Buddhist Blasphemy?

As in all the congregations of the saints, women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the Law says. If they want to inquire about something, they should ask their own husbands at home; for it is disgraceful for a woman to speak in the church. (1 Corinthians 14:34-35)

This, in my opinion, and not to put too fine a point on it, is crap.

And so is:

A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent. (1 Timothy 2:11-12)

I've had my share of dharma combat with Christians over using the Bible to support rather un-Christian positions, such as the death penalty ... for homosexuals.

If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them. (Leviticus 20:13)

In fact, a pastor once warned one of his flock, a friend of mine, to stay away from me lest I corrupt him with my arguments. Apparently, one must guard the faithful against people who criticize a god who says (or inspires the saying of) things like:

Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock. (Psalm 137:9)

I confess that I did fire a parting quote at the pastor:

So I turned my mind to understand, to investigate and to search out wisdom and the scheme of things and to understand the stupidity of wickedness and the madness of folly. (Ecclesiastes 7:25)

Although I've heard the rationalizations for not expunging offensive passages from the Bible, I've lost interest in trying to remember what they are. Without doubt, there are glorious passages overflowing with beauty, wisdom and kindness, but because they are intertwined with the other stuff, I can never think of it as more than just a book.

I suppose my use of the C word earlier qualifies as blasphemy, being an expression of irreverence towards religious things. Sure, we can twist words until they morph into reverence for all things, but I'm not going there. A spade is a spade.

Which brings me around to Buddhism. There are times when I wonder if I'm a "real" Buddhist at all, because, as I've posted before, I'm not really interested in reincarnation, the afterlife, Karma, or who's who in Buddhist cosmology. While this might be considered a tad heretical in some circles, it doesn't feel blasphemous because there is no disrespect.

Still, I was relieved to discover recently that Buddha said:

Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it. (Kamala Sutra)

Good questions posed by two blogging friends brought some things into focus for me. Lynette Genju Monteiro over at 108 Zen Books asked, "Which do you follow: the teacher or the teachings?", and Thane Lawrie way over in Scotland at My Journey asked, "Does Buddhism Need a Voice?"

Lynette's question stumped me for a while until it dawned on me that I don't really follow teachers or teachings, I just listen to them and then follow my gut. Their words are sometimes a patient finger pointing at the moon, and sometimes a good jab in the ribs. To use one last biblical quote,

The words of the wise are like goads (Ecclesiastes 12:11)

Thane's question explored the Buddhist identity and got me pondering. I call myself a Zen Buddhist because that label seems to be the best description of what I seem to be. And then, because I'm a Zen Buddhist, I do Zen things, like put on a black robe and do zazen on a zafu on a zabuton in a zendo, chant the four Bodhisattva Vows and pay attention to the abbot.

And when I remember to be mindful of it, bow deeply in gratitude.

The Karma of the Animals

If I can make you give me pleasure, even if it hurts you, why not?

Oppressor and oppressed. A relationship as old as the human race: cannibals and their prey, slave traders and their captives, invaders and the vanquished, lords and serfs, rapists and their victims.

Some are easy to recognize and revile. Others, I think because they are closer to home, are harder to see and more uncomfortable to face: domineering husbands and subservient wives, bullies and victims in the schoolyard and in the workplace, and one of my pet peeves: humans and other animal species.

Oppressors have a sense of entitlement. In some cases, we hardly notice it, but in others it's a cleverly constructed rationalization. I think what is uncomfortable is the disconnect between head and heart. Head says it's OK. Heart knows it's not.

In the latest post over at her terrific blog The Jizo Chronicles, Maia Duerr, a recently ordained Buddhist chaplain (congratulations, Maia!) quoted from her thesis. Introducing the concept of "Protest Chaplains", she refers to Fleet Maull, the founder of the Prison Dharma Network:

Maull observed that we are dealing with an accumulated toxic level of internalized shame and violence that is perpetuated when we violate our own integrity, and any time war and oppression take root in a culture and system.

I think the head/heart disconnect is the violation of our own integrity that Maull is referring to. Although I had intended this post just to be about our presumption of entitlement to oppress other species, it keeps coming back to the violence we do to ourselves in the process. Toxic shame, mostly buried beneath our awareness, I suspect, poisons us and the fruits of our actions in ways beyond imagining.

Mostly, by habit or by design, we don't give it a second thought.

The most damaging phrase in any language is "It has always been done that way".

- Rear Admiral Dr. Grace Hopper (1906 - 1992) Mathematician, First woman Admiral in the US Navy.

Here is one small example.  How much honey do we put in our tea, on our food, or in our cooking? How much effort went into producing that honey? I don't mean by the people putting it into jars. Here are some facts. A worker bee produces only about 1/12 teaspoon of honey in her entire life. To produce one pound of honey, bees have to visit approximately two million flowers and fly 55,000 miles - more than two trips around the world. The bees make it and we take it. Because it's tasty ... and because we can.

Some commercial honey thieves suppliers keep the hives alive over the winter by feeding the bees sugar. Others simply kill them and buy new bees in the spring.

This from the Canadian Association of Professional Apiculturists:

Colonies should be killed during non-flying conditions, such as in cool weather or in the early morning or late evening. Calcium cyanide should be used according to the label directions: 12.5 - 25 g (1-2 tablespoons) of calcium cyanide are sprinkled on a paper plate or sheet of cardboard and slipped into the hive entrance. Once the chemical is applied, entrances are blocked and the hives kicked or jarred to stir up the bees.

And then there is bullfighting. Did you know that proponents sometimes justify it as a culturally important tradition and a fully developed art form on par with painting, dancing and music? About 10,000 bulls endure this ordeal every year. Many horses, blindfolded during the “fight” to keep them from avoiding the enraged bulls, are also gored and killed by the bulls.

And on, and on. Rodeos. Greyhound racing. Silk production. Wool production. We take and take, just because we want to and because we can.

What about the karma part? That's easy - I don't know. If you mean something other than cause and effect, I honestly don't have a clue what you're talking about. Just be kind - really, what else matters?

The animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with extension of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren; they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.

- Henry Beston, naturalist and author (1888-1968)

Do you get frustrated sometimes by our glacially slow progress and by the seemingly overwhelming resistance to change? I do.

But just because we can't do everything is not a reason not to do anything.

PS - when you're shopping for cosmetics or detergents, don't forget to look for these symbols.

The Universal Soldier

Where have all the soldiers gone?

Long time passing

Where have all the soldiers gone?

Long time ago

Where have all the soldiers gone?

Gone to graveyards every one.

When will they ever learn?

When will they ever learn?

A repeat of the 25 year reunion concert of Peter, Paul and Mary. Tears came.

Memories returned of a Remembrance Day morning at the Cenotaph. A group of us had spent the previous chilly night in a silent vigil protesting the Vietnam war. When the veterans arrived, we quietly made way for them. Some were indignant, reminding us that they had fought for our right to protest. We assured them of our respect, and that our only goal was to end the war.

Ten years later, heart glowing, I watched the television in wonder. The last troops were leaving! It was silly, but I couldn't help feeling we had won the war on war.

As years passed, it seemed the only reminders of the war were movies like Apocalypse Now, The Deer Hunter and Platoon. The interminable Russian war in Afghanistan and the brief war in the Falklands somehow didn't shake my feeling that war was really on the way out. Until January, 1991.

Once again I was glued to the television. Stealth bombers. Scud missiles. Patriot missiles. The Iraqi night sky lit up by deadly fireworks. The dream of the peace movement lay in tatters.

The statistics are appalling. There were over 58,000 (American) military deaths in the Vietnam war (26 deaths per day). Arguably, it was an improvement over the 405,000 deaths in World War II (416 deaths per day), down from 625,000 deaths in the American Civil War (599 deaths per day). These numbers don't include military deaths of other countries or civilian casualties. Recently it was reported that every 80 minutes, a veteran takes his or her own life.

Contemplating these things, I can't help feeling an immense sadness. I wonder if we will ever acquire such awareness of our universal nature that we will no longer experience grief over such suffering and death. I used to think so.

In my early years, in pursuit of all things yogic, I read the Bhagavad Gita, a conversation between Arjuna and Krishna about Arjuna’s anguish over going into battle.

I do not see any good in killing my own kinsmen in battle, nor can I, my dear Krishna, covet victory, nor kingdom, nor pleasure … O Krishna! Though they may kill me, why should I wish to kill them?

Lord Krishna spoke the following words to desolate Arjuna, who was overwhelmed with compassion, eyes brimming with tears.

You are mourning for what is not worthy of grief yet speak as if a man of wisdom. Wise men bewail neither for the living nor for the dead … In the unreal there is no subsistence and in the real there is no end … Know that the abstract entity that pervades the whole body is indestructible as no one is able to cause destruction of that unceasing and eternal soul. The bodies with this unceasing, immeasurable and eternal soul decay. Therefore, fight, O Arjuna.

This doesn’t resonate with me anymore. It feels like mindfully eating meat or hiding in oneness, maintaining that suffering is an illusion.

Coincidentally, I read these words today over at James Ford Roshi's blog Monkey Mind:

I’m sick to heart that every week, week after week I have to read that list of young men and women, who wearing uniforms of our nation have died in or because of combat. I’m sick to heart knowing those names stand for many, many more, combatants and civilians who’ve died unnamed to us in this decade of war.

Will we ever cease to be ‘overwhelmed by compassion, eyes brimming with tears’?

I hope not.

French people bid troops of the French Army goodbye as they leave metropolitan France at Marseille harbour, 1941 

Lifeless or Just Leafless?

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

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

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.

Knock on a thousand doors

The same familiar friend

Answers each one

Unification Anxiety and Nonduality Terrors

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

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.

The Rescue of Dallas and Austin

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

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

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!