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.
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 this 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 other 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.
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!"
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.
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...
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.
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.
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!
The title could suggest
a celebration of the emptiness of our form, but it just means that Snow
Branches is one year old today.
A year and a day or so
ago, I wasn't totally sure what a blog was or whether I'd even read one. A
couple of friends in the 'other' world had encouraged me to share my thoughts,
and blogging seemed logical. After a bit of exploring with Google and
clicking around user-friendly Blogger, the site was up and running.
Snow Branches was the
title of a tiny collection of poems I wrote five years earlier and
circulated by e-mail to all of half a dozen friends and relatives. I kept the
title because I couldn't think of a better one. The photo is a bush outside the
front 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 too
much damage; For god's sake attenuate your proclivity for polysyllabery.
A year later, I've
been honoured by 9,300 visits from about 75 countries. I know these aren't
huge numbers for the first year of a blog, but my socks are officially knocked
off. Thank you so much.
Although I don't usually subject my clients to the blog, Google is merciless. I was on the
phone 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 the
conversation meandered back to her case.
The blog is mostly about
kindness, and it has been nurtured by the kindness of so many, for which
I'm deeply grateful: the generous encouragement of other bloggers who have
welcomed me into the family, and the kind retweets, mentions and likes by the
beloved Twitter people and Facebook friends.
Special
thanks to everyone who left comments. You know who you are.
And to the person who drove onto my blog on a Google search
looking for "luckybeard bonali mediafire", I hope you find what
you're looking for. Please feel free to come back any time and stay for a cup of tea!
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."
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.
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 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.
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.
