard to tell apart, as they both live in the viscera, emanating uneasy gut feelings.

One of them warns me that I am about to do something that is likely to hurt me or someone else, as when my hand is about to pocket the change the cashier accidentally gave me too much of.

The other one tells me I don’t want to do something, like approaching a vaguely familiar stranger and asking if we used to be acquainted.

The same unease accompanies leaving a comfort zone, thinking outside the box, taking a risk, being vulnerable, going out on a limb, breaking a habit, facing an addiction, relinquishing a crutch, defying a superstition, embracing the unknown.

I got to study these two up close when I wrote When I Fell. I had a strong urge to write it, but sure didn’t want to.

The first one seems to be an impulse to act compassionately, follow the precepts, be skillful, “do the right thing”. The other one is, well, fear. To make things interesting, the intellect chimes in and explains why the first one should be ignored and the second one followed.

I don’t have much to say about the first - it seems to give pretty straightforward signals. The problem is when the second one masquerades as the first or drowns it out. If I'm about to cross a high and very unsafe platform, both 'instincts' will urge me not to do it, but only the second one will urge me to stay back no matter how safe the platform is. Going ahead despite our fear is called courage. We have other words for going ahead against our better judgment.

A little healthy fear can be an antidote for complacency. They say if you ever stop getting a few butterflies in your stomach before giving a speech or performing, watch out – mistakes are sure to follow.

Intuition or inhibition? Probably by paying attention to the sensations as they occur, I’ll get to know them better and be a little braver.

To paraphrase a native story, there are two dogs inside me that fight: one leads me forward, the other holds me back. Which one wins? The one I feed.

Here's a plug for some upcoming blogging on May 1 [Note - this has been changed to May 8]. Nate DeMontigny over at Precious Metal has organized Article Swap 2K11 and paired up volunteers to write guest blog posts. TMC from Return to Rural will be posting here, and I'll be writing a post for Danny Fisher's blog at Rev. Danny Fisher. Cause for a few butterflies...

In Good Company

2011-04-18T22:00:00.001-07:00

Do you know what all of these folks have in common?

Albert Einstein●Albert Schweitzer●Alexander Pope●Anne Hathaway●Anthony the Great●Apollonius of Tyana●Ashoka the Great●Basil of Caesarea●Brigitte Bardot●Carl Lewis●Casey Affleck●Cesar Chavez●Chelsea Clinton●Christian Bale●Clement of Alexandria●Cloris Leachman●Confucius●Daryl Hannah●David Ashton<:)Dennis Weaver●Dick Gregory●Ellen DeGeneres●Emanuel Swedenborg●Empedocles●Flavius Claudius Julianus●Forest Whitaker●Franz Kafka●Fred Rogers●Gaius Musonius Rufus●Gautama Buddha●George Bernard Shaw●George Harrison●Grace Slick●Gustav Holst●Gustav Mahler●Hayley Mills●Hesiod●Isadora Duncan●Jane Goodall●Jeff Beck●Jiddu Krishnamurti●Jim Carrey●Joaquin Phoenix●John Coltrane●John Harvey Kellogg●John Peel●John Wesley●Johnny Appleseed●Julie Christie●k.d. lang●Kabīr●Kate Winslet●Killer Kowalski●Leo Tolstoy●Leonardo Da Vinci●Lewis Gompertz●Lilli Lehmann●Linda McCartney●Lord Byron●M.K.Gandhi●Malcolm Muggeridge●Martina Navratilova●Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley●Moby●Nikola Tesla●Ovid●Pamela Anderson●Paris Hilton●Percy Bysshe Shelley●Percy Grainger●Philip Glass●Plato●Plotinus●Plutarch●Porphyry●Pythagoras of Samos●Quintus Sextius●Rabindranath Tagore●Richard Gere●Richard Wagner●Ringo Starr●Saint Angela de Merici●Saint Catherine of Siena●Saint Francis of Paola●Saint Hilarion●Saint John Chrysostom●Saint Richard of Chichester●Shania Twain●Sir Edwin Arnold●Sir Paul McCartney●Sir Richard Phillips●Sir Stafford Cripps●Sotion●Spike Milligan●Stella McCartney●Stuart Murdoch●Surya Bonaly●Swami Satchidananda●Swami Vivekananda●Tertullian●Theophrastus●Thomas Ignatius●Thomas Pitfield●Tobey Maguire●Weird Al Yankovic ●Wil Wheaton●Yehudi Menuhin●

All vegetarians.

No deep message here. As being a veggie can sometimes be a lonely undertaking, I thought I would list a few to keep you company. My favourite is Mister Rogers.

When I Fell

2011-04-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

When I fell

You stopped

To help me up

Somewhere in far-off Australia, a bookbird is happily chirping.

A couple of days ago, I got a very sweet tweet from @CaptnSpaceCadet, who has a very nice blog over at bookbird which continually touches me with its honesty and sincerity. The tweet said some very very nice things about my blog. Before I had even finished blushing, a follow up tweet arrived, inviting me to do a blog swap, where we would each pick a topic for the other to write in the next 5 days. I gallantly agreed, and slyly suggested her topic: “Why am I doing this?” The twinge of guilt I was beginning to feel evaporated when BB shot back with a topic for me: “Why did I do that?” I was trapped. BB did a beautiful job, as usual, with Bookbird vs the Donut, and with 4 days to spare.

So now I have to step out of my comfort zone.

Back in 2002 (when BB was still a fledgling), I was going through a low point in my career. Four years previously, I had quit drinking because I was doing it too much. Now, without anaesthetic, I was responding to stressful encounters by hiding from them, leaving telephone messages unanswered and letters unopened. To make a long story short, I learned the meaning of burnout.

A colleague with some personal experience suggested I try Alcoholics Anonymous, which I did, for 181 meetings. The fit didn't seem quite right, but it was a port in a storm, and I worked hard at it. By now I had let my Zen practice slip, although I did continue to recite the bodhisattva vows every day. At the AA meetings, we took turns telling our stories. I can say that after a while, I got really tired of hearing myself “talk the talk”. At one of the last meetings, I remember sharing about the bodhisattva vows, and heard myself saying how arrogant I was to think I could save all sentient beings. That was the turning point. I felt as if I had stabbed myself in the heart and was about to throw away something priceless. I knew I had to leave the group.

It was around then that I read Eckhart Tolle’s book The Power of Now and started doing zazen again. When I went to my last meeting, it was with a little sadness that I didn’t add “and I’m an alcoholic” after “Hi, my name’s Dave”. One of the members asked me if this meant that I was rejecting their group. I said no, just the opposite – they would always have a place in my heart because they welcomed me like family, with unquestioning acceptance, when I needed it most.

Why did I burn out? I don't know. I saw warning signs of procrastination and avoidance, but didn't want to acknowledge the problem. All I know is, if you think you are falling, reach out. If someone else is falling, reach out.

Fast forward to here and now. I’m grateful for the sangha – cyber and otherwise, and for remembering a couple of things I had forgotten, and for that little group of bodhisattvas. And thank you, bookbird, for the invitation to crawl out of my shell and talk about things I would have preferred to forget.

Why did I do that? Perhaps it was so that I could do this.

There but for the...

No - just:

There go I

Mental Fractals: Thinking About Thinking About Thinking

2011-04-11T20:30:00.000-07:00

I think too much. At least I think I think too much. Or maybe I just think I think I think too much….. OK - I think too much!!

In my job, I have to think a lot – analyzing clients’ problems, poring over documents and statutes looking for loopholes, combing the internet for similar cases, writing briefs, editing and more editing, all the time scheming, scheming, scheming. Going to court is like a breath of fresh air.

There is no question that thinking is a vital part of my life. I couldn’t do my job without using my brain, and the microcircuits inside the contraption I’m staring at are the product of some serious brainwork.

But an old saying comes to mind: just as the eye can't see itself, the intellect can't comprehend itself. Thinking about thinking just goes around and around like a fractal pattern.

In Zen, intellect is a two edged sword. Thinking about logical problems is fine, however discovering what our essential nature does, and how it operates, is not an intellectual exercise. Thinking about it is like boarding a locomotive headed in the wrong direction. Attempting to say more would be offering free rides to the train station.

When I walk to work, I intend to be mindful, but invariably catch myself scheming. When I walk home, I catch myself replaying the day's scenarios.

So lately, the emphasis in my Zen practice is just to be present when I’m not taking action, and when I am, to just act. At least that’s the theory. My brain takes the position that zazen is a splendid opportunity for more scheming and scenario replaying.

One of the things that seems to help at work is to take a deep breath and be present for a moment before picking up the phone.

Another is to perform frequent micro tea ceremonies throughout the day. I keep a carafe of green tea far enough away from my desk that I have to get up and walk over to it, and I use a small cup that needs refilling often.

If there’s time, the icing on the cake is a stroll in the nearby forest, where scheming and replaying seem to fade into the rushing sounds of the creek.

Like the hallucinations in the final scene of A Beautiful Mind, I don’t imagine random thoughts will ever go away, but with practice, I’ll pay less attention to them.

So c’mon, Monkey Mind, give me a hug and then run off and play!

Thinking about thinking about thinking

Ripples on the pond

Where the frog jumped in

Sense of Self

2011-04-08T07:41:00.000-07:00

(There is a video clip on this page but it doesn't seem to be visible to every computer.

If you can't see it, a thousand apologies! :)

An Ancient Tree Blooms: The Awakening of Compassion

2011-03-27T05:48:00.000-07:00

Break open a cherry tree and there are no flowers,

But the spring breeze brings forth myriad blossoms.

~ Ikkyu Sojun

They say that the fruits of Buddhist practice are the awakening of wisdom and compassion. As we grow in our practice, we first notice, then nurture, the blooming of these precious flowers in ourselves and others.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how this manifests in our society, especially our attitude to the suffering we inflict on women, other races and religions, gays and lesbians, the disabled, the addicted and mentally ill, and also other species. There is a pattern that seems to repeat as we strive with each of these issues.

Schopenhauer said that every new truth goes through three stages: First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.

It’s easy to imagine the mustachioed chauvinists in the men’s clubs of the last century smirking about the ridiculous notion that women should have equal rights. As the women’s liberation movement gained momentum, their casual dismissiveness escalated to righteous indignation and then to frightened fury.

First, the law was changed, making a woman no longer a man’s property, then women were permitted to own property, then vote, then hold office. Today it’s a no-brainer that our sisters are equal to us in every way. Sadly, it’s not yet so self-evident to our brothers in all parts of the world. Or for that matter at home, where you still hear us say “the wife” and “the little lady”.

The same pattern repeated with the abolition of slavery, then segregation, then racial prejudice – at least in the eyes of the law.

It’s heartening that many things we considered to be ‘politically correct’, such as gender-neutral language, are now just plain ‘correct’. In hindsight, the whole political correctness issue seems like an awkward adolescent phase we were going through.

I feel a twinge of sadness when we slip a notch or two, as with the introduction of things like live crab vending machines and (*sigh*) meat-eating furniture…

Recently, on the animal liberation front, we seem to be at Shopenhauer’s second stage with several states proposing laws to make it illegal to take or publish pictures of the mistreatment of animals in factory farms and slaughterhouses. To wit: [a] person who photographs, video records, or otherwise produces images or pictorial records, digital or otherwise, at or of a farm or other property where legitimate agriculture operations are being conducted without the written consent of the owner, or an authorized representative of the owner, commits a felony of the first degree.

On the cheerier side, it’s a joy to read about our steps forward, as last year when Catalonia became the first region in Spain to ban bullfighting, and when Illinois abolished the death penalty earlier this month.

Reminders of evolving compassion are everywhere. The photo is a Vancouver bus that accommodates motorized wheelchairs.

I think the internet and the social media networks are playing a major role in accelerating the flowering of compassion. We can participate by forging links, one person at a time, by taking every opportunity to share and be kind, and above all, by remaining diligent in our daily practice, for without that, it’s all just words.

Who is asking this question?
What wants to know?
An ancient tree blooms

Gazing at the Ox: Solipsism - Trapped in Tozan’s First Rank

2011-03-13T14:04:00.000-07:00

Who would think that just beyond the gateless gate lies a deadly trap?

How could the realization of one’s true nature possibly have a down side?

The fact that I am contained in everything and everything is contained in me, where there is neither separateness nor oneness, would seem to be a state that has nowhere to go, nothing to do.

That’s the trap.

Wikipedia defines Metaphysical Solipsism as the variety of idealism which is based on the argument that no reality exists other than one's own mind or mental states, and that the individual mind is the whole of reality and the external world has no independent existence. It is expressed by the assertion "I myself only exist", in other words, no reality exists other than one's own mind.

Yamada Koun Roshi (Robert Aitken Roshi’s teacher) called it “pernicious oneness”.

Beware of the intellect manufacturing gems like “everything is perfect just as it is, therefore I don’t need to do anything”, “everything is an illusion, including suffering, so I don’t need to do anything”, and “I don’t need to practice, because everything is enlightened”. These and similar thoughts pave the comfortable road to hell.

Having finally seen the Ox face to face, are you just going to spend the rest of your life lovingly gazing into its eyes?

Hakuin Zenji said this about the First Rank of Tozan:

The rank of "The Apparent within the Real" denotes the rank of the Absolute, the rank in which one experiences the Great Death, shouts "KA!" sees Tao, and enters into the Principle. When the true practitioner, filled with power from his secret study, meritorious achievements, and hidden practices, suddenly bursts through into this rank, "the empty sky vanishes and the iron mountain crumbles." "Above, there is not a tile to cover his head; below, there is not an inch of ground for him to stand on." The delusive passions are non-existent, enlightenment is non-existent, Samsara is non-existent, Nirvana is non-existent. This is the state of total empty solidity, without sound and without odor, like a bottomless clear pool. It is as if every fleck of cloud had been wiped from the vast sky.

Too often the disciple, considering that his attainment of this rank is the end of the Great Matter and his discernment of the Buddha-way complete, clings to it to the death and will not let go of it. Such as this is called "stagnant water" Zen; such a man is called "an evil spirit who keeps watch over the corpse in the coffin." Even though he remains absorbed in this state for thirty or forty years, he will never get out of the cave of the self-complacency and inferior fruits of pratyeka-buddhahood. Therefore it is said: "He whose activity does not leave this rank sinks into the poisonous sea." He is the man whom Buddha called "the fool who gets his realization in the rank of the Real."

There is the small matter described in the delightful title of Jack Kornfield’s book After the Ecstasy the Laundry.

How can I escape from the trapless trap? What direction should I take in a place where there are no directions? One helpful idea might be to be mindful of compassion.

When everything you experience is a mirror, who is looking back at you through the eyes of a homeless addict or through the eyes of a cow at the slaughterhouse?

Now gazing into the eyes of the ox, be moved to do something.

P.S. Don’t get stuck there either. I try to refrain from giving advice, but I’ll make an exception here. If you think you may be stuck, find an experienced teacher without delay.

Can I Sing You a Sorry Song

2011-03-08T08:06:00.000-08:00

Lyrics of a song I wrote 40 years ago.

You Are My Heart

Can I sing you a sorry song
About the times that I've been wrong
I loved myself more than you
I needed your love, but I didn't want you

I closed my eyes and got lost in my mind
I couldn't see people, didn't know that I was blind
And I can't say now that it was long ago
There's only one thing now that I really know

Refrain:

You're the wind in the woods
You're the rain on the sea
You're smiles on faces
You're a babe yet to be
You're a stream through a forest
You are waves that are wild
You are my heart
And I am your child

So when I get proud and quick to condemn
Won't you kindly remind me of all the times when
I talked in my sleep thinking I was wise
But wouldn't stop dreaming to open my eyes

(Refrain repeating last 2 lines)

Oddly enough, it didn't make the charts, and I still have a tendency to talk in my sleep...

Stepping Off The Flagpole

2011-02-28T01:07:00.000-08:00

Leaves of thought

Bud, flourish and fall

In an eyeblink

All through the day, random thoughts form in my head. Some are welcome, like an insight into a problem or a spontaneous urge to express affection. Others are merely distractions. The special ones are thoughts of envy and resentment and superiority.

All thoughts are just things my brain produces. If I hang on to any of them, they will get in the way of whatever I’m doing next. My aim will be off. I have to let them all go.

Paddling down the rapids
No time to reflect
On skilful strokes

What about the special thoughts? Of course I have to let them go as well. But envy and superiority remind me that I continue to compare myself with others, to see myself apart from others, and as being separate from everything else. They present a wonderful opportunity to let go, just for a moment, of my illusion of being just the temporary whirlpool in the river, and for a second or two, to be the river as well.

Until the next thought comes along.

Stepping off the flagpole
A hundred times a day
A cup of tea would be nice

The Oak Tree in the Garden

2011-02-13T02:30:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I set out to write a new blog post, I lose my nerve, thinking of all the wonderful, brilliant, heartfelt posts being written every minute. I started blogging because I wanted to make a difference, and felt sure there was more I could do on the internet than click the Hunger Site every day. I want to make a dent in all the suffering out there, but my problem is believing the fallacy that I need to make a dent that is significant to me.

How is it possible to know what effect even the smallest action will cause? In a very real sense, I have no idea what I'm doing and no idea what the universe is doing.

The first of the Bodhisattva Vows is "All beings without number I vow to liberate" - a daunting proposition to say the least. All I can do is speak and do the things that seem right at the moment, hopefully things that are kind, helpful and sincere, and leave the consequences to themselves.

Fearlessly unfolding
Destination unknown
The oak tree in the garden

Everything

2011-02-06T19:36:00.001-08:00

Everything
A doorway
To everywhere

Ah But I Was So Much Older Then

2011-01-19T21:26:00.000-08:00

I went through all my teens in the ‘60’s, very much influenced by Bob Dylan and the Beatles. That was when I explored different spiritual paths with a small group led by a grey-bearded guru who seemed to be in his 60’s and about whose qualifications I have no idea.

We were more or less a Roman Catholic yoga group, as he taught us about various Indian masters, and we read the Autobiography of a Yogi, but we went to early morning masses at a Ukrainian Catholic Church and the Stations of the Cross at a Franciscan friary. We took bottles of water to the rectory of the cathedral to have them blessed and turned into holy water, which we sprinkled around, I believe to drive away evil beings.

You could hear us approaching by the jingling of our crucifices and little medallions of St. Christopher and a host of other saints we wore on chains around our necks. Oh, did I mention we all had to grow beards? Our fearless leader would take us on guided tours. I remember being introduced to some kindly old men at a festival in the Sikh temple. I also remember following our guru, along with my brother clones, jingling into a crowded smoke-filled meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Eventually our little group drifted apart. One of us became a librarian, another became a counsellor, another went mad, and I wandered through science labs, plywood mills, late night city streets driving taxi, and law school. I also drifted away from the various traditions I visited and more or less gravitated to Zen, which I practiced on my own until about five years ago, when the value of sangha finally dawned on me and I joined a group considerably less unusual than the first one.

Back in the day, I never hesitated to be profound. A friend and I, being a couple of wannabe hippies going with the flow, came across a big sluggish frog lounging on the road. I picked it up and put it in the grass. My friend said, "Hey, man, why did you do that? If it happens that it gets run over, then it happens." I sagely replied, "And if happens that I come along and move it off the road, then it happens." But I was at my most profound when a slightly younger guy who had been listening to me prattle said, "Dave, you're so wise." Without missing a beat, I said, "No, I'm a fool. I know what to do, but I don't do it." I'm still working on that one.

When the '60's were over, I more or less kept my deep thoughts to myself. Now that I'm in my 60's, it feels like I have a few more things to say. I worry that they won't be as profound as when I was a wise man.

But I'm younger than that now.

Point of No Return

2011-01-12T07:32:00.000-08:00

It’s like trying to stuff a flower back into a bud.

After catching a glimpse of your dad putting on a Santa costume, or a glimpse of your original face, you can never see your world the same way again, no matter how much you may want to. Even if you try to drown the awareness with distraction, or other drugs, you never permanently forget.

A thought persists, “I have no idea why, but I must keep sitting, no matter what.” And maybe once in a while, you remember why. Other times, forgetful, alone and afraid.

If there are miracles, one is surely the sangha.

I wrote a couple of poems:

My cowardice is in vain.
There is nowhere
To hide.

~~~

Round cushions,
Square mats,
Kind hearts.

The Middle Way – Should I Speak Up?

2011-01-03T02:59:00.000-08:00

When to take action and speak up and when to do nothing and shut up?

Instant action is no problem. Shouting “look out!” or grabbing someone about to fall requires no thought. It’s the deliberate choices that are the problem. Doing zazen or going to bed. Commuting to the Zen Centre or staying home and watching a movie. It seems the more I think about these choices, the more likely I am to talk myself into the easy alternatives. If I can let my thinking drop, I’m more likely to find myself sitting on my zafu or out the door and down the steps heading for the bus.

I tend to keep my mouth shut – I think, out of fear of being thought of as an idiot. So when I do get going, the same dilemma follows me: should I shut up now, or keep babbling on and be thought of as an idiot?

Reading Point of Contact on the Sweep the dust, Push the dirt blog got me exploring the question again. How to find “a point of contact between wisdom and compassion; between action and still; between the heart and the mind; between this moment and the next.” Then I re-visited “Interdependence and the Middle Way” in Opening the Hand of Thought by Kosho Uchiyama.

My concept of my individual self feels “real” (whatever that means). So does everything else I can see and touch. I would be an idiot to say none of this exists.

“Truly seeing the aggregation of the world, the thought of nonexistence does not arise.”

But they say every cell in our bodies is replaced within seven years. So my “self”, and every other particular thing, is more like a candle flame, or a whirlpool in a river – having apparent independent existence, but completely changing every moment.

“Truly seeing the nonsubstantiality of the world, the thought of existence does not arise.”

On the other hand, this particular whirlpool I call me, and every other particular thing, came into being, exists, and will eventually stop existing. Some things die sooner than others – mountains generally last longer than mayflies – but they/we all go through this process as a result of the unimaginably complex interaction between every “thing” and every other “thing”.

“The view that all things exist is one extreme; the view that nothing exists is the other extreme. Being apart from these two extremes, the Buddha teaches the dharma of the Middle Way: because this exists, that exists; because this arises, that arises.”

The Middle Way isn’t a compromise between two extremes. When thoughts of existence and nonexistence are released from our intellectual grasp, the Middle Way is nothing other than this very moment.

Which is why zazen is priceless: doing nothing but sitting and letting go of thoughts, including thoughts like this one. And having faith – not having faith that something is going to happen as a result of doing zazen, or having faith in anything else – just having faith, period.

Getting back to the question of when to shut up, I guess I need to stop thinking and just do it.

Before I’m thought of as an idiot.

But it’s probably too late for that.

Thinking Cooks the Truth

2010-12-30T16:23:00.000-08:00

Imagine a fish swimming in a river,
moving in perfect harmony with the currents.
Every cell of its body vibrantly alive.

Now imagine the fish on the bank of the river, dead.
Every cell dead.

Imagine the fish in a frying pan, cooked.
Every cell cooked.

The fish in the pan resembles the fish in the river,
but they are as different as night and day.

Does the reality I can grasp with my intellect
resemble the truth any more than the fish in the pan
resembles the fish in the river?

Who are these faithful friends?

2010-12-29T19:26:00.000-08:00

They are generally obedient animals, with teeth, nails and hair like most others. They love attention but are often ignored. They would love to romp, but are usually allowed only a little bit of walking, and for the rest of the time, are made to sit.

Most often, they are made to eat food with minimal nutritional value, so that for much of their lives, they are obese and unhealthy. In some cases, they are forced to breathe smoke and even to take harmful drugs to the point of addiction.

They have naturally curious intellects, but these are usually stifled by the countless hours of mindless television they are made to watch.

They are blamed for things over which they have no control, in fact, for things done by their blamers.

They are aware of endless opportunities to make others happy, to reach out and comfort suffering. But because they are forbidden to do so, they are mostly sad.

Despite all of this, they continue to serve us until they eventually die.

They deserve our kindness.

They are our bodies.