.
How many professions are there that seem to face a constant barrage of bad news with something approaching equanimity ... or anyway a willingness to remain in that profession? Cops come to mind -- out of bed every day, hitting the street, and constantly encouraged to think the worst of people. It's no wonder to me that later in life so many decide to 'eat a bullet.' Or emergency-room workers, who have an advantage over cops because they do what they can to nourish and protect. Or those in the ministering professions, constantly bombarded with the foibles and frailties and whining of their fellow men and whose profession requires them to buck up the weary and forlorn. 'Compassion' may be their calling, but how exhausting it must get, listening and ministering to nothing but bad news, difficulty and whining.
A friend of mine spoke with cranky determination the other day as we chatted on the phone: "I hate whining," he said. But his back hurt and it was one of a series of old-age plaints I could sympathize with and was willing to hear about because ... because I might do the same and since the two of us forgave the bad news in each other because there was good news as well -- dirty jokes and laughter and discussions of subjects we both took seriously. He didn't prey on me and I tried not to prey on him with bad news. We might share bad news, but we didn't make it a profession.
There are people who seem to think it's acceptable to prey on others with their bad news. Like the blackmail of the stereotyped "Jewish mother," they seek out and suck dry the kindness others may be willing to exhibit. They demand it like some tantrum-prone child. Me, me, me, me, me .....
And it makes me think of the old, but seldom enunciated, Christian prayer: "Dear Lord, please give this person a swift kick in the ass." And I suppose the prayer is directed as much as anything to a mind -- my own -- which could just as easily find a laundry list of bad news. But since everyone has a similar laundry list, the question does arise, "What makes you think I want to add to mine?"
Once, when I was doing house painting for a woman I liked, I heard my employer on the phone with her mother. "Mom," she said, "I don't feel too well today. I'm not in the mood for a bunch of bad news." What a nice, clear statement ... not that her mother let up, judging by the length of the ensuing conversation.
Sometimes I think it's no wonder people talk about the weather or sports, two sexless subjects that contain little human excitement: It's an extreme version of 'not whining.' It's a way of saying there is control and discipline and no-worries. And of course it's boring because people are more interesting than that. But the other end of the spectrum is equally boring and equally annoying ... the presumption that what concerns me must, somehow, concern everyone else.
I don't know the balance point between the extremes, but one thing's for sure: I'm glad I am not a minister or some sort of similar 'helper.' That gives me the option of suggesting the person take their bad news elsewhere.
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Tuesday, October 11, 2011
twinkle, twinkle
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The early morning air that is crisping into autumn seemed to etch to stars today. So crispy-crispy clear. Astronomy -- another topic about which I have a patchwork understanding that I can cobble together with judgment and bias in an effort to be smart, in control, intelligent and a number of other things I clearly am not. Luckily, the stars don't mind...at least as far as I know.
One of the things I do 'know' is that the twinkling light I see in the heavens this morning can be a light that was emitted thousands of years ago. That's how long the light took to reach my peering eye. When I look up, I am looking directly into the past ... twinkle, twinkle, tease, tease ... and all of it happening in a 'then' made 'now.' What I see with such assurance is something utterly unassured. For all I know, that particular star or planet or whatever the hell it is has long since ceased to twinkle at all and, relative to the stars, I am living in a self-satisfied dream world. What may be 'dead' is still verifiably 'alive.'
Looking directly into the past. Right now. In the present. What a mind-boggler. What really is or may be dead is really alive and well and living in the early-morning sky.
And perhaps, assuming the stars gave a hoot, when the stars see me twinkling, they will suffer from the same confounding consternation. Adam is gone now, but twinkles just the same ... just like everybody else.
Maybe it's time to stop papering over my ignorance with smug observations and just let the past and present go. Separating past and present is a fool's errand -- one I am habituated to and one that is palpably a matter of telling fairy tales. How many fairy tales can I tell before living in a fairy tale becomes tiresome in its inaccuracy? What's the matter with being alive or dead, now or then? Isn't life simpler than a fairy tale?
Twinkle, twinkle.
.
The early morning air that is crisping into autumn seemed to etch to stars today. So crispy-crispy clear. Astronomy -- another topic about which I have a patchwork understanding that I can cobble together with judgment and bias in an effort to be smart, in control, intelligent and a number of other things I clearly am not. Luckily, the stars don't mind...at least as far as I know.
One of the things I do 'know' is that the twinkling light I see in the heavens this morning can be a light that was emitted thousands of years ago. That's how long the light took to reach my peering eye. When I look up, I am looking directly into the past ... twinkle, twinkle, tease, tease ... and all of it happening in a 'then' made 'now.' What I see with such assurance is something utterly unassured. For all I know, that particular star or planet or whatever the hell it is has long since ceased to twinkle at all and, relative to the stars, I am living in a self-satisfied dream world. What may be 'dead' is still verifiably 'alive.'Looking directly into the past. Right now. In the present. What a mind-boggler. What really is or may be dead is really alive and well and living in the early-morning sky.
And perhaps, assuming the stars gave a hoot, when the stars see me twinkling, they will suffer from the same confounding consternation. Adam is gone now, but twinkles just the same ... just like everybody else.
Maybe it's time to stop papering over my ignorance with smug observations and just let the past and present go. Separating past and present is a fool's errand -- one I am habituated to and one that is palpably a matter of telling fairy tales. How many fairy tales can I tell before living in a fairy tale becomes tiresome in its inaccuracy? What's the matter with being alive or dead, now or then? Isn't life simpler than a fairy tale?
Twinkle, twinkle.
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Monday, October 10, 2011
the pat-on-the-back syndrome
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Once upon a time, a long time ago, I came into possession of a segmented, three-panel mirror. It was hinged and had once belonged on top of a dresser from the 1920's or slightly before. It was nothing to write home about, but I liked the arabesques carved into the frame around each segment. They too were nothing to crow about, but I liked them and wanted to take off the layers of paint that had been applied to them -- to take them back to their original wood.
Having set myself the task, I began applying an acidic paint remover that made the paint bubble. But it was slow going. Every nook and cranny seemed to require individualized attention. And every nook and cranny had to be gone over several times -- that's how thick and ingrained the paint was. Apply the paint remover, scrape or scrub or gently chisel the bubbled paint away ... always being cautious not to harm the carving itself. Bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit. I used ice picks, tooth picks, small chisels, tooth brushes, steel wool and, in short order, a lot of cuss words that had no noticeable effect. It went on and on and on.
Days passed. Little-bit by little-bit, I took away the paint. The wood beneath, as it began to reveal itself, was nothing special -- maybe poplar or some other plain-Jane wood that might have been used for mass-produced items like this. Not cherry or mahogany or anything sexy. But it was wood and I was pleased ... or anyway imagined I would be pleased if the fucking thing ever got done.
And when I was done I put a bit of urethane on it and hung it in the bathroom. No one would ever know the effort that had gone into it. It looked nice, but I'm not sure I would have bought it at a flea market.
How much stuff in life is like that -- an intention that arises based on some desire to improve ... and it goes on and on and on and on. So many nooks and crannies. So much stuff to be cleared away and seen anew. Little-bit by little-bit ... two, three, four, five times. Errors that need correction ... so do it again. And after all that work, with a 'success' in hand ... who would ever know?
Blood, sweat and tears -- horrors beyond naming; goof heaped on goof; imagining you were done only to see in the morning light that it all had to be done again ... AGAIN! Cursing the heavens that there were not enough cuss words to cover the frustrations.
And no one would ever know.
But you would.
Looking at that triptych mirror today, I still like it. Even I don't know the effort that went into it. And that's as it should be, I guess ...
Maybe the lesson is just to enjoy myself -- to enjoy the original wood -- and quit trying to pat myself on the back.
.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I came into possession of a segmented, three-panel mirror. It was hinged and had once belonged on top of a dresser from the 1920's or slightly before. It was nothing to write home about, but I liked the arabesques carved into the frame around each segment. They too were nothing to crow about, but I liked them and wanted to take off the layers of paint that had been applied to them -- to take them back to their original wood.
Having set myself the task, I began applying an acidic paint remover that made the paint bubble. But it was slow going. Every nook and cranny seemed to require individualized attention. And every nook and cranny had to be gone over several times -- that's how thick and ingrained the paint was. Apply the paint remover, scrape or scrub or gently chisel the bubbled paint away ... always being cautious not to harm the carving itself. Bit by bit by bit by bit by bit by bit. I used ice picks, tooth picks, small chisels, tooth brushes, steel wool and, in short order, a lot of cuss words that had no noticeable effect. It went on and on and on.Days passed. Little-bit by little-bit, I took away the paint. The wood beneath, as it began to reveal itself, was nothing special -- maybe poplar or some other plain-Jane wood that might have been used for mass-produced items like this. Not cherry or mahogany or anything sexy. But it was wood and I was pleased ... or anyway imagined I would be pleased if the fucking thing ever got done.
And when I was done I put a bit of urethane on it and hung it in the bathroom. No one would ever know the effort that had gone into it. It looked nice, but I'm not sure I would have bought it at a flea market.
How much stuff in life is like that -- an intention that arises based on some desire to improve ... and it goes on and on and on and on. So many nooks and crannies. So much stuff to be cleared away and seen anew. Little-bit by little-bit ... two, three, four, five times. Errors that need correction ... so do it again. And after all that work, with a 'success' in hand ... who would ever know?
Blood, sweat and tears -- horrors beyond naming; goof heaped on goof; imagining you were done only to see in the morning light that it all had to be done again ... AGAIN! Cursing the heavens that there were not enough cuss words to cover the frustrations.
And no one would ever know.
But you would.
Looking at that triptych mirror today, I still like it. Even I don't know the effort that went into it. And that's as it should be, I guess ...
Maybe the lesson is just to enjoy myself -- to enjoy the original wood -- and quit trying to pat myself on the back.
.
ahh, the Golden Spurtle award
.
-- In Egypt, full-blown riots broke out and 24 people were killed.
-- In Europe, the Franco-Belgian bank Dexia agreed to the nationalization of one of its banking divisions ... and were promised $121 billion in state guarantees. Some think this may put pressure on other euro-zone countries to underwrite sagging banks. It is hard not to ask in exasperation, "Banks?! Bail out banks?! What about the rest of us?!"
-- In email, a friend sent along a video rant asking essentially those questions -- a rant that is indicative of the amorphous malaise of the times ... full of fervor, hard to disagree with and yet lacking, like politicians everywhere, a statement of direction or specific goals or how to achieve them short of dissolving into a puddle of unfocused wrath or the kind of riots the Egyptians have seen.
-- In New Hampshire, a state some 100 days away from voting for a Republican nominee for president, ten women could barely name all the candidates. What if they had an election and nobody came? Candidates spending millions to attract attention and arouse excitement and people seem to have better (or worse) things to think about. Millions of dollars spent by and for exemplars who cannot expound in clear English the reasons that those millions could not be better spent on soup kitchens or highway projects ... or damn near anything concrete. And it's hardly as if the Republicans are alone. Bit by bit, it's as if the electorate has decided that agreeing with or dissenting from the old political models simply doesn't work. Politicians have proven themselves not just ridiculous ... they have proven themselves irrelevant.
-- The Occupy Wall Street movement, which started in rag-tag fashion Sept. 17 and has found echoing resonance in cities across the country, continues to grow. No longer is it just young people with an idealistic outlook. Middle class union members, out-of-work TV producers and greying grannies with all the concerns that aging brings have joined the well-organized and well-modulated throng in New York and elsewhere. To date, the gathering has decided by consensus what to do next. Its lack of leadership is a decided plus in a world where any positive agenda -- any set of stated goals -- runs the decided risk of being picked apart or being co-opted by one mealy-mouthed spin-doctor or another. As in Egypt, the cri de coeur resonates: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more."
But weeping can only last so long before any individual or group has to stop crying or risk falling into helpless irrelevance or mindless riots. I think the question posed by The Washington Post is apt:
Not today, perhaps, and perhaps not tomorrow, but at some point a decision and direction will have to be chosen and then, of course, it's Nellie bar the door: The devil is in the details and, well, the devil will have his due. It's a rock and a hard place -- continue to work smoothly and by consensus and stand as a strong witness to the malaise in the country or to shatter the glass bowl of witnessing serenity or risk becoming as ineffective and unworthy of attention as politicians in New Hampshire. You can only call others to account for so long before you have to realize that you are calling yourself to account. It may be infuriating, but I think it is true.
-- On a brighter note, a Gaelic singer, John Boa, has won the coveted Golden Spurtle award at the World Porridge Making championships. How wonderful that there should still be time and energy available to judge the best porridge recipe. And add to that the fact that I had never in my life heard the word "spurtle" and, well, the story offered a small jet of delight. A spurtle "is a spatula-like tool traditionally used to stir porridge." That, for my money, helps the sun shine today.
.
-- In Europe, the Franco-Belgian bank Dexia agreed to the nationalization of one of its banking divisions ... and were promised $121 billion in state guarantees. Some think this may put pressure on other euro-zone countries to underwrite sagging banks. It is hard not to ask in exasperation, "Banks?! Bail out banks?! What about the rest of us?!"
-- In email, a friend sent along a video rant asking essentially those questions -- a rant that is indicative of the amorphous malaise of the times ... full of fervor, hard to disagree with and yet lacking, like politicians everywhere, a statement of direction or specific goals or how to achieve them short of dissolving into a puddle of unfocused wrath or the kind of riots the Egyptians have seen.
-- In New Hampshire, a state some 100 days away from voting for a Republican nominee for president, ten women could barely name all the candidates. What if they had an election and nobody came? Candidates spending millions to attract attention and arouse excitement and people seem to have better (or worse) things to think about. Millions of dollars spent by and for exemplars who cannot expound in clear English the reasons that those millions could not be better spent on soup kitchens or highway projects ... or damn near anything concrete. And it's hardly as if the Republicans are alone. Bit by bit, it's as if the electorate has decided that agreeing with or dissenting from the old political models simply doesn't work. Politicians have proven themselves not just ridiculous ... they have proven themselves irrelevant.
-- The Occupy Wall Street movement, which started in rag-tag fashion Sept. 17 and has found echoing resonance in cities across the country, continues to grow. No longer is it just young people with an idealistic outlook. Middle class union members, out-of-work TV producers and greying grannies with all the concerns that aging brings have joined the well-organized and well-modulated throng in New York and elsewhere. To date, the gathering has decided by consensus what to do next. Its lack of leadership is a decided plus in a world where any positive agenda -- any set of stated goals -- runs the decided risk of being picked apart or being co-opted by one mealy-mouthed spin-doctor or another. As in Egypt, the cri de coeur resonates: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more."
But weeping can only last so long before any individual or group has to stop crying or risk falling into helpless irrelevance or mindless riots. I think the question posed by The Washington Post is apt:
Now, a movement that started with no concrete goals as a simple protest of power must decide what to do with some power of its own. Can a leaderless group that relies on consensus find a way for so many people to agree on what comes next? Can it offer not only objections but also solutions? Can a radical protest evolve into a mainstream movement for change?
Not today, perhaps, and perhaps not tomorrow, but at some point a decision and direction will have to be chosen and then, of course, it's Nellie bar the door: The devil is in the details and, well, the devil will have his due. It's a rock and a hard place -- continue to work smoothly and by consensus and stand as a strong witness to the malaise in the country or to shatter the glass bowl of witnessing serenity or risk becoming as ineffective and unworthy of attention as politicians in New Hampshire. You can only call others to account for so long before you have to realize that you are calling yourself to account. It may be infuriating, but I think it is true.
-- On a brighter note, a Gaelic singer, John Boa, has won the coveted Golden Spurtle award at the World Porridge Making championships. How wonderful that there should still be time and energy available to judge the best porridge recipe. And add to that the fact that I had never in my life heard the word "spurtle" and, well, the story offered a small jet of delight. A spurtle "is a spatula-like tool traditionally used to stir porridge." That, for my money, helps the sun shine today.
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Sunday, October 9, 2011
footnote on "belief" and "doubt"
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If someone were to ask me for a synonym for "belief," I would be inclined to say, "doubt."
And if someone were to ask me for a synonym for "doubt," I would be inclined to say, "belief."
Same stuff, different spelling.
Philosophically, theologically or in other intellectual realms, this subject is pretty dumb -- meaning it could lead to a whole host of beard-stroking reactions.
But for spiritual endeavor purposes -- in the actual-factual, sit-down-and-focus-the-mind practical settings -- I think it is pretty important.
Check it out. See what happens where neither doubt nor belief enter.
It's worth a look, I'd say.
.
If someone were to ask me for a synonym for "belief," I would be inclined to say, "doubt."
And if someone were to ask me for a synonym for "doubt," I would be inclined to say, "belief."
Same stuff, different spelling.
Philosophically, theologically or in other intellectual realms, this subject is pretty dumb -- meaning it could lead to a whole host of beard-stroking reactions.
But for spiritual endeavor purposes -- in the actual-factual, sit-down-and-focus-the-mind practical settings -- I think it is pretty important.
Check it out. See what happens where neither doubt nor belief enter.
It's worth a look, I'd say.
.
what is it?
.
What is it?
What is it that has arrived before anyone took the first step? What is it that reaches across wide oceans and tops the highest mountain? What is it that beckons and yet seems always to be just out of reach? What is it that tiptoes across the face of a starving child, seeking like a black fly for the tears that no longer flow? What is it that infuses the stillness at the bottom of the Mariana Trench? What is it that crosses all boundaries in a single kiss or an uproarious laugh? What is it that is longed for and cannot be named despite all the names? If it were actually missing, how could it be missed?
What is it that can make a man or woman ache with longing?
What is it that requires no questions or answers but is simply free and clear and out-reaches the furthest heaven?
What is it?
How could it be anything other than...
You?
Never mind the spiritual maunderings or emotional whirligigs. Seriously, inescapably, factually, comfortably ... you.
.
What is it?
What is it that has arrived before anyone took the first step? What is it that reaches across wide oceans and tops the highest mountain? What is it that beckons and yet seems always to be just out of reach? What is it that tiptoes across the face of a starving child, seeking like a black fly for the tears that no longer flow? What is it that infuses the stillness at the bottom of the Mariana Trench? What is it that crosses all boundaries in a single kiss or an uproarious laugh? What is it that is longed for and cannot be named despite all the names? If it were actually missing, how could it be missed?
What is it that can make a man or woman ache with longing?
What is it that requires no questions or answers but is simply free and clear and out-reaches the furthest heaven?
What is it?
How could it be anything other than...
You?
Never mind the spiritual maunderings or emotional whirligigs. Seriously, inescapably, factually, comfortably ... you.
.
less 'important' news
.
There are more 'important' news stories to be told today, but the ones that caught my eye were:
-- Four people were arrested in the attacks on Amish people in Ohio. Those arrested had apparently been tossed out of the Amish community.
-- Wall Street protesters were looking to occupy other sections of New York City Saturday as the multi-millionaire mayor, like a lot of other wary politicians, trod a thin line between disapproving and approving.
-- The unemployed and underemployed find themselves increasingly screened out of potential jobs either because they are unemployed (and employers would rather hire someone coming from another job) or because they have been unemployed too long. It puts me in mind of the Almanac Singers' (including Pete Seeger before he received widespread appreciation and was reviled as a socialist) version of "I Don't Want Your Millions Mister," an old labor song from out of the 1930's-40's.
.
There are more 'important' news stories to be told today, but the ones that caught my eye were:
-- Four people were arrested in the attacks on Amish people in Ohio. Those arrested had apparently been tossed out of the Amish community.
-- Wall Street protesters were looking to occupy other sections of New York City Saturday as the multi-millionaire mayor, like a lot of other wary politicians, trod a thin line between disapproving and approving.
-- The unemployed and underemployed find themselves increasingly screened out of potential jobs either because they are unemployed (and employers would rather hire someone coming from another job) or because they have been unemployed too long. It puts me in mind of the Almanac Singers' (including Pete Seeger before he received widespread appreciation and was reviled as a socialist) version of "I Don't Want Your Millions Mister," an old labor song from out of the 1930's-40's.
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new friends, old friends
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The past can be so compelling and yet, when drawn into the present, so ordinary.
Yesterday, Keith and his wife Hatchy, two people I hadn't seen in 50 years, came by for a visit and a very pleasant lunch. Before their arrival, my head was whizzing as I tried to dredge up why and how Keith and I had been friends in college. I fretted, in part, because I really do have a lousy memory. Much of what others delight in with their memories is filled with pretty unpleasant stuff, so generally I relegate memories to a safe and forgotten and arm's-length distance. It's an old habit that was challenged when Keith and Hatchy came to visit.
Once over the fact that we were all 50 years older and grey-er, there we all were, a small group of seventy-somethings, chatting along about kids and employment and whatever struck our fancy. It was wonderful for me ... just to be in the company of people I liked in the concrete present. They surprised me by remembering things about me I had utterly forgotten. But the past was like smoke rising from a toasty camp fire ... it was there, somehow, but it wasn't the fire itself, except of course it also was the fire itself. The past became light as a feather. It was accommodating but not insistent.
We were grist for each others' mills. All of us more or less the same age, with experiences under our belts and stories to tell -- Keith as a one-time insurance underwriter, Hatchy as a Montessori teacher, their two kids, a boy and a girl and how they were faring ... just warm talk with people who were of a similar age. There was the organ recital -- Keith with knees that were giving out, Hatchy with some earlier heart problems, me with my heart stuff -- but it was just part of the warm tapestry, one topic to be woven into thoughts and emotions through which we all tripped lightly ... because we had been someplace and that place was not the only place.
Weird in one sense, meeting up with what you haven't seen in so long. And yet perfectly natural in the present gentle breezes of conversation and food and good company. It was a really good time for me... being around people who took an interest in the fact that I had built the zendo but who lived in the Bible Belt of South Carolina and really didn't take much interest in religion ... but were interested that I was interested, much as I was not interested in multi-million-dollar insurance underwriting, but I was interested that Keith had chosen that way as a means of putting food on the family table.
What a good time and how informative. And today, yesterday is past, but the warm wood smoke lingers ... lightly.
.
The past can be so compelling and yet, when drawn into the present, so ordinary.
Yesterday, Keith and his wife Hatchy, two people I hadn't seen in 50 years, came by for a visit and a very pleasant lunch. Before their arrival, my head was whizzing as I tried to dredge up why and how Keith and I had been friends in college. I fretted, in part, because I really do have a lousy memory. Much of what others delight in with their memories is filled with pretty unpleasant stuff, so generally I relegate memories to a safe and forgotten and arm's-length distance. It's an old habit that was challenged when Keith and Hatchy came to visit.
Once over the fact that we were all 50 years older and grey-er, there we all were, a small group of seventy-somethings, chatting along about kids and employment and whatever struck our fancy. It was wonderful for me ... just to be in the company of people I liked in the concrete present. They surprised me by remembering things about me I had utterly forgotten. But the past was like smoke rising from a toasty camp fire ... it was there, somehow, but it wasn't the fire itself, except of course it also was the fire itself. The past became light as a feather. It was accommodating but not insistent.
We were grist for each others' mills. All of us more or less the same age, with experiences under our belts and stories to tell -- Keith as a one-time insurance underwriter, Hatchy as a Montessori teacher, their two kids, a boy and a girl and how they were faring ... just warm talk with people who were of a similar age. There was the organ recital -- Keith with knees that were giving out, Hatchy with some earlier heart problems, me with my heart stuff -- but it was just part of the warm tapestry, one topic to be woven into thoughts and emotions through which we all tripped lightly ... because we had been someplace and that place was not the only place.
Weird in one sense, meeting up with what you haven't seen in so long. And yet perfectly natural in the present gentle breezes of conversation and food and good company. It was a really good time for me... being around people who took an interest in the fact that I had built the zendo but who lived in the Bible Belt of South Carolina and really didn't take much interest in religion ... but were interested that I was interested, much as I was not interested in multi-million-dollar insurance underwriting, but I was interested that Keith had chosen that way as a means of putting food on the family table.
What a good time and how informative. And today, yesterday is past, but the warm wood smoke lingers ... lightly.
.
the power of music
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And here is a somewhat gussied-up rendition by Marlene Dietrich of the trumpeted love song, Lili Marlene.
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And here is a somewhat gussied-up rendition by Marlene Dietrich of the trumpeted love song, Lili Marlene.
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Saturday, October 8, 2011
news snippets
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-- The American ambassador to the Philippines is busy trying to extract his foot from his mouth after suggesting that 40% of the region's visitors were sex tourists. A BBC story says "The Philippine government has been trying to revitalise the country's tourism industry, which for years has lagged behind those of other Asian countries." I can't tell if that means the Philippines feels its sex industry is lagging behind the rest of Asia or not.
-- Police are having a hard time in Ohio investigating reports that members of the Amish community there have been attacked and the beards of men cut off. The Amish are historically reluctant to reveal their concerns to the police or any other segment of the wider community.
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-- The American ambassador to the Philippines is busy trying to extract his foot from his mouth after suggesting that 40% of the region's visitors were sex tourists. A BBC story says "The Philippine government has been trying to revitalise the country's tourism industry, which for years has lagged behind those of other Asian countries." I can't tell if that means the Philippines feels its sex industry is lagging behind the rest of Asia or not.
-- Police are having a hard time in Ohio investigating reports that members of the Amish community there have been attacked and the beards of men cut off. The Amish are historically reluctant to reveal their concerns to the police or any other segment of the wider community.
.
full of juicy juice
.
"What if there were a war and nobody came?" was a question sometimes posed by the peace movement during the Vietnam war era. Similarly, I wonder today, "What if there were a religion and nobody believed?"
This is not just an idle or persnickety jab. I think it is a serious question anyone might ask of the bathroom mirror. But the question also has some social and empirical oomph in a story out of Brazil this morning: The Catholic church faces a new difficulty: No longer are the Pentecostals their sole competitor in Latin America. Now they have to cope as well with the fact that some if not many young people are simply setting conventional religions persuasions to one side.
What if there were a religion and nobody believed?
The Occupy Wall Street movement, meanwhile, currently represents a cauldron of political energy that any politician would give his eye teeth to tap into ... and lead. But the movement is currently leaderless and, moreover, wary of the bouquets politicians are laying at its doorstep. And some think that their leaderless status is quite a good thing ... who wants to get trapped in the same old pay-to-play political compromises of the past? On the campaign trail, Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney dragged out what might have been or might still be a winning political card when he spoke up yesterday for "a stronger military that would allow the United States to lead the world and help deter future violence." Somehow I can imagine Occupy Wall Street saying, "Oh puleeze! How often do we have to listen to drivel that simply does not accord with facts ... and on the tenth anniversary of America's war in Afghanistan of all days?!"
Leaderless. Self-reliant. And full of juicy juice. How wonderful it sounds and in some respects is. No one has a leader. You can't tell me what to do! These are bald facts even when you omit the raucous teenage flonging of the individualistic dong.
And yet, and yet ... we all choose leaders. For purposes little and large, we pick leaders because, in the end, we want to accomplish something. Like the high-roller at the craps table, there is delight in holding the dice, in controlling the scene. But then, inevitably, the dice must be rolled and control relinquished: We pick a leader in the mind or at the table or in politics and ... the devil is in the details and the question becomes who will see the details through.
Leaderless. Self-reliant. And full of juicy juice. What a delight! And yet too, who has the courage to live in a leaderless world? It takes balls because it is scary. Easier is to convene a set of beliefs or judgments or biases and assert a leadership that will show the way ... and invariably screw the 'leaderless' pooch. Is there another choice? I don't think so: Everyone has to be a thorough asshole if they want to discover what it takes to stop being an asshole. Of course we don't call the leaders we choose "assholes." We dress them up. Why? Because they are mine and my stuff deserves nice clothes.
Each makes a choice. OK. I see nothing wrong with it. But finding the courage and determination to go the distance with our chosen leaders ... ah, there's the rub. Will it be the sanctity of the Catholic church, or the promises of a politician or some other well-formatted vision of what is now and what is then? It's a choice. And yet taking responsibility for that choice is hard. I'd rather let someone or something else take the responsibility -- some virtue, some vision, some widely-accepted movement. "This movement is good ... that's why I follow it."
It seems to me inevitable and human to follow. But the best uses of leadership and follower-dom are to come to a recognition of personal -- really intimate -- responsibility ... and the determination and willingness to find peace in that responsibility.
Full of juicy juice.
Isn't that, in the end, the truth?
Full of juicy laughter?
.
"What if there were a war and nobody came?" was a question sometimes posed by the peace movement during the Vietnam war era. Similarly, I wonder today, "What if there were a religion and nobody believed?"
This is not just an idle or persnickety jab. I think it is a serious question anyone might ask of the bathroom mirror. But the question also has some social and empirical oomph in a story out of Brazil this morning: The Catholic church faces a new difficulty: No longer are the Pentecostals their sole competitor in Latin America. Now they have to cope as well with the fact that some if not many young people are simply setting conventional religions persuasions to one side.
"The religion didn't stick with me," said Maragato, now a 24-year-old journalism student. "In the past, the church was much more a part of Brazilians' daily lives. Today, young people can easily seek out other ways of thinking."
A new study by Brazil's top research institute finds Magarato's views represent a sea change among a younger generation of Brazilians and present a fresh challenge for church leaders already struggling to hold on to parishioners across Latin America.
What if there were a religion and nobody believed?
The Occupy Wall Street movement, meanwhile, currently represents a cauldron of political energy that any politician would give his eye teeth to tap into ... and lead. But the movement is currently leaderless and, moreover, wary of the bouquets politicians are laying at its doorstep. And some think that their leaderless status is quite a good thing ... who wants to get trapped in the same old pay-to-play political compromises of the past? On the campaign trail, Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney dragged out what might have been or might still be a winning political card when he spoke up yesterday for "a stronger military that would allow the United States to lead the world and help deter future violence." Somehow I can imagine Occupy Wall Street saying, "Oh puleeze! How often do we have to listen to drivel that simply does not accord with facts ... and on the tenth anniversary of America's war in Afghanistan of all days?!"
Leaderless. Self-reliant. And full of juicy juice. How wonderful it sounds and in some respects is. No one has a leader. You can't tell me what to do! These are bald facts even when you omit the raucous teenage flonging of the individualistic dong.
And yet, and yet ... we all choose leaders. For purposes little and large, we pick leaders because, in the end, we want to accomplish something. Like the high-roller at the craps table, there is delight in holding the dice, in controlling the scene. But then, inevitably, the dice must be rolled and control relinquished: We pick a leader in the mind or at the table or in politics and ... the devil is in the details and the question becomes who will see the details through.
Leaderless. Self-reliant. And full of juicy juice. What a delight! And yet too, who has the courage to live in a leaderless world? It takes balls because it is scary. Easier is to convene a set of beliefs or judgments or biases and assert a leadership that will show the way ... and invariably screw the 'leaderless' pooch. Is there another choice? I don't think so: Everyone has to be a thorough asshole if they want to discover what it takes to stop being an asshole. Of course we don't call the leaders we choose "assholes." We dress them up. Why? Because they are mine and my stuff deserves nice clothes.
Each makes a choice. OK. I see nothing wrong with it. But finding the courage and determination to go the distance with our chosen leaders ... ah, there's the rub. Will it be the sanctity of the Catholic church, or the promises of a politician or some other well-formatted vision of what is now and what is then? It's a choice. And yet taking responsibility for that choice is hard. I'd rather let someone or something else take the responsibility -- some virtue, some vision, some widely-accepted movement. "This movement is good ... that's why I follow it."
It seems to me inevitable and human to follow. But the best uses of leadership and follower-dom are to come to a recognition of personal -- really intimate -- responsibility ... and the determination and willingness to find peace in that responsibility.
Full of juicy juice.
Isn't that, in the end, the truth?
Full of juicy laughter?
.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Eido Tai Shimano (continued) 2
.
This is a continuation of the Eido Tai Shimano (continued) blog which A. I screwed up by trying to delete several "test" posts and then lamely tried to fix and B. refuses to add posts in ways that are readily available after 2,205 entries. Eido Tai Shimano (continued) was itself a continuation of Eido Tai Shimano, which went haywire after 5,000 posts.
**************************************************************
I have deleted the letter in the interests of space.
Eido Tai Shimano (continued)3 is a continuation of this thread. (http://genkaku-again.blogspot.com/2012/01/eido-tai-shimano-continued-3.html)
.
This is a continuation of the Eido Tai Shimano (continued) blog which A. I screwed up by trying to delete several "test" posts and then lamely tried to fix and B. refuses to add posts in ways that are readily available after 2,205 entries. Eido Tai Shimano (continued) was itself a continuation of Eido Tai Shimano, which went haywire after 5,000 posts.
**************************************************************
I have deleted the letter in the interests of space.
Eido Tai Shimano (continued)3 is a continuation of this thread. (http://genkaku-again.blogspot.com/2012/01/eido-tai-shimano-continued-3.html)
.
each stroke of the brush is it
.
It came back to visit again today, a time when, as a wobbly Zen student intent on doing it right or getting enlightened or some such fiery vision, I went to visit my teacher's teacher, Soen Nakagawa Roshi, in a private interview or dokusan. I didn't know Soen very well and was a bit nervous because of the reputation he had as a 'Zen master.' I felt like a pipsqueak.
Anyway, I did the requisite bows, settled myself on the cushion facing his, and stated my practice. That was the format. He asked me very gentle questions -- where did I live, etc. -- and put me more or less at ease. And then he asked what I did for a living. "I'm a painter," I said without much thought since at the time I painted New York City apartments for a living. "Oh that's wonderful!" he replied. "Each stroke of the brush is IT."
Later I would worry that I should have been more clear -- that I was a house painter, not a fine artist. I was worried enough about this that for several days I tried to devise ways to see him again and explain, to make it clear to him, to not leave him thinking I was something I wasn't. I was pretty agitated.
But of course, there was no need. Each stroke of the brush is it ... fine artist, house painter -- no difference. But that understanding lay some place in the future for me. At the time, I was fired up for Zen and wanted to be honest and cross all the t's and dot all the i's. I wanted to get it right. I wanted to be a good Zen student, not some corporate, book-reading spin doctor. Oh dear, I had inadvertently made a mistake!
What brought that small incident to mind was a thought that any spiritual endeavor, whatever its format, is only as good as its willingness to point its participants towards the door marked "exit" -- the direction that is completely free of any format whatsoever. Like a mama bird nudging its fledglings out of the nest ... go! -- the reality you seek has nothing to do with format or awe or bliss ... what you seek is just to fly ... I love you: Now get the hell out of here!
Each stroke of the brush is it.
Yesterday, I received a wonderful email from someone who took umbrage at a casual metaphor I used when asking in a blog post whether taking up crocheting or stamp collecting might be better occupations than spiritual endeavor.
And, with my own experience as a guide, I sympathized. Every occupation is IT, but for starters, those occupations may seem to be different from flying or from a spiritual endeavor 'outside' the formats offered in 'spiritual endeavor.'
Each stroke of the brush is IT ... always. But having said so, some care, some attention, needs to be brought to bear if anyone wants to avoid the blandishments of what is so easy to say and so hard to actualize. If we're all enlightened from the get-go, why bother with the sometimes grueling, sometimes fanatical, sometimes utterly mistaken involvements with a 'spiritual' format ... in my case, Zen practice?
Anyone can talk the talk, but it is not always so easy to walk the walk. And if this is so, as I believe it is, some format needs to be brought to bear that will clarify the obvious ... that each stroke of the brush is IT; that flying is our natural domain; that the peace we seek is the peace we already are.
Anyway, I took up the Zen format. And part of what I liked about it was precisely what Soen did for me so many years ago ... pointed me towards the door marked "exit." Exit into a world in which circumstances came and went and came again. A world without any conceivable format. A world of flying.
And I think, given the human structure, that some sort of format is necessary -- something that brings us up short and forces us to focus and reconsider what has been presumed ... and then, bit by bit, to revise and actualize in our lives what may be easy to say with the lips. To enter a limited world in order to step into a world that is devoid of limits. A format that is constantly saying ...
I love you. Now get the hell out of here!
.
It came back to visit again today, a time when, as a wobbly Zen student intent on doing it right or getting enlightened or some such fiery vision, I went to visit my teacher's teacher, Soen Nakagawa Roshi, in a private interview or dokusan. I didn't know Soen very well and was a bit nervous because of the reputation he had as a 'Zen master.' I felt like a pipsqueak.
Anyway, I did the requisite bows, settled myself on the cushion facing his, and stated my practice. That was the format. He asked me very gentle questions -- where did I live, etc. -- and put me more or less at ease. And then he asked what I did for a living. "I'm a painter," I said without much thought since at the time I painted New York City apartments for a living. "Oh that's wonderful!" he replied. "Each stroke of the brush is IT."
Later I would worry that I should have been more clear -- that I was a house painter, not a fine artist. I was worried enough about this that for several days I tried to devise ways to see him again and explain, to make it clear to him, to not leave him thinking I was something I wasn't. I was pretty agitated.
But of course, there was no need. Each stroke of the brush is it ... fine artist, house painter -- no difference. But that understanding lay some place in the future for me. At the time, I was fired up for Zen and wanted to be honest and cross all the t's and dot all the i's. I wanted to get it right. I wanted to be a good Zen student, not some corporate, book-reading spin doctor. Oh dear, I had inadvertently made a mistake!
What brought that small incident to mind was a thought that any spiritual endeavor, whatever its format, is only as good as its willingness to point its participants towards the door marked "exit" -- the direction that is completely free of any format whatsoever. Like a mama bird nudging its fledglings out of the nest ... go! -- the reality you seek has nothing to do with format or awe or bliss ... what you seek is just to fly ... I love you: Now get the hell out of here!
Each stroke of the brush is it.
Yesterday, I received a wonderful email from someone who took umbrage at a casual metaphor I used when asking in a blog post whether taking up crocheting or stamp collecting might be better occupations than spiritual endeavor.
I don't crochet, actually I embroider and have for about 40 years, and I have no idea why. I have likened it to meditation, the concentration needed to put every stitch in the right place seems to calm the relentless flow of thought more effectively for me than a sitting meditation. I can certainly stay with poking hole in cloth with colored thread more easily than a formal practice. So at least in my circumstance this hobby is both more and less than hobby or distraction.Each stroke of the brush is it ... each attentive application of needle and thread, each beautiful creation, each ... moment. But the writer, as I understood it, thought that because I put spiritual endeavor in a context of Zen practice, I was somehow excluding from the spiritual arena anything as 'ordinary' as embroidery ... that I was in effect relegating him/her to the lesser realm of a house painter.
And, with my own experience as a guide, I sympathized. Every occupation is IT, but for starters, those occupations may seem to be different from flying or from a spiritual endeavor 'outside' the formats offered in 'spiritual endeavor.'
Each stroke of the brush is IT ... always. But having said so, some care, some attention, needs to be brought to bear if anyone wants to avoid the blandishments of what is so easy to say and so hard to actualize. If we're all enlightened from the get-go, why bother with the sometimes grueling, sometimes fanatical, sometimes utterly mistaken involvements with a 'spiritual' format ... in my case, Zen practice?
Anyone can talk the talk, but it is not always so easy to walk the walk. And if this is so, as I believe it is, some format needs to be brought to bear that will clarify the obvious ... that each stroke of the brush is IT; that flying is our natural domain; that the peace we seek is the peace we already are.
Anyway, I took up the Zen format. And part of what I liked about it was precisely what Soen did for me so many years ago ... pointed me towards the door marked "exit." Exit into a world in which circumstances came and went and came again. A world without any conceivable format. A world of flying.
And I think, given the human structure, that some sort of format is necessary -- something that brings us up short and forces us to focus and reconsider what has been presumed ... and then, bit by bit, to revise and actualize in our lives what may be easy to say with the lips. To enter a limited world in order to step into a world that is devoid of limits. A format that is constantly saying ...
I love you. Now get the hell out of here!
.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
news stuff
.
News notes:
-- There won't be a birthday party Friday to mark the tenth year of the war in Afghanistan. Ten years ... just like the Russians who went home after their own ten years trying to subdue the Afghans.
-- In the on-going (it began Sept. 17) Wall Street protest that has caught on in other parts of the country, unions have begun to lend their support and politicians are getting nervous. While the goals remain elusive and inclusive, still the expression of discontent continues to mount. I find it interesting that to date there is no "leader" of this mass movement. I think that's good because that way no one who feels threatened can do the usual background check that could dig up discrediting dirt ... the more-of-the-same mud-slinging in a sound-bite world. Without a leader, any attack is like the Chinese opium smokers who were once described as "biting the clouds."
-- The U.S. Supreme Court is trying to define the boundaries of church and state in the case of a teacher who was fired at a religious-themed school. It makes me glad not to be a member of the Supreme Court.
-- And the BBC, one of my go-to guys in the world of news, has announced that it plans to cut some 2,000 jobs over the next five years. They are tightening their belts in the face of reduced funding. If there is one arena in which funding cuts are likely to reduce whatever intelligence viewers may possess, the news is one of the frightening targets. Fewer staff, more dumbing down due to lack of staff ... it's really a shame. And in the particular case, the 15% reduction in the sport budget is likely to bring yowls. Sports, obituaries, astrology and comics -- I once heard that those were the top vote-getters among those interested in the world around them. I used to be horrified at those areas of interest, given the world as a whole. But even a shallow interest can lead to a wider curiosity.
-- And here is an interesting, if belabored, rant from Conrad Black on the ill-conceived postures of the Financial Times.
News notes:
-- There won't be a birthday party Friday to mark the tenth year of the war in Afghanistan. Ten years ... just like the Russians who went home after their own ten years trying to subdue the Afghans.
-- In the on-going (it began Sept. 17) Wall Street protest that has caught on in other parts of the country, unions have begun to lend their support and politicians are getting nervous. While the goals remain elusive and inclusive, still the expression of discontent continues to mount. I find it interesting that to date there is no "leader" of this mass movement. I think that's good because that way no one who feels threatened can do the usual background check that could dig up discrediting dirt ... the more-of-the-same mud-slinging in a sound-bite world. Without a leader, any attack is like the Chinese opium smokers who were once described as "biting the clouds."
-- The U.S. Supreme Court is trying to define the boundaries of church and state in the case of a teacher who was fired at a religious-themed school. It makes me glad not to be a member of the Supreme Court.
-- And the BBC, one of my go-to guys in the world of news, has announced that it plans to cut some 2,000 jobs over the next five years. They are tightening their belts in the face of reduced funding. If there is one arena in which funding cuts are likely to reduce whatever intelligence viewers may possess, the news is one of the frightening targets. Fewer staff, more dumbing down due to lack of staff ... it's really a shame. And in the particular case, the 15% reduction in the sport budget is likely to bring yowls. Sports, obituaries, astrology and comics -- I once heard that those were the top vote-getters among those interested in the world around them. I used to be horrified at those areas of interest, given the world as a whole. But even a shallow interest can lead to a wider curiosity.
-- And here is an interesting, if belabored, rant from Conrad Black on the ill-conceived postures of the Financial Times.
the 'good stuff' in spiritual endeavor
.
What, if anything, constitutes an honest goodness in spiritual persuasion? In what does it consist and can it be described? I'm not interested in the organization-man ballyhoo and cozy invitations that those within the effort can adduce. Although I generally think in terms of Buddhism, since that was the effort I picked, I guess I also think of a poll I read somewhere that said a smaller and smaller percentage of Americans (who live in a predominantly Christian country) thought of themselves as affiliated with a religion ... but a larger number did, in fact, consider themselves spiritual.
These questions came to mind during an email exchange with Stuart Lachs, a chum who has done some very good work (Coming Down from the Zen Clouds; The Aitken Shimano Letters among others) in bringing perspective to the world of Zen Buddhism. With quiet force, Stuart has pointed out the flaws in such straw men as "lineage" and has been helpful, together with people like Kobutsu Malone (The Shimano Archive), in underlining the depredations and evasions of a variety of teachers.
I agree with Stuart.
I agree with Kobutsu.
If we cannot air the dirty laundry, how can anyone hope to find a pair of clean socks? The whimpering and whining of those hoping to preserve their jobs or make lemonade out of lemons leaves me more irritated than informed. The squishy and ersatz-compassionate defense mechanisms and diversions ... well, let me just say without cuss words they are not my cup of tea. Honesty counts.
OK ... for those with a sense of curiosity, the lemons are slowly but surely laid on the table. Teachers who aggrandize or camouflage their power...and who may have a sexually-abusive field day along the way. Students who play into the aggrandizement games because ... well because they hurt among other things.
But once having exhausted the fruit metaphors (lemons, bad apples, etc.) my own feeling is that those willing to use those (utterly appropriate) metaphors have a further question ... or anyway it is a question I am willing to concede I have no answer for: Where's the good stuff, the positive position, the description that asserts what is useful and fruitful in spiritual endeavor? Shall I just set aside the whole spiritual junket in favor of crocheting or collecting stamps? That doesn't quite work for me. It's too facile. Shall I rest easy on my own description of my own practice experience? -- "I am grateful beyond naming for my training and I wouldn't wish that training on my worst enemy." While being pretty close to the truth and having the advantage of brevity, that too doesn't quite touch all the bases. Or shall I rely on an email exchange I once had with an American Zen monk in Japan about the nature of compassion. We batted several emails back and forth until finally he had the last word: "Maybe it's like pornography: I may not know what it is, but I know it when I see it."
Or, more dangerously, shall I suggest that there is no winkling out the truth without entering the arena of lies? That too is pretty close to what I think, but its danger lies in the fact that by enunciating it, it adds fuel to the fires that self-important liars can tend.
And all of this may seem pretty amorphous, pretty airy-fairy until I consider that human beings actually ache and weep and long for a creditable peace. To offer them something is bound to grow sharp and painful thorns. To offer them nothing is every bit as thorny.
When I asked my teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa, what his role was in running the now-defunct Soho Zendo in New York, he replied, referring to those who came to practice, "I encourage them. I encourage them for zazen." Zazen, the seated meditation on which Zen practice lays some emphasis. Zazen, the very concrete act of parking the ass on a cushion and focusing the mind. Zazen, the activity that no one can do for another. Do zazen and see for yourself what actually happens. Never mind if the books and teachers say there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Find out if there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Your life, your choice. When have eye candy or religion candy or any other sort of candy ever proved as nourishing as a decent bowl of soup?
Is zazen my answer? Is zazen 'the good stuff?' Maybe. I'm not really sure. But I do know that encouraging people to be themselves is more admirable in my book than encouraging them to be something else. Pay attention. Take responsibility. Be yourself even if you never find out who 'yourself' may be. Why? Well, what other choice is there?
I don't know.
.
What, if anything, constitutes an honest goodness in spiritual persuasion? In what does it consist and can it be described? I'm not interested in the organization-man ballyhoo and cozy invitations that those within the effort can adduce. Although I generally think in terms of Buddhism, since that was the effort I picked, I guess I also think of a poll I read somewhere that said a smaller and smaller percentage of Americans (who live in a predominantly Christian country) thought of themselves as affiliated with a religion ... but a larger number did, in fact, consider themselves spiritual.
These questions came to mind during an email exchange with Stuart Lachs, a chum who has done some very good work (Coming Down from the Zen Clouds; The Aitken Shimano Letters among others) in bringing perspective to the world of Zen Buddhism. With quiet force, Stuart has pointed out the flaws in such straw men as "lineage" and has been helpful, together with people like Kobutsu Malone (The Shimano Archive), in underlining the depredations and evasions of a variety of teachers.
I agree with Stuart.
I agree with Kobutsu.
If we cannot air the dirty laundry, how can anyone hope to find a pair of clean socks? The whimpering and whining of those hoping to preserve their jobs or make lemonade out of lemons leaves me more irritated than informed. The squishy and ersatz-compassionate defense mechanisms and diversions ... well, let me just say without cuss words they are not my cup of tea. Honesty counts.
OK ... for those with a sense of curiosity, the lemons are slowly but surely laid on the table. Teachers who aggrandize or camouflage their power...and who may have a sexually-abusive field day along the way. Students who play into the aggrandizement games because ... well because they hurt among other things.
But once having exhausted the fruit metaphors (lemons, bad apples, etc.) my own feeling is that those willing to use those (utterly appropriate) metaphors have a further question ... or anyway it is a question I am willing to concede I have no answer for: Where's the good stuff, the positive position, the description that asserts what is useful and fruitful in spiritual endeavor? Shall I just set aside the whole spiritual junket in favor of crocheting or collecting stamps? That doesn't quite work for me. It's too facile. Shall I rest easy on my own description of my own practice experience? -- "I am grateful beyond naming for my training and I wouldn't wish that training on my worst enemy." While being pretty close to the truth and having the advantage of brevity, that too doesn't quite touch all the bases. Or shall I rely on an email exchange I once had with an American Zen monk in Japan about the nature of compassion. We batted several emails back and forth until finally he had the last word: "Maybe it's like pornography: I may not know what it is, but I know it when I see it."
Or, more dangerously, shall I suggest that there is no winkling out the truth without entering the arena of lies? That too is pretty close to what I think, but its danger lies in the fact that by enunciating it, it adds fuel to the fires that self-important liars can tend.
And all of this may seem pretty amorphous, pretty airy-fairy until I consider that human beings actually ache and weep and long for a creditable peace. To offer them something is bound to grow sharp and painful thorns. To offer them nothing is every bit as thorny.
When I asked my teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa, what his role was in running the now-defunct Soho Zendo in New York, he replied, referring to those who came to practice, "I encourage them. I encourage them for zazen." Zazen, the seated meditation on which Zen practice lays some emphasis. Zazen, the very concrete act of parking the ass on a cushion and focusing the mind. Zazen, the activity that no one can do for another. Do zazen and see for yourself what actually happens. Never mind if the books and teachers say there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Find out if there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Your life, your choice. When have eye candy or religion candy or any other sort of candy ever proved as nourishing as a decent bowl of soup?
Is zazen my answer? Is zazen 'the good stuff?' Maybe. I'm not really sure. But I do know that encouraging people to be themselves is more admirable in my book than encouraging them to be something else. Pay attention. Take responsibility. Be yourself even if you never find out who 'yourself' may be. Why? Well, what other choice is there?
I don't know.
.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
bits of news
.
The bits and pieces of news that caught my eye today:
-- Thirty percent of post-9/11 veterans believe the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are not worth fighting, according to a poll. The deaths (6,200 give or take) and the costs ($1 trillion) are among the reasons for disillusionment. How hard it must be to look back on death-defying times, times you survived, and see that effort as a mistake.
-- German prosecutors are reopening hundreds of investigations of former Nazi death camp guards based on a new legal precedent. They're in a hurry. Most of those under investigation are well into their 80's. The prosecutors are aware that these men might die before any sort of 'justice' will be served. Strange to think: The Nazis, during WWII, referred to the death camps in which Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, priests and others it was easy to scapegoat as "the final solution," "Die Endlösung." Perhaps the prosecutions envisioned are another sort of Endlösung.
-- In Tasmania, researchers have discovered that culling the ranks of Tasmanian Devils cannot curb the spread of an infectious cancer. If I understand it right, the whole effort sounds as if it might be in line for a Tasmanian version of the American "Golden Fleece" award: Spending money to take noticeably infected animals out of the herd while being unable to identify those which were recently infected by the bite of another. At least the Tasmanians have had the good grace to stop the culling ... in America, there is no end to the Golden Fleeces that deserve to be handed out.
.
The bits and pieces of news that caught my eye today:
-- Thirty percent of post-9/11 veterans believe the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are not worth fighting, according to a poll. The deaths (6,200 give or take) and the costs ($1 trillion) are among the reasons for disillusionment. How hard it must be to look back on death-defying times, times you survived, and see that effort as a mistake.
-- German prosecutors are reopening hundreds of investigations of former Nazi death camp guards based on a new legal precedent. They're in a hurry. Most of those under investigation are well into their 80's. The prosecutors are aware that these men might die before any sort of 'justice' will be served. Strange to think: The Nazis, during WWII, referred to the death camps in which Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, priests and others it was easy to scapegoat as "the final solution," "Die Endlösung." Perhaps the prosecutions envisioned are another sort of Endlösung.
-- In Tasmania, researchers have discovered that culling the ranks of Tasmanian Devils cannot curb the spread of an infectious cancer. If I understand it right, the whole effort sounds as if it might be in line for a Tasmanian version of the American "Golden Fleece" award: Spending money to take noticeably infected animals out of the herd while being unable to identify those which were recently infected by the bite of another. At least the Tasmanians have had the good grace to stop the culling ... in America, there is no end to the Golden Fleeces that deserve to be handed out.
.
finding my own voice
.
Beyond the childish dreams of being a fireman or a policeman or a cowboy, I pretty much always wanted to be a writer in some guise or other. I wrote my first story-created-out-of-whole-cloth in the fourth grade. Looking back, I would say I had the credentials for it -- an uncertainty based on upbringing by lotsa-smarts parents and a mother who was, in fact, a writer.
Writing was a secretive, behind-closed-doors business, much like any art. And artists were both weird and elevated: From within of their secrecies, they were forced to rely on the very element from which they shielded themselves ... others. Words and notes and colors were things others might appreciate or adore or disdain in public ... and thus bring a measure of peace to the one who toiled in secret. Sometimes I too tried out the camouflage line, "I write for myself," but that sort of assertion is flimsy and self-protective in the end.
One of the encouragements I heard as I grew older and wondered how to become a 'writer,' was this: You have to find your own voice. All art is theft, but it must be your very own theft... your very own words, your very own notes, your very own color. Sometimes I wrestled with what this might mean. How the hell do you find your own voice, get honest and stand up straight in practical terms. Read, was one suggestion. Read and imitate. Write and rewrite. Learn the meanings of words -- don't be lazy. Don't believe that words tell the truth, even if you believe words tell the truth. Write some more and rewrite some more and ... throw it away. Find your own voice.
"But what if my voice is not good enough?" something within whined. Wouldn't I be better off mimicking those who have gained acclaim? And the painful answer was, no, you would not be better off. Somehow, in whatever field and whatever interest tableau, each person has to find his or her own voice and know that this is as good as it gets ... and things are OK.
I never did become a 'great' writer. But I did notice that somehow I found my voice. It didn't come in some epiphany, waking up one morning with a bright-light understanding that I had found my voice. It just sort of snuck up and happened -- maybe on account of the practices of the past or maybe because it happened to be Thursday. Explanations and exegeses didn't explain anything. It just happened and it was pleasant enough. Not astounding or earth-shattering in the manner that hope or belief or expectation suggest. It was more along the lines of "so what else did you expect?"
And along with it came some small understanding that the sometimes wildly painful uncertainties that inspired the initial desire to 'find my voice' were a blessing of sorts. Uncertainty dwells in the heart that longs for certainty (perhaps through words or perhaps through writing). The two are woven together like strands of DNA. Trying to escape or eradicate the one in order to assure the other is a mug's game ... like holding your breath to improve breathing or cutting off your big toe in order to preserve it. Dumb and dumber. Looking for certainty when all the time you were certain of the uncertainties you longed to elude.
Wanting to find certainty puts a fire under uncertainty.
Wanting to evade uncertainty puts a fire under certainty.
As far as I can figure out, you've got to bang your head against the wall up to the moment when you stop. It's called practice. But practice for what?
Practice that might lead anyone to recognize s/he was hungry and it was time to stop all the certainty-uncertainty head banging, walk into the kitchen and make a perfectly good peanut-butter sandwich. Isn't this your own voice? And, if it is, is it all that important? Pleasant, sure, but important?
Fame and acclaim and relying on others is the usual way. But what does a perfectly good peanut-butter sandwich say?
.
Beyond the childish dreams of being a fireman or a policeman or a cowboy, I pretty much always wanted to be a writer in some guise or other. I wrote my first story-created-out-of-whole-cloth in the fourth grade. Looking back, I would say I had the credentials for it -- an uncertainty based on upbringing by lotsa-smarts parents and a mother who was, in fact, a writer.
Writing was a secretive, behind-closed-doors business, much like any art. And artists were both weird and elevated: From within of their secrecies, they were forced to rely on the very element from which they shielded themselves ... others. Words and notes and colors were things others might appreciate or adore or disdain in public ... and thus bring a measure of peace to the one who toiled in secret. Sometimes I too tried out the camouflage line, "I write for myself," but that sort of assertion is flimsy and self-protective in the end.
One of the encouragements I heard as I grew older and wondered how to become a 'writer,' was this: You have to find your own voice. All art is theft, but it must be your very own theft... your very own words, your very own notes, your very own color. Sometimes I wrestled with what this might mean. How the hell do you find your own voice, get honest and stand up straight in practical terms. Read, was one suggestion. Read and imitate. Write and rewrite. Learn the meanings of words -- don't be lazy. Don't believe that words tell the truth, even if you believe words tell the truth. Write some more and rewrite some more and ... throw it away. Find your own voice.
"But what if my voice is not good enough?" something within whined. Wouldn't I be better off mimicking those who have gained acclaim? And the painful answer was, no, you would not be better off. Somehow, in whatever field and whatever interest tableau, each person has to find his or her own voice and know that this is as good as it gets ... and things are OK.
I never did become a 'great' writer. But I did notice that somehow I found my voice. It didn't come in some epiphany, waking up one morning with a bright-light understanding that I had found my voice. It just sort of snuck up and happened -- maybe on account of the practices of the past or maybe because it happened to be Thursday. Explanations and exegeses didn't explain anything. It just happened and it was pleasant enough. Not astounding or earth-shattering in the manner that hope or belief or expectation suggest. It was more along the lines of "so what else did you expect?"
And along with it came some small understanding that the sometimes wildly painful uncertainties that inspired the initial desire to 'find my voice' were a blessing of sorts. Uncertainty dwells in the heart that longs for certainty (perhaps through words or perhaps through writing). The two are woven together like strands of DNA. Trying to escape or eradicate the one in order to assure the other is a mug's game ... like holding your breath to improve breathing or cutting off your big toe in order to preserve it. Dumb and dumber. Looking for certainty when all the time you were certain of the uncertainties you longed to elude.
Wanting to find certainty puts a fire under uncertainty.
Wanting to evade uncertainty puts a fire under certainty.
As far as I can figure out, you've got to bang your head against the wall up to the moment when you stop. It's called practice. But practice for what?
Practice that might lead anyone to recognize s/he was hungry and it was time to stop all the certainty-uncertainty head banging, walk into the kitchen and make a perfectly good peanut-butter sandwich. Isn't this your own voice? And, if it is, is it all that important? Pleasant, sure, but important?
Fame and acclaim and relying on others is the usual way. But what does a perfectly good peanut-butter sandwich say?
.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
a little useless math
.
Add your age to the last two digits of the year in which you were born and the answer will always be 111.
But just this year.
.
Add your age to the last two digits of the year in which you were born and the answer will always be 111.
But just this year.
.
billionaire nods to protest
.
Billionaire investor George Soros has expressed some sympathy for the Occupy Wall Street movement that seems to target one of the very venues in which he made his billions.
I guess, with a cushion like his, sympathy is conceivable. No one is breaking his windows ... yet.
.
Billionaire investor George Soros has expressed some sympathy for the Occupy Wall Street movement that seems to target one of the very venues in which he made his billions.
I guess, with a cushion like his, sympathy is conceivable. No one is breaking his windows ... yet.
.
a failure of latitude
.
I guess everyone is afraid of something -- snakes, spiders, being buried alive, being abandoned, guns, zombies, true understanding ... pick your poison. Whatever it is, the fear is compelling and brings with it a sense of helplessness and a willingness to do damn near anything to escape the lash of this fear. Generally the fear or fears are kept under wraps or at a distance or hidden by a sense of leading an otherwise competent and in-control life, but every now and then, the fear pops up and says "boo!"
Yesterday, riding in the car, I was listening to an interview with a man named C. Peter Wagner, a member of an organization called The New Apostolic Reformation, "a new charismatic Christian movement that seeks to take dominion over politics, business and culture in preparation for the end times and Jesus' return."
And it scared the shit out of me.
The tone of the interview on National Public Radio was utterly civil and serene. Not a cross word was spoken. And yet the substance was purely fanatical in my ear -- more terrifying than a WWII rally in Nuremberg. It was made the more frightening by the sense that such a movement (especially in hard economic times) would gain a political and religious following and run roughshod over one and all without a backward glance. It would husband the ignorance and gullibility of the well-meaning and ... well, witch hunts might be necessary. It reminded me of the arrogance of some Christian missionaries sent to China and India at the turn of the 20th century to convert the heathen: Christianity was true; all else was false; and let the non-believer tremble!
And the interview left me trembling. This was a truly terrifying outlook. I felt I was in the presence of someone who would light the pyre under some Salem witch and be convinced, in later conversations with fellow believers, that what he had done was the right and compassionate thing. His narrow and compelling and cozy view was shared by many and ... everybody else better mind their p's and q's.
After I had turned the radio off and calmed down a little, I realized that a part of what I feared about such a man and such an outlook was his and its failure of latitude. A wide mind does not nest and rest and yet nesting and resting is so delicious. To find The Answer is better than chocolate and, well, if a few witches had to be killed and if listening to the screams rise up with the smoke were the price, well, belief and its warming embers were worth the price of admission.
I'd rather hang out with the Boston Strangler. At least his viciousness was straightforward and unadorned by saccharine and twisted 'religion.'
But as the steam abated further, I realized that I had my own failures of latitude -- ways in which I too could espouse without a backward glance views that might ignite the pyre under some unwitting soul who hadn't got things 'right.' Yes, I was every bit as capable as C. Peter Wagner.
If there was much difference between us, perhaps it lay in the fact that I was, in the end, deeply ashamed.
.
I guess everyone is afraid of something -- snakes, spiders, being buried alive, being abandoned, guns, zombies, true understanding ... pick your poison. Whatever it is, the fear is compelling and brings with it a sense of helplessness and a willingness to do damn near anything to escape the lash of this fear. Generally the fear or fears are kept under wraps or at a distance or hidden by a sense of leading an otherwise competent and in-control life, but every now and then, the fear pops up and says "boo!"
 |
| C. Peter Wagner and his wife Doris |
And it scared the shit out of me.
The tone of the interview on National Public Radio was utterly civil and serene. Not a cross word was spoken. And yet the substance was purely fanatical in my ear -- more terrifying than a WWII rally in Nuremberg. It was made the more frightening by the sense that such a movement (especially in hard economic times) would gain a political and religious following and run roughshod over one and all without a backward glance. It would husband the ignorance and gullibility of the well-meaning and ... well, witch hunts might be necessary. It reminded me of the arrogance of some Christian missionaries sent to China and India at the turn of the 20th century to convert the heathen: Christianity was true; all else was false; and let the non-believer tremble!
And the interview left me trembling. This was a truly terrifying outlook. I felt I was in the presence of someone who would light the pyre under some Salem witch and be convinced, in later conversations with fellow believers, that what he had done was the right and compassionate thing. His narrow and compelling and cozy view was shared by many and ... everybody else better mind their p's and q's.
After I had turned the radio off and calmed down a little, I realized that a part of what I feared about such a man and such an outlook was his and its failure of latitude. A wide mind does not nest and rest and yet nesting and resting is so delicious. To find The Answer is better than chocolate and, well, if a few witches had to be killed and if listening to the screams rise up with the smoke were the price, well, belief and its warming embers were worth the price of admission.
I'd rather hang out with the Boston Strangler. At least his viciousness was straightforward and unadorned by saccharine and twisted 'religion.'
But as the steam abated further, I realized that I had my own failures of latitude -- ways in which I too could espouse without a backward glance views that might ignite the pyre under some unwitting soul who hadn't got things 'right.' Yes, I was every bit as capable as C. Peter Wagner.
If there was much difference between us, perhaps it lay in the fact that I was, in the end, deeply ashamed.
.
Monday, October 3, 2011
justice
.
A pretty good hip-pocket aphorism I read this morning:
"Justice does not mean JUST US."
That may not put anyone any closer to what justice may be, but at least it has the potential to inject a little humility.
.
A pretty good hip-pocket aphorism I read this morning:
"Justice does not mean JUST US."
That may not put anyone any closer to what justice may be, but at least it has the potential to inject a little humility.
.
Wall Street protest
.
An early-morning report suggests that the Occupy Wall Street protest will enter the work week. Protesters were eating breakfast, the report says, when Wall Street workers arrived today, but they did appear to be gearing up for a continuation of the effort that led to 700 arrests over the weekend.
Later reports saw more action and actions springing up in other cities.
Most important, perhaps, the news services appear to have discovered the news that has been under their noses for the past several weeks.
It remains to be seen if the protest can overcome the helplessness that is one of the hallmarks of American life.
.
An early-morning report suggests that the Occupy Wall Street protest will enter the work week. Protesters were eating breakfast, the report says, when Wall Street workers arrived today, but they did appear to be gearing up for a continuation of the effort that led to 700 arrests over the weekend.
Later reports saw more action and actions springing up in other cities.
Most important, perhaps, the news services appear to have discovered the news that has been under their noses for the past several weeks.
It remains to be seen if the protest can overcome the helplessness that is one of the hallmarks of American life.
.
virtue as vice
.
Looking up the word "virtue," I can see that it has a number of aspects. Without much care, the word wanders around my mind meaning (without much scrutiny) something that is either good in an over-arching sense or good for you in a quite particular sense.
What brought this somewhat amorphous topic to mind was watching the first installment of documentary film-maker Ken Burns' "Prohibition" on TV last night. The examination of America's love/hate relationship with booze did not begin with the shoot-'em-up criminalities that erupted after the 18th amendment to the Constitution was passed. It began long before, picking up steam from the 1820's into the 1850's and 1860's. It began with women who got fed to the teeth with husbands whose love of alcohol often left mothers and children destitute and hungry and at the whim of men whose ascendant role in family life allowed them to act in wildly intemperate ways. Luckily, those same men tended to elevate the fairer sex to a soft and mothering and squishy throne that allowed them to do things like gather and pray outside a saloon or pharmacy ... and shut down the sale of booze. And when, at last, the income tax came into effect, politicians could abandon their recognition that alcohol represented 30% or more of the nation's income ... and they could vote for prohibition and coincidentally keep their jobs.
What a powerful movement. Church, schools, industry flocked to its banner, though often with very different motives. And what began under the cover of virtue was ratified in 1919 and not repealed until 1933.
Those early women were right, of course. Alcohol was a scourge. Still is, for that matter if anyone would care to look up the drug-addiction statistics. And those women were limited by their society as to the courses of action open to them. Virtue was one of the few avenues they could take. And so, virtue got a foothold and emerged 'victorious' ... until it collapsed of its own, human weight.
What all of this long-windedness (it's not long-winded in my mind, of course :)) made me think was this: So-called virtues are OK ... right up to the moment when one person insists on inflicting or demanding them from another. At that point, they are likely to turn into a vice.
If a (wo)man embraces what is called a virtue and strives to make it a reality is his/her life, the meaning and experience of virtue can bear some pretty good fruit. But imposing that virtue on others, in whatever way, invariably leaves out the unlimited human capacity -- a capacity that is both wondrous and horrific by turns. A (wo)man who attempts to revise his or her own way of life is a marvel. But to step from that acceptance and subsequent effort into a world of arm-twisting is doomed to failure. Not because they are wrong or because they do not win an occasional public victory, but because ... well ... if the only conviction I have is based on the convincing you (or a book or an organization) have done, then I am living in a world of belief instead of a world of experience based on the effort made to actualize what is sometimes called virtue.
If one person tells another to be good or threatens them with punishment if they do not act in accordance with virtue, that person may feel guilty or repentant ... but what sort of basis is that for virtue? Isn't that like building a house on a sand foundation? I think it is. And worse, a perfectly good reality is lost behind a haze of 'goodness' ... an insufferable, if understandable, vice.
This is getting too long and too ornate. What really interests me is the ability anyone might have to practice what virtues they see or seek. There is nothing wrong with saying "I see or seek x, y, or z." Such things can sometimes be fruitfully discussed. But to imagine that because I think something is sensible or worthy is a reason someone else might agree, or, worse, should agree ... this is a silly vice, worthy of investigation.
I always liked Buddhism's approach. There are The Four Noble Truths and there is The Eightfold Path. The Four Noble Truths make observations about this life. Anyone is free to find meaning or usefulness in them ... or not. And if anyone finds usefulness or meaning in The Four Noble Truths, they are likewise free to exercise The Eightfold Path which is suggested as a sensible course for getting our heads screwed on the right way. It's a suggestion, not some imperial mandate that is the ground water of vice.
I dislike seeing virtue turned into vice, but lord knows there is something very tempting about the vice of virtue.
.
Looking up the word "virtue," I can see that it has a number of aspects. Without much care, the word wanders around my mind meaning (without much scrutiny) something that is either good in an over-arching sense or good for you in a quite particular sense.
What brought this somewhat amorphous topic to mind was watching the first installment of documentary film-maker Ken Burns' "Prohibition" on TV last night. The examination of America's love/hate relationship with booze did not begin with the shoot-'em-up criminalities that erupted after the 18th amendment to the Constitution was passed. It began long before, picking up steam from the 1820's into the 1850's and 1860's. It began with women who got fed to the teeth with husbands whose love of alcohol often left mothers and children destitute and hungry and at the whim of men whose ascendant role in family life allowed them to act in wildly intemperate ways. Luckily, those same men tended to elevate the fairer sex to a soft and mothering and squishy throne that allowed them to do things like gather and pray outside a saloon or pharmacy ... and shut down the sale of booze. And when, at last, the income tax came into effect, politicians could abandon their recognition that alcohol represented 30% or more of the nation's income ... and they could vote for prohibition and coincidentally keep their jobs.
What a powerful movement. Church, schools, industry flocked to its banner, though often with very different motives. And what began under the cover of virtue was ratified in 1919 and not repealed until 1933.
Those early women were right, of course. Alcohol was a scourge. Still is, for that matter if anyone would care to look up the drug-addiction statistics. And those women were limited by their society as to the courses of action open to them. Virtue was one of the few avenues they could take. And so, virtue got a foothold and emerged 'victorious' ... until it collapsed of its own, human weight.
What all of this long-windedness (it's not long-winded in my mind, of course :)) made me think was this: So-called virtues are OK ... right up to the moment when one person insists on inflicting or demanding them from another. At that point, they are likely to turn into a vice.
If a (wo)man embraces what is called a virtue and strives to make it a reality is his/her life, the meaning and experience of virtue can bear some pretty good fruit. But imposing that virtue on others, in whatever way, invariably leaves out the unlimited human capacity -- a capacity that is both wondrous and horrific by turns. A (wo)man who attempts to revise his or her own way of life is a marvel. But to step from that acceptance and subsequent effort into a world of arm-twisting is doomed to failure. Not because they are wrong or because they do not win an occasional public victory, but because ... well ... if the only conviction I have is based on the convincing you (or a book or an organization) have done, then I am living in a world of belief instead of a world of experience based on the effort made to actualize what is sometimes called virtue.
If one person tells another to be good or threatens them with punishment if they do not act in accordance with virtue, that person may feel guilty or repentant ... but what sort of basis is that for virtue? Isn't that like building a house on a sand foundation? I think it is. And worse, a perfectly good reality is lost behind a haze of 'goodness' ... an insufferable, if understandable, vice.
This is getting too long and too ornate. What really interests me is the ability anyone might have to practice what virtues they see or seek. There is nothing wrong with saying "I see or seek x, y, or z." Such things can sometimes be fruitfully discussed. But to imagine that because I think something is sensible or worthy is a reason someone else might agree, or, worse, should agree ... this is a silly vice, worthy of investigation.
I always liked Buddhism's approach. There are The Four Noble Truths and there is The Eightfold Path. The Four Noble Truths make observations about this life. Anyone is free to find meaning or usefulness in them ... or not. And if anyone finds usefulness or meaning in The Four Noble Truths, they are likewise free to exercise The Eightfold Path which is suggested as a sensible course for getting our heads screwed on the right way. It's a suggestion, not some imperial mandate that is the ground water of vice.
I dislike seeing virtue turned into vice, but lord knows there is something very tempting about the vice of virtue.
.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
you are the light
.
Petitioning the Great God Google, there are a number of translations returned for "Atta Dipa," a chant many Zen centers use and was part of the liturgy of a center I once attended. It is a blessedly short chant and quite easy to memorize in Pali or whatever the original language is. One translation goes:
You are the light of the Dharma. What a warming sentiment. I always felt as if I were lowering myself into a bathtub full of warm water when chanting "Atta Dipa." I might be confused and uncertain in a hundred hundred ways, but here was an encouragement and a kick in the ass: You ARE the light.
But it occurred to me this morning that if Buddhism were nothing but a warm bathtub, how awful the shivers might be!
Let's get it straight. After having been scrubbed and warmed by a line like "you are the light," after feeling a certain hope and a certain relief in the face of all of life's confusions and uncertainties ...
It's just a fact. You are the light. You are the linchpin and the foundation and the sine qua non of the universe, the Dharma, Buddhism and whatever other high and mighty peace you may espouse. Without you, the incalculable distances and beauties of the universe would simply evaporate. You are what holds everything together. No joke. Your incontestable indispensability is the light you claim to seek. But ...
But it's just a fact. There is no need to get your knickers in a twist about it. No need to go on imagining it. No need to draw endless bathtubs full of warm and warming water. It's just a fact. So get used to it in the same way you managed to get used to breathing. Stop chasing what you've already caught and certainly don't need to hold on to, even if you could.
Stop it!
Rinzai once encouraged his monks by saying, approximately, "Your whole problem is that you do not trust yourselves enough."
Cut the distrust crap -- praising this and seeking that!
You are the light. Get used to it and get over yourself.
If you have a better idea, I'm open to suggestions. :)
.
Petitioning the Great God Google, there are a number of translations returned for "Atta Dipa," a chant many Zen centers use and was part of the liturgy of a center I once attended. It is a blessedly short chant and quite easy to memorize in Pali or whatever the original language is. One translation goes:
Look within!
You are the Light itself.
Rely on yourself.
Do not rely on others.
The Dharma is the Light.
Rely on the Dharma.
Do not rely on anything,
Other than the Dharma.
You are the light of the Dharma. What a warming sentiment. I always felt as if I were lowering myself into a bathtub full of warm water when chanting "Atta Dipa." I might be confused and uncertain in a hundred hundred ways, but here was an encouragement and a kick in the ass: You ARE the light.
But it occurred to me this morning that if Buddhism were nothing but a warm bathtub, how awful the shivers might be!
Let's get it straight. After having been scrubbed and warmed by a line like "you are the light," after feeling a certain hope and a certain relief in the face of all of life's confusions and uncertainties ...
It's just a fact. You are the light. You are the linchpin and the foundation and the sine qua non of the universe, the Dharma, Buddhism and whatever other high and mighty peace you may espouse. Without you, the incalculable distances and beauties of the universe would simply evaporate. You are what holds everything together. No joke. Your incontestable indispensability is the light you claim to seek. But ...
But it's just a fact. There is no need to get your knickers in a twist about it. No need to go on imagining it. No need to draw endless bathtubs full of warm and warming water. It's just a fact. So get used to it in the same way you managed to get used to breathing. Stop chasing what you've already caught and certainly don't need to hold on to, even if you could.
Stop it!
Rinzai once encouraged his monks by saying, approximately, "Your whole problem is that you do not trust yourselves enough."
Cut the distrust crap -- praising this and seeking that!
You are the light. Get used to it and get over yourself.
If you have a better idea, I'm open to suggestions. :)
.
let's not make too much out of it
.
A long time ago, an email correspondent with whom I had become about as friendly as anyone can via that medium, mentioned that he had received transmission in a Tibetan Buddhist lineage. "Transmission" means that older, and presumably wiser and/or more experienced, teachers acknowledge an understanding and experience by someone who is comparatively new to the brother- or sisterhood. Sometimes the acknowledgment is pro forma and based on longevity or the fact that the newcomer has passed a variety of expected tests. Sometimes it is based on something more. Whatever the case, my email friend added to his admission a mild, but firm, "let's not make too much out of it."
This morning, I got an email from a woman who wanted to know the zazen or seated meditation schedule in the small zendo or meditation hall I built in the backyard. She began her note with the words, "Dear Roshi." The word "roshi" is sometimes translated as "old teacher." It can carry with it a respect. It can also carry with it the implication that the one addressed has 'attained' a level of understanding beyond what the one using it has. It can, in short, be a woo-hoo of sorts.
When I was growing up, my mother advised me, "Always call people what they want to be called." That way, she implied, you will offer your ordinary respect and the ones being addressed, assuming they care a lot, won't have their noses put out of joint.
I'm too old to care much what anyone calls me, though I'm not entirely happy to be called "fuck-face" by someone who is not my friend. These days, as with the woman's email, I am more concerned that they should be comfortable with their own imaginings. "Roshi" strikes me as a bit much, but if the woman wants to express her respect or woo-hoo that way, well, it's her practice, not mine, and her practice is important. All I can do is what I always do when I receive such notes -- write back in terms I am comfortable with ... plain, ordinary, un-woo-hoo English. That's usually enough to keep petitioners at bay. It may be slightly less than gracious, but it's the best I can do.
Let's not make too much out of it. Let's not make too much out of things. Naturally we have all elevated or denigrated one thing or another as a means of firing up our own intentions, but just because our intentions are fired up doesn't mean anything is worth too much elevation or denigration. Waving the flag of inequality doesn't work and waving the flag of equality also doesn't work when it comes to finding some peace of mind. Let's knock off the flag-waving and just be honest ... that works better.
And let's not make too much out of it.
.
A long time ago, an email correspondent with whom I had become about as friendly as anyone can via that medium, mentioned that he had received transmission in a Tibetan Buddhist lineage. "Transmission" means that older, and presumably wiser and/or more experienced, teachers acknowledge an understanding and experience by someone who is comparatively new to the brother- or sisterhood. Sometimes the acknowledgment is pro forma and based on longevity or the fact that the newcomer has passed a variety of expected tests. Sometimes it is based on something more. Whatever the case, my email friend added to his admission a mild, but firm, "let's not make too much out of it."
This morning, I got an email from a woman who wanted to know the zazen or seated meditation schedule in the small zendo or meditation hall I built in the backyard. She began her note with the words, "Dear Roshi." The word "roshi" is sometimes translated as "old teacher." It can carry with it a respect. It can also carry with it the implication that the one addressed has 'attained' a level of understanding beyond what the one using it has. It can, in short, be a woo-hoo of sorts.
When I was growing up, my mother advised me, "Always call people what they want to be called." That way, she implied, you will offer your ordinary respect and the ones being addressed, assuming they care a lot, won't have their noses put out of joint.
I'm too old to care much what anyone calls me, though I'm not entirely happy to be called "fuck-face" by someone who is not my friend. These days, as with the woman's email, I am more concerned that they should be comfortable with their own imaginings. "Roshi" strikes me as a bit much, but if the woman wants to express her respect or woo-hoo that way, well, it's her practice, not mine, and her practice is important. All I can do is what I always do when I receive such notes -- write back in terms I am comfortable with ... plain, ordinary, un-woo-hoo English. That's usually enough to keep petitioners at bay. It may be slightly less than gracious, but it's the best I can do.Let's not make too much out of it. Let's not make too much out of things. Naturally we have all elevated or denigrated one thing or another as a means of firing up our own intentions, but just because our intentions are fired up doesn't mean anything is worth too much elevation or denigration. Waving the flag of inequality doesn't work and waving the flag of equality also doesn't work when it comes to finding some peace of mind. Let's knock off the flag-waving and just be honest ... that works better.
And let's not make too much out of it.
.
Wall Street protest
.
One sign said, "Just because we can't see it doesn't mean we don't feel it." Another said, "Castrate the Bull!" And still another, simply, "Wake Up!" All of them, and lots more like them were part of Saturday's march/rally/protest against Wall Street -- the U.S. financial hub -- on and near the Brooklyn Bridge, an artery leading into New York. Some 700 were arrested. Here is Reuters' version of the story.
Saturday ... one of two days off provided largely by the blood, sweat and tears of early union workers at the beginning of the 20th century. Lately, the Republicans, among others, have targeted unions, doing what they can to vitiate collective bargaining rights and other protections. There's more money to be made where people don't talk back, where they are simply grateful to have a job (which is more an more true in these economic times), and where what is benevolent and nourishing is defined by 'big business' which sets the rules and "creates more jobs," as conservatives like to claim.
Saturday ....
It is hard not to imagine how much more impact the gathering might have had if it had been held on a Monday, a work day, a day when commuters needed the Brooklyn Bridge in order to get to their desks, a day when the computers inside all those shiny buildings would need savvy financial drones to make transactions.
The Wall Street protest has been gaining momentum, with several unions and several high-profile personalities lending verbal support. Although amorphous in its goals (it's hard not to remember the line from the movie, "Network" -- "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!") still there is something apt and expressive in it. It seems to be gaining traction.
A protest held on Saturday.
I wonder what it would be like if it were held on Monday.
.
One sign said, "Just because we can't see it doesn't mean we don't feel it." Another said, "Castrate the Bull!" And still another, simply, "Wake Up!" All of them, and lots more like them were part of Saturday's march/rally/protest against Wall Street -- the U.S. financial hub -- on and near the Brooklyn Bridge, an artery leading into New York. Some 700 were arrested. Here is Reuters' version of the story.
Saturday ... one of two days off provided largely by the blood, sweat and tears of early union workers at the beginning of the 20th century. Lately, the Republicans, among others, have targeted unions, doing what they can to vitiate collective bargaining rights and other protections. There's more money to be made where people don't talk back, where they are simply grateful to have a job (which is more an more true in these economic times), and where what is benevolent and nourishing is defined by 'big business' which sets the rules and "creates more jobs," as conservatives like to claim.
Saturday ....
It is hard not to imagine how much more impact the gathering might have had if it had been held on a Monday, a work day, a day when commuters needed the Brooklyn Bridge in order to get to their desks, a day when the computers inside all those shiny buildings would need savvy financial drones to make transactions.
The Wall Street protest has been gaining momentum, with several unions and several high-profile personalities lending verbal support. Although amorphous in its goals (it's hard not to remember the line from the movie, "Network" -- "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!") still there is something apt and expressive in it. It seems to be gaining traction.
A protest held on Saturday.
I wonder what it would be like if it were held on Monday.
.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
letdowns and soul mates
.
One of the best pieces of dialogue I've heard recently cropped up on some cop-shop show I was watching on television. A woman looks at a male colleague and says, approximately, "You know, you are the only man who has never let me down. I'm not sure if that makes you my soul mate or my prime enabler."
And which is which? No doubt there are those who can dissect and parse, but I thought it was a pretty good observation.
Which is which -- enabler or soul mate?
.
One of the best pieces of dialogue I've heard recently cropped up on some cop-shop show I was watching on television. A woman looks at a male colleague and says, approximately, "You know, you are the only man who has never let me down. I'm not sure if that makes you my soul mate or my prime enabler."
And which is which? No doubt there are those who can dissect and parse, but I thought it was a pretty good observation.
Which is which -- enabler or soul mate?
.
religion of the rack
.
On the night of March 19, 2003, the U.S. (and its 'coalition of the willing') began its bombardment of Baghdad, Iraq. At the very moment when the green-blob rockets began crossing the night skies on TV, I was emailing with a young Iraqi with whom I had had previous contact on the topic of Buddhism. "It has begun," M wrote. "The bombs are falling. Pray for us." And that was the last contact I had with him.
Until today.
Today there was a note from him on this blog. It indicated that he had made it to Toronto, was applying for asylum, and wanted me to support his application, which he based on persecution he had felt from fellow Iraqis due to his interest in Buddhism. He asked me to delete his comments on this blog because he feared retribution, even in Toronto.
I have no documentation to support his claim, but I am certainly willing to do what I can. I don't know for a fact that he suffered more than the discomforts any 19-year-old might sustain in a religious environment that did not take kindly to apostate interlopers like Buddhism. But I do have some sense that Muslims, like Christians, can be pretty hostile -- and hostile in a beat-you-to-a-pulp sense -- when other 'religions' are mentioned or introduced.
The situation made me realize how little I know of the cultures that populate the planet I live on. And more, the casual assumptions I make about the freedoms I enjoy. To me, spiritual life is your business as long as you don't take it out on someone else in violent ways. But I have been in groups (the smaller version of cultures) where the slightest deviation from the norm is treated as inimical and worthy of being shut down ... hard. So, based on that (think military, rabid political groups, sports-fan gatherings, etc.) I can imagine a bit of what it might be like to live where the doors a closed and locked with a vengeance, where social order will not tolerate ... well, anything it does not tolerate.
My ignorance expresses itself, in part, in a wide-eyed surprise: Why in the world would anyone deny another the right to do what s/he does naturally ... think about things, nibble at the smorgasbord of life? It simply doesn't make any sense in my naively shuttered and sometimes self-servingly outraged mind. "That's awful!" my white-whine mind whines.
But awful or not, there are the facts, and facts deserve respect if you don't want them to come around and bite you on the ass. Other persuasions may strike me as foolish, unkind and a variety of other things, and still -- they are FACTS. It's time to grow up and stop primping and grooming in the comfort of my own, well-appointed home.
In the United States, spiritual life is more often than not an arm-chair occupation. On Buddhist bulletin boards, internet participants fret about "rebirth" and "compassion" and whether "study without a teacher." There are blips of fire when the Ku Klux Klan spouts its version of Christianity or some sex cult is uncovered ... but basically, spiritual life is pretty laissez-faire.
It is hard to envision a place where social and mental handcuffs are applied in the name of religion. It really doesn't matter whether it makes sense or not, is unkind or not. What matters is whether it is a fact or not ... and as far as I can figure out, it is a fact that some places indulge in the religion of the rack.
.
On the night of March 19, 2003, the U.S. (and its 'coalition of the willing') began its bombardment of Baghdad, Iraq. At the very moment when the green-blob rockets began crossing the night skies on TV, I was emailing with a young Iraqi with whom I had had previous contact on the topic of Buddhism. "It has begun," M wrote. "The bombs are falling. Pray for us." And that was the last contact I had with him.
Until today.
Today there was a note from him on this blog. It indicated that he had made it to Toronto, was applying for asylum, and wanted me to support his application, which he based on persecution he had felt from fellow Iraqis due to his interest in Buddhism. He asked me to delete his comments on this blog because he feared retribution, even in Toronto.
I have no documentation to support his claim, but I am certainly willing to do what I can. I don't know for a fact that he suffered more than the discomforts any 19-year-old might sustain in a religious environment that did not take kindly to apostate interlopers like Buddhism. But I do have some sense that Muslims, like Christians, can be pretty hostile -- and hostile in a beat-you-to-a-pulp sense -- when other 'religions' are mentioned or introduced.
The situation made me realize how little I know of the cultures that populate the planet I live on. And more, the casual assumptions I make about the freedoms I enjoy. To me, spiritual life is your business as long as you don't take it out on someone else in violent ways. But I have been in groups (the smaller version of cultures) where the slightest deviation from the norm is treated as inimical and worthy of being shut down ... hard. So, based on that (think military, rabid political groups, sports-fan gatherings, etc.) I can imagine a bit of what it might be like to live where the doors a closed and locked with a vengeance, where social order will not tolerate ... well, anything it does not tolerate.
My ignorance expresses itself, in part, in a wide-eyed surprise: Why in the world would anyone deny another the right to do what s/he does naturally ... think about things, nibble at the smorgasbord of life? It simply doesn't make any sense in my naively shuttered and sometimes self-servingly outraged mind. "That's awful!" my white-whine mind whines.
But awful or not, there are the facts, and facts deserve respect if you don't want them to come around and bite you on the ass. Other persuasions may strike me as foolish, unkind and a variety of other things, and still -- they are FACTS. It's time to grow up and stop primping and grooming in the comfort of my own, well-appointed home.
In the United States, spiritual life is more often than not an arm-chair occupation. On Buddhist bulletin boards, internet participants fret about "rebirth" and "compassion" and whether "study without a teacher." There are blips of fire when the Ku Klux Klan spouts its version of Christianity or some sex cult is uncovered ... but basically, spiritual life is pretty laissez-faire.
It is hard to envision a place where social and mental handcuffs are applied in the name of religion. It really doesn't matter whether it makes sense or not, is unkind or not. What matters is whether it is a fact or not ... and as far as I can figure out, it is a fact that some places indulge in the religion of the rack.
.
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