A Snuggle, a Swim and a Hug - Taking Refuge in the Three Jewels

The early Buddhists seemed to love making lists - the Four Noble Truths, the Ten Perfections, the 108 Cravings (comprised of six groups including the 18 Cravings Through the Sense of the Nose for Sensual Pleasures Associated with a View of Eternalism or Nihilism, Internally or Externally, of the Past, Present, or Future). Out of curiosity, I had a look at the 38 Blessings. It turns out the first one is Not Associating with Fools. Who knew?

I think because I’m a bit of a minimalist (read: simpleton), lists enumerating the Virtues, the Hindrances, the Dwellings of the Noble Ones and the Unwholesome Actions just don’t ring my bell. I guess that’s why I’m attracted to the simplicity of Zen - even the name only has three letters.

There is one little list, however, that I have grown very fond of: the Three Jewels - the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha, a.k.a. the Three Treasures.

Many folks with great scholarship and great insight have already written about the Three Jewels. This little offering is just a freehand sketch of what they mean to me. I know that as soon as I open my mouth, I fall into error, creating artificial separations, but here goes.

First off, the Three Jewels are not separate 'things' - more like one thing seen from three different directions. For the same reason, our take on them will be different, each from our own vantage point.

Buddha - not just the chap who sat under a tree and noticed something important. Buddha nature may be a better term. Vast emptiness. All-inclusive. Capable of becoming anything. Capable of awakening.

Dharma - the teachings of the Buddha and more. The laws of cause and effect. Change. Unfolding. Awakening. Relieving suffering.

Sangha - for sure everyone who follows the teachings of the Buddha - but also every other being of every kind, everywhere.

Taking refuge in the Three Treasures is a formal Buddhist ceremony. It is also a personal act we perform with our whole being - not just our thoughts and words - but our whole lives: a lifelong, intimate love affair.

We take refuge in the Buddha whenever we sit down, let go of our thoughts (including the thought of taking refuge) and simply pay attention. A little habit has crept up on me: last thing at night, if I snuggle up with the universe, for want of a better term, my iron grip on my little sense of self seems to loosen and I'm asleep in a few seconds.

My mental picture of taking refuge in the Dharma is going for a joyful swim in a river, doing a playful dance with the currents of cause and effect. It's also expressed in our sincere efforts to do the right thing, to be a manifestation of wisdom and compassion.

Taking refuge in the Sangha. Group hug. How wide can we spread our arms? We support and nourish and heal and cherish. And we are supported and nourished and healed and cherished. How cool is that?

Photo credit: Tambako the Jaguar via Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic

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I apologize to anyone who got a malware warning from visiting this site, especially if your own blog started setting off alarm bells for linking to it. I hope I didn’t cause you too much grief. The problem seems to have been a link on my blogroll and a spam comment that I hadn’t deleted. Both are fixed now and thankfully, Google was very prompt to reassess the site and give it a clean bill of health. Please feel free to contact me at ashton at shaw dot ca. A useful resource for checking site safety is http://sucuri.net.

Blowing in the Mind

I feel a little thrill whenever I see flags flapping in the wind. I usually gaze and listen for a while and then come back to earth, noticing that my feet are plodding along the pavement as usual and that some litter has blown up against a fence.

This is the 29^th koan of the Mumonkan:

Two monks were arguing about a flag. One said, "The flag is moving."

The other said, "The wind is moving."

The Sixth Patriarch happened to be passing by. He told them, "Not the wind, not the flag; mind is moving."

Their habitual way of thinking about flags in the wind was stripped away, leaving – something else.

About two hundred years later, some monks were debating the koan. Zen master Miaoxin overheard them and said,

It's not the wind moving, it's not the flag moving, it's not the mind moving.

Something else was stripped away, leaving – what?

This progression reminds me of the first few times I attended our Zen centre. The first time I went, the abbot gave a dharma talk during the second sit, which I thought was pretty profound. The same thing happened the second time I was there. The third time I went, he just sat in silence. I remember thinking to myself, what could be more profound than that? Well, the next time I went, he wasn’t there at all…

I suspect “mind” is one of the most difficult words to define. There is mind meaning thought; there is the subconscious mind; there is no-mind and there is mindfulness; there is little mind and there is big Mind; there is original mind and everyday mind and there is beginner’s mind and there is don’t know mind.

Then there are the Three Minds (sanshin):

Magnanimous Mind (daishin) is like an ocean or a mountain: calm and steady, yet accepting and nourishing countless beings and situations without differentiation. The ocean is serene because it accepts the many rivers without resisting.

Nurturing Mind (roshin), literally "old mind", is akin to the attitude of a kindly grandmother or parent who delights in caring for others. It is the spirit of the bodhisattva, the fully mature person.

Joyful Mind (kishin) is the joy that comes from deep in our hearts even in the midst of difficulty. It arises from the insight of zazen, that we live together with all beings and are not separate.

(These originated with Dogen Zenji and were propounded by Kosho Uchiyama Roshi (Opening the Hand of Thought) and subsequently by his successor, Shohaku Okumura Roshi (Realizing Genjokoan), founder of the Sanshin Zen Community, from where the above quote was taken.)

Rational thought insists on trying to compartmentalize and categorize mind in order to comprehend it, as it does with the rest of the world. Except it can't. The best it can do is ask interminable questions.

If it would only shut up and pay attention, it might notice something important.

I don't know much, but I know enough not to vex my brain or anyone else's by trying to think up - or worse, suggest - answers to these questions.

What is it that flaps in the wind? What is it that watches the flag through my eyes? What thinks about the flag with my brain? What is asking this question? What wants to know the answer? What opens and unfolds, withers and dies all at the same time? What suffers and at the same time seeks out and relieves suffering? What is both nowhere and everywhere? What is neither one nor more than one? Neither nothing nor something? What is writing these words? What is reading them? Wouldn't a cup of tea be nice?

It occurs to me that I may have overstepped my bounds. I don't want my aimless musings / infantile burblings to be mistaken for teachings. As an unordained layman with no qualifications, verification, rank, transmission or lineage, I'm not really anything. If I must be something, perhaps the litter blown against the fence.

All The Missing Names Of Love - A Review

Discovering All The Missing Names Of Love motivated me to do two things I have never done before: buy something online, and write a review. The first was easy; the second, definitely not so much.

Reading blogging friend Roselle Angwin's beautiful posts over at Qualia and Other Wildlife, I knew her new book of poetry would be worth reading, and now having read it, definitely worth sharing.

Like the tapestry by Anne Jackson on the book cover, Roselle’s poems interweave her thoughts and feelings with a sympathetic vision of the natural world to which she is clearly attuned.

In his haiku Nazuna (The Shepherd’s Purse), Basho was captured in an instant by the beauty of a lowly weed, then captured the moment in a poem:

When I look carefully –

Nazuna is blooming

Beneath the hedge.

Roselle does this too. By capturing moments that captured her, she captures us. This is from Tracks:

Now, dawn; the stillness

broken only by a clattering tractor

and its retinue of gulls.

As in On Staffa:

… It’s in these moments

that we remember the truths behind words;

and recover an ancient longing; and our

kinship, our covenant, with wild.

True to the title of the book, Roselle invites us to share her view of love from many different vantage points.

This is Rosa Canina:

Rain, milky with mist, has gently

erased the moorland distances.

Lanes are at their heartbreaking

fullest: buttercup, bluebell, campion,

Queene Anne’s lace, buds of dog rose.

And this is also an act of love:

to see another over a threshold.

Love of nature, animals, friends, lovers, parents; joy in their life, and sadness in their passing and decline.

I’m going to turn off my commentary here. These excerpts easily speak for themselves.

From Wild Garlic:

Everyone we love will leave us eventually,

or we’ll leave them. That’s what the wise vicar

said at that wedding blessing all those years ago.

Knowing that, how can I not love you fully?

From All The Missing Names Of Love:

Today I’m obsessed by things transient

or lost: the dog dead for fifteen years

who today lapped water in the kitchen

at noon, even though I couldn’t see her;

my father’s mislaid past; or the names

that slip through my mother’s grasp

like the minnows we’d try to catch

up to our childish knees in the Vellator streams …

From Rain Dharma:

Rain settling in like conversation between

lifelong friends; rain, plants, stone, birds

at ease with themselves and each other, at ease

with how the world needs to be.

From After Midsummer:

My mum is so light now I can

carry her in one chamber of my heart.

From Going into the meadow after the retreat:

the horse’s light breath on my cheek

the way he delicately politely

only just

meeting my eyes reads my face

hands hair with his gentle muzzle

as if he smells

questions, as if I were an event

blown in on the whirling wind

as if

from within the zero

of Zen in which he dwells

he barely

recognizes me, each thing wholly

new, every encounter the first.

From South Cerney Sonnets     ii Cotswold Water Park: Plate Movement:

The layers beneath our feet are provisional

as anything else; time swallows its tail

and I’m afraid. Hold me. …

From On not going over the lip of a waterfall in an oil-drum:

                               Tell me again

what you said about love;

speak it again – the one

about two bodies’ heat,

the one about crossing the water.

Tell me again.

From This rain, the window open:

Still I lie on the roomward side

of the bed

after all these years

wash the pillowslips

on which I never lie

when I wash my own

put them out to dry

billowing in the salt wind

and reinstall them

neither foam nor feathers

ever as good a pillow

as his chest

Diagnoses

for my parents:

i Alzheimer’s

Once she found a goldcrest’s nest,

tucked it carefully in a crook, made sure

the entrance was clear and open.

Recently the winds have blown it far

from the tree, are gently taking it apart.

ii Stroke

The last dominoes perch unsteadily.

The rest have fallen so that their black

sides are uppermost, the numbers

and the narrative mostly obscured.

From Whiteout:

… On that high crest

the snowdrifts fell and fell and were chest-height

and head-height and then filled the lane till

even hedges were eclipsed, the white drift a foretaste

of what later would take my mother’s brain and gently erase it.

From Let there be peace:

Let me go in a breath of applewood smoke from the mountains

Release a white mare into the hills for me

Whisper my name into her ear

Let her go.

Thank you, Roselle.

Buried Treasure on Lyle Hill

He was the kindest, most gentle man I have ever known, and I loved him for it.

My dad was born at home in Greenock, Scotland in 1910. Thirty-nine years later, I followed suit. Unfortunately, I never met his dad, a crane operator in the Greenock torpedo factory, as he died shortly before I was born.

I don't know a lot about Dad's life before me - just snippets of stories about his childhood and youth, like the time he acquired a permanently deformed fingernail after one of his friends, startled by a frog, dropped a heavy storm drain grate; and later, when he sang tenor songs out the window of the YMCA to impress the girls in the street below.

Then came war. I've already written about how Mum and Dad met as pen pals.

Most of my earliest memories are of Dad taking me places - to the beach, to the Italian ice cream shop, and to my favourite place - the top of Lyle Hill.

Greenock and Gourock on the Clyde from Lyle Hill

There was a circle of indentations in the ground near the summit. Dad said if I tried digging in them I might be lucky and find buried treasure. I dug in one but didn't find anything. Dad suggested I try a different one. I did, and found a penny! He suggested some others, and I dug up more coins, even a sixpence! On our way home, I suspect he did a lot of internal grinning, and I was bursting with excitement to tell Mum all about our adventure. It was easily ten years later when I was marveling to him about the coins on Lyle Hill that he finally confessed to planting them.

In 1957, we emigrated to Victoria, British Columbia in Canada. Dad said he would have been more homesick, but was comforted by the similarity of the landscape and the mountains across the water.

Victoria on the Strait of Juan de Fuca from Gonzales Hill

Again, my memories of Dad's life in Victoria seem to be just snippets: my mum often playing his favourite melody, "Moonlight Sonata" on the piano for him; our suspicion that he was colour blind because of the blue trees in his paintings; and later, signs of his advancing Alzheimer's when the last batch of the blackberry wine he made every year turned to vinegar and he 'solved' the problem by adding large amounts of sugar...

Except for The Upper Room, a daily devotional he read every morning while eating his porridge alone (he was up and off to work before the rest of the house stirred), the only books he seemed to read were westerns. One summer we drove to California, and as we passed through Oregon, we came upon the Rogue River. Suddenly, Dad was like a little kid, so excited to see for himself the river he had read about in Zane Grey's stories.

Dad was a gifted carpenter. He loved to build furniture and fix things, and would never accept payment for the work he did for our friends. I still cherish his old hand tools with his name stamped into their wooden handles. We used to walk along the cliff top and he would identify different kinds of wood washed up on the beach below and then go down, saw them into chunks, and lug them back to his workshop in the basement.

After almost forty years, it was finally time for Mum and Dad to leave their house and move into a condo. I don't recall Dad ever getting angry or saying an unkind word, but on their last day there, Dad went down to the basement, fired up his table saw and cut some wood for the last time. As the noise of the saw echoed through the house, we knew how he felt.

Although he gave up driving, much to everyone's relief, he continued to go on long bicycle rides with Mum every day well into his 80's. It was a sad day when we realized it was time for him to stop, because his dementia had progressed to the point that he would cycle off and get lost if not closely watched, and because he would pedal so slowly that he fell over turning corners.

Mum used to do jigsaw puzzles. One night, she woke up to find Dad standing over the puzzle eating the pieces. After that, we moved him into a nursing home. He didn't complain, but expressed his disapproval by catching pneumonia and dying peacefully about a week after he arrived.

All my life, I never told Dad how I felt about him until, in his last hours, I thanked him for being my dad and told him that I loved him. I don't know if he heard me, but I hope so.

If I could have only half of his kindness, I would be a very lucky man.

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

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