.
With an eye towards the old adage, "If someone tells you it's free, grab your wallet!" I think I will let my internet spam folder fill up a bit and assess the number of uninvited emails that assert affection or trust as a means of parting me from my money without providing any concrete return.
What a poor, if common, habit ... leading a spam life ... all saddle and no horse.
I always was pretty naive about bullshit ... my own, first and foremost.
PS. From 730a to 230p, the following tantalizing subject-lines arrived unbidden:
In good faith
WHAT?? iPhones for under $20?? It's true
Revista lliaster 19 de la Iglesia Gnostica
Easy, Hassle-Free Life Insurance From Fidelity Life Associates
VERIZON WIRELESS EXCLUSIVE PHONES OFFER!
Find a job as a Certified Nursing Assistant in Your Area!
See Photos of Other Singles in Your Area at Match
DirectBuy ... FREE VISITOR'S PASS ALERT!
Dear Sir/Madam Please read
Darlin ! :))
Request from Dave's Wife, Julie
Thank you
.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
the price of victory
.
There is frost on the car windows this morning and a piece of the moon is riding around among the clouds in a not-yet-lighted sky.
News on the internet sorts out Republican gains in the wake of yesterday's mid-term elections. There were pictures with smiles on the winners' faces. Because there is so much confusion and dissatisfaction in another country wracked by economic hard times, it is nice to see a smiling face or two.
But what do people learn from their victories? Sometimes I think it is harder to shoulder the implications of victory than it is to face the devastation of loss. Isn't it more likely that the sting of defeat will inspire careful attention? As a matter of reflection, which lessons have told a more compelling tale -- the mistakes or the victories? Isn't it harder to plumb the meaning of a victory -- which can be enthralling and self-substantiating -- than it is to reconsider the lash of defeat?
If memory serves, when Alexander the Great conquered a new territory, his success was followed not just by chest-pounding celebrations. He also set up governments that retained the old leadership ... with the understanding that they now owed fealty to him.
An interesting approach to victory.
Republicans and Democrats don't interest me that much. But individuals do.
.
There is frost on the car windows this morning and a piece of the moon is riding around among the clouds in a not-yet-lighted sky.
News on the internet sorts out Republican gains in the wake of yesterday's mid-term elections. There were pictures with smiles on the winners' faces. Because there is so much confusion and dissatisfaction in another country wracked by economic hard times, it is nice to see a smiling face or two.
But what do people learn from their victories? Sometimes I think it is harder to shoulder the implications of victory than it is to face the devastation of loss. Isn't it more likely that the sting of defeat will inspire careful attention? As a matter of reflection, which lessons have told a more compelling tale -- the mistakes or the victories? Isn't it harder to plumb the meaning of a victory -- which can be enthralling and self-substantiating -- than it is to reconsider the lash of defeat?
If memory serves, when Alexander the Great conquered a new territory, his success was followed not just by chest-pounding celebrations. He also set up governments that retained the old leadership ... with the understanding that they now owed fealty to him.
An interesting approach to victory.
Republicans and Democrats don't interest me that much. But individuals do.
.
male/female dreams
.
Received in email the following male-oriented plaint. I wouldn't be surprised if the same pipe dreams were issued by a woman.
Received in email the following male-oriented plaint. I wouldn't be surprised if the same pipe dreams were issued by a woman.
*WHAT A REAL WOMAN DOES*
A real woman is a man's best friend. She will never stand him up andnever let him down. She will reassure him when he feels insecure andcomfort him after a bad day.
She will inspire him to do things he never thought he could do; to livewithout fear and forget regret. She will enable him to express hisdeepest emotions and give in to his most intimate desires.
She will make sure he always feels as though he's the most handsome manin the room and will enable him to be the most confident, sexy,seductive, and invincible. . .
No wait... Sorry... I'm thinking of beer.That's what beer does...
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
your own true name
.
Fugai Ekun (1558-1664) was a Zen monk and artist about whom there are only sketchy details.
But enough is known to say that "Fugai" means "beyond the wind, " a name that suits each of us down to the ground.
.
Fugai Ekun (1558-1664) was a Zen monk and artist about whom there are only sketchy details.
But enough is known to say that "Fugai" means "beyond the wind, " a name that suits each of us down to the ground.
.
no expectations
.
Last night, I got a nice, straight-forward email from a fellow I don't know saying that he and his wife wanted to come to the zendo on Sunday. Both had read books about Zen but had never really gotten any instruction in how to do zazen. I sent a standard reply saying both were welcome, but to please give me some re-confirmation later in the week: There are three kids who are in and out of this house and, although I haven't missed too many Sunday sittings during the past 10-12 years, still, there was room for catastrophe and I didn't want to disappoint anyone.
He wrote back saying he would re-confirm and asking if they should bring anything. I replied that they might bring a sweater or sweatshirt because the zendo heating is not all it might be.
As an addition in the second note -- as if to reassure me? -- he wrote that neither of them had any expectations linked to the visit.
No expectations. Who knows, maybe it was true. But I suspect it was more hopeful than true.
No expectations sounds good, sounds 'Zen,' but if there were no expectations, why would anyone set out in a Zen practice? As I say, maybe no expectations was true, but it strikes me as unlikely and perhaps even foolish. No criticism from here -- Fools R Us and it is foolishness that sets a wonderful scene. Or anyway, that's my take.
Who would be a Buddhist and how could Buddhism even exist without expectations? Yes, anyone can recognize that expectations create problems, but I see no reason to try to escape from or deny problems. Rather, I think expectations create problems because those who have them -- me too -- decline to investigate them right down to the ground...really investigate.
So I guess I think that trying to sidestep expectations -- to somehow outwit or suppress them -- is a mistake. Better would be to embrace them and then follow the Yellow Brick Road with patience and courage.
No one who ever became a Buddhist did so because s/he was so damned happy. No one who ever became a Buddhist did so because s/he lived in a world of complete certainty -- a universe without suffering. Buddhists join up in the hope/expectation/belief that there might be a means of straightening out this confusion, this mess, this uncertainty. How could it be otherwise?
Having made the decision to join in, effort rears its ugly head: Theory and philosophy are one thing, but making an effort to penetrate the fine print of this contract is quite another. Perhaps expectations, however unrealistic, amount to little more than what Buddhists describe as "right intention" -- the willingness to foresee and then seek to actualize what is foreseen. The fact that no one can foresee accurately should not be a barrier to trying; it should not hinder a good effort.
Well, I'm wandering. I guess I'm thinking that expectation isn't really all that bad assuming anyone might be willing to put it to the test. Expectation can get us off the dime. Once put into investigative action, it offers a way of giving ourselves a reality check. So go ahead, expect to have no expectations ... and then find out if it's true. Find out if it's true really.
.
Last night, I got a nice, straight-forward email from a fellow I don't know saying that he and his wife wanted to come to the zendo on Sunday. Both had read books about Zen but had never really gotten any instruction in how to do zazen. I sent a standard reply saying both were welcome, but to please give me some re-confirmation later in the week: There are three kids who are in and out of this house and, although I haven't missed too many Sunday sittings during the past 10-12 years, still, there was room for catastrophe and I didn't want to disappoint anyone.
He wrote back saying he would re-confirm and asking if they should bring anything. I replied that they might bring a sweater or sweatshirt because the zendo heating is not all it might be.
As an addition in the second note -- as if to reassure me? -- he wrote that neither of them had any expectations linked to the visit.
No expectations. Who knows, maybe it was true. But I suspect it was more hopeful than true.
No expectations sounds good, sounds 'Zen,' but if there were no expectations, why would anyone set out in a Zen practice? As I say, maybe no expectations was true, but it strikes me as unlikely and perhaps even foolish. No criticism from here -- Fools R Us and it is foolishness that sets a wonderful scene. Or anyway, that's my take.
Who would be a Buddhist and how could Buddhism even exist without expectations? Yes, anyone can recognize that expectations create problems, but I see no reason to try to escape from or deny problems. Rather, I think expectations create problems because those who have them -- me too -- decline to investigate them right down to the ground...really investigate.
So I guess I think that trying to sidestep expectations -- to somehow outwit or suppress them -- is a mistake. Better would be to embrace them and then follow the Yellow Brick Road with patience and courage.
No one who ever became a Buddhist did so because s/he was so damned happy. No one who ever became a Buddhist did so because s/he lived in a world of complete certainty -- a universe without suffering. Buddhists join up in the hope/expectation/belief that there might be a means of straightening out this confusion, this mess, this uncertainty. How could it be otherwise?
Having made the decision to join in, effort rears its ugly head: Theory and philosophy are one thing, but making an effort to penetrate the fine print of this contract is quite another. Perhaps expectations, however unrealistic, amount to little more than what Buddhists describe as "right intention" -- the willingness to foresee and then seek to actualize what is foreseen. The fact that no one can foresee accurately should not be a barrier to trying; it should not hinder a good effort.
Well, I'm wandering. I guess I'm thinking that expectation isn't really all that bad assuming anyone might be willing to put it to the test. Expectation can get us off the dime. Once put into investigative action, it offers a way of giving ourselves a reality check. So go ahead, expect to have no expectations ... and then find out if it's true. Find out if it's true really.
.
Monday, November 1, 2010
story time
.
Rhea, a student at Smith College, came promptly at 8 a.m. today to interview me for a documentary she wants to do about my mother, the author of "The Horizontal Man" and one-time wife to my father. It was not entirely clear to me how she could do a documentary on someone she had not interviewed, but we talked for about 40 minutes. Most of her questions left me saying, "I really don't know."
Question: Do you remember a time when your parents were together and the three of you were together? Answer: They were divorced before I was really conscious? Question: When were they married? Answer: I'm not exactly sure. Question: Did either have much to say about the other? My father seldom if ever spoke about my mother; my mother had a few acid remarks which, as a child, I was inclined to put aside and forget since every child wants to think well of both parents. Question: Do you think your parents' relationship was an intellectual thing? Answer: I really don't know, but I do know that the intellect is seductive and that both of them found in it a means of escaping other parts of the world.
I really was largely at a loss. The Disney-esque world in which children remember their parents fondly or with rare anger, both in general and in specifics, is not the kind of world I lived in or could recall. Perhaps that is some measure of the dysfunction of my upbringing.
I felt sort of embarrassed by it all. I was not embarrassed because my upbringing was something less than idyllic -- and who, at whatever age, would not wish for some idyll -- but rather that I could not find much meat on the memory bone ... specifics that would support and illustrate my somewhat amorphous conclusions. On the other hand, for my own purposes, perhaps there is something to be said for gently (I feel no particular rancor or dis-ease) setting aside that which was often unhealthy.
And there was something refreshing about reviewing the past at the hands of another. It was like turning the earth before spring planting.
Anyway, I lent Rhea, who has an extended family at home in Bombay, an old photo album that may or may not advance her project. How wonderful -- or should I say "foolish?" -- to think that we might adequately depict another human being. On the other hand, how wonderful and even necessary to tell stories ... even when those stories are incomplete or just plain wrong. Stories make the world go 'round.
.
Rhea, a student at Smith College, came promptly at 8 a.m. today to interview me for a documentary she wants to do about my mother, the author of "The Horizontal Man" and one-time wife to my father. It was not entirely clear to me how she could do a documentary on someone she had not interviewed, but we talked for about 40 minutes. Most of her questions left me saying, "I really don't know."
Question: Do you remember a time when your parents were together and the three of you were together? Answer: They were divorced before I was really conscious? Question: When were they married? Answer: I'm not exactly sure. Question: Did either have much to say about the other? My father seldom if ever spoke about my mother; my mother had a few acid remarks which, as a child, I was inclined to put aside and forget since every child wants to think well of both parents. Question: Do you think your parents' relationship was an intellectual thing? Answer: I really don't know, but I do know that the intellect is seductive and that both of them found in it a means of escaping other parts of the world.
I really was largely at a loss. The Disney-esque world in which children remember their parents fondly or with rare anger, both in general and in specifics, is not the kind of world I lived in or could recall. Perhaps that is some measure of the dysfunction of my upbringing.
I felt sort of embarrassed by it all. I was not embarrassed because my upbringing was something less than idyllic -- and who, at whatever age, would not wish for some idyll -- but rather that I could not find much meat on the memory bone ... specifics that would support and illustrate my somewhat amorphous conclusions. On the other hand, for my own purposes, perhaps there is something to be said for gently (I feel no particular rancor or dis-ease) setting aside that which was often unhealthy.
And there was something refreshing about reviewing the past at the hands of another. It was like turning the earth before spring planting.
Anyway, I lent Rhea, who has an extended family at home in Bombay, an old photo album that may or may not advance her project. How wonderful -- or should I say "foolish?" -- to think that we might adequately depict another human being. On the other hand, how wonderful and even necessary to tell stories ... even when those stories are incomplete or just plain wrong. Stories make the world go 'round.
.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
easy conveniences
.
To execute the murderer does not end murder.
To incarcerate the robber does not stop robbery.
To call out the liar and hypocrite does not eradicate lying and hypocrisy.
To crucify the savior does not erase salvation.
Perhaps this was some of what Gautama had in mind when he suggested that "It is not what others do and do not do that is my concern. It is what I do and do not do -- that is my concern."
The easy convenience of good deeds and virtue may deserve some respect, but it cannot be allowed to pass for a truth that will assure peace.
.
To execute the murderer does not end murder.
To incarcerate the robber does not stop robbery.
To call out the liar and hypocrite does not eradicate lying and hypocrisy.
To crucify the savior does not erase salvation.
Perhaps this was some of what Gautama had in mind when he suggested that "It is not what others do and do not do that is my concern. It is what I do and do not do -- that is my concern."
The easy convenience of good deeds and virtue may deserve some respect, but it cannot be allowed to pass for a truth that will assure peace.
.
autumnal music
.
In the orchestra pit of autumnal skies, the crows and jays (with an occasional tenor interruption from the Canada geese) seem to have taken over. Stilled, for the moment, are the sweeping, interwoven melodies of I don't know how many spring and summer species.
But the well-oiled door on winter's tomb has not yet clicked shut. No snow has fallen. The hardy mums still blossom. And my neighbor's Japanese maple, always the last on the block to go bald, has not yet given up the ghost.
Still, the furnace kicks in now and then, yesterday my son fired up the wood stove and last night I turned on the electric radiator in the zendo.
Preparations are in the works, but when have preparations ever assured the high notes or low?
It's coming, but the question is, what is it and how could it vary -- or not -- from the summer symphonies?
.
In the orchestra pit of autumnal skies, the crows and jays (with an occasional tenor interruption from the Canada geese) seem to have taken over. Stilled, for the moment, are the sweeping, interwoven melodies of I don't know how many spring and summer species.
But the well-oiled door on winter's tomb has not yet clicked shut. No snow has fallen. The hardy mums still blossom. And my neighbor's Japanese maple, always the last on the block to go bald, has not yet given up the ghost.
Still, the furnace kicks in now and then, yesterday my son fired up the wood stove and last night I turned on the electric radiator in the zendo.
Preparations are in the works, but when have preparations ever assured the high notes or low?
It's coming, but the question is, what is it and how could it vary -- or not -- from the summer symphonies?
.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
the past rises up
.
Past, present and future may be a snare and a delusion, but there is something touching about the ways in which the past can rise up with the force of a tsunami.
In California, a man was arrested Friday and charged with beating a Catholic priest whom the man accused of sexually assaulting him and his brother 35 years ago, when they were 7 and 5.
Horrific allegations.
Horrific truths.
How does anyone make peace with the real horrors in their lives? How does anyone make peace with the horrors they see in the lives of others? Even second-hand, there is something viscerally repugnant ... and that's just second-hand.
The past has its horrors.
The past has its delights.
How does anyone make peace with such things?
Certainly it's not as easy as mouthing the words that say past, present and future are a snare and a delusion.
.
Past, present and future may be a snare and a delusion, but there is something touching about the ways in which the past can rise up with the force of a tsunami.
In California, a man was arrested Friday and charged with beating a Catholic priest whom the man accused of sexually assaulting him and his brother 35 years ago, when they were 7 and 5.
Horrific allegations.
Horrific truths.
How does anyone make peace with the real horrors in their lives? How does anyone make peace with the horrors they see in the lives of others? Even second-hand, there is something viscerally repugnant ... and that's just second-hand.
The past has its horrors.
The past has its delights.
How does anyone make peace with such things?
Certainly it's not as easy as mouthing the words that say past, present and future are a snare and a delusion.
.
the fine print of spiritual life
.
This morning I was reading a contemporary description of monastic life in Japan. It depicted a very-strict atmosphere, a very-strict discipline. It was almost inconceivable ... the longing for kindness and release coming head-to-head with the fine-print of practice. Why did the situation seem so filled with unkindness and rigor and lack of smiles? Couldn't anyone get where they hoped to go in an atmosphere that was more 'compassionate?' As someone who had flunked out of an American monastery, I read with interest the description that included the following:
But what occurred to me this morning was that no matter how unkind the training ground may be -- no matter how the psychobabble-mind dissects and reproves it -- still there is an unkindness and uncertainty and confusion within that is tougher and more resilient than any boot camp. With or without a trip to a monastery or some distant and dank cave, there comes a point where each individual has to put up or shut up. This is w-o-r-k and it is work that some understanding within acknowledges. A top-sergeant from the outside is nothing compared to the top-sergeant within ... the one who feels the unhappiness or uncertainty and is determined to overcome it. And trying to fend off our own uncertainties with powder-puff charities ... hell, that doesn't work either.
I'm not trying to excuse or elevate or even deride the hard-ass monastic approach. What I am trying to say is that each person will have to confront the fine-print of his or her own aspirations. It may feel good to read about or describe or dissect the directions required by those aspirations, but the hardest part is to actually do something ... whether monastic or lay ... that will assure some actualization.
Serious students are, in one sense, screwed. Entering a spiritual endeavor from the kindness side invariably leads to a need for razor-sharp clarity; entering a spiritual life from the clarity side invariably leads to the need for kindness. Of course all of this depends on determination -- the willingness not to stop, the willingness to keep going, the willingness not to nest in the precincts of kindness or clarity.
And where does that determination come from? It certainly doesn't come from the hard-ass top-sergeants or warmly-avuncular saints of spiritual endeavor. It comes from within and it is unremitting. The toughest, kindest guy in the neighborhood is not some crack-the-whip instructor or some Dalai Lama. The toughest, kindest guy resides within ... and is worth investigating and worth taking instruction from.
No is not enough.
But then, neither is yes.
.
This morning I was reading a contemporary description of monastic life in Japan. It depicted a very-strict atmosphere, a very-strict discipline. It was almost inconceivable ... the longing for kindness and release coming head-to-head with the fine-print of practice. Why did the situation seem so filled with unkindness and rigor and lack of smiles? Couldn't anyone get where they hoped to go in an atmosphere that was more 'compassionate?' As someone who had flunked out of an American monastery, I read with interest the description that included the following:
I couldn’t believe my ears. The man had broken his leg! Was it necessary to go so far? That was when it finally sank in. This was indeed Eiheiji -- the premier Zen training center in Japan, famed down the centuries for the rigor of its discipline. Nothing here, including meditation, bore the least resemblance to the fanciful pictures my mind had painted before coming. I was forcibly reminded that once a man sets foot in this holy place, he must devote himself to the discipline truly as if his life depends on it. At the thought my blood buzzed, and sweat trickled down my back.
From: Eat Sleep Sit: My Year at Japan's Most Rigorous Zen TempleThe book's descriptions aroused all sorts of feelings of rebellion and denial and horror. It was all so unkind. Spiritual endeavor wasn't unkind, right? Weren't all of the monks and nuns and talks and books filled with an utterly magnetic aura of living a smiling, compassionate lifestyle. Wasn't it that aura that drew people in and set them on a path to a revised life and a more clear-eyed way of seeing? In general, the mind fills this arena with hugs and kisses ... a kind of firm and unflinching joy. There were a hundred arguments as to why what the book described was masochistic bullshit: This isn't spiritual life or, if it is, it's a crock. I think a lot of people who take up spiritual endeavor would like to be nice guys ... and the book's description etched a world that was filled with unkind martinets.
But what occurred to me this morning was that no matter how unkind the training ground may be -- no matter how the psychobabble-mind dissects and reproves it -- still there is an unkindness and uncertainty and confusion within that is tougher and more resilient than any boot camp. With or without a trip to a monastery or some distant and dank cave, there comes a point where each individual has to put up or shut up. This is w-o-r-k and it is work that some understanding within acknowledges. A top-sergeant from the outside is nothing compared to the top-sergeant within ... the one who feels the unhappiness or uncertainty and is determined to overcome it. And trying to fend off our own uncertainties with powder-puff charities ... hell, that doesn't work either.
I'm not trying to excuse or elevate or even deride the hard-ass monastic approach. What I am trying to say is that each person will have to confront the fine-print of his or her own aspirations. It may feel good to read about or describe or dissect the directions required by those aspirations, but the hardest part is to actually do something ... whether monastic or lay ... that will assure some actualization.
Serious students are, in one sense, screwed. Entering a spiritual endeavor from the kindness side invariably leads to a need for razor-sharp clarity; entering a spiritual life from the clarity side invariably leads to the need for kindness. Of course all of this depends on determination -- the willingness not to stop, the willingness to keep going, the willingness not to nest in the precincts of kindness or clarity.
And where does that determination come from? It certainly doesn't come from the hard-ass top-sergeants or warmly-avuncular saints of spiritual endeavor. It comes from within and it is unremitting. The toughest, kindest guy in the neighborhood is not some crack-the-whip instructor or some Dalai Lama. The toughest, kindest guy resides within ... and is worth investigating and worth taking instruction from.
No is not enough.
But then, neither is yes.
.
Friday, October 29, 2010
vilification
.
The penance of praise.
Vilified by praise.
I wonder at those who can can escape from or see through a stoning by adulation.
How painfully inviting.
I wouldn't praise it, but that doesn't mean I can't marvel.
.
The penance of praise.
Vilified by praise.
I wonder at those who can can escape from or see through a stoning by adulation.
How painfully inviting.
I wouldn't praise it, but that doesn't mean I can't marvel.
.
don't lock the doors too tight
.
Yesterday, I received a beautiful card with a nice note from the 90-plus-year-old woman who for years has been the backbone of the local peace picket. She said she missed my presence on the Saturday morning vigils and hoped I would feel better. Her words made me think I should get my ass in gear and return to the picket line.
The card made my mind skitter back to previous times on the line -- a nice way to spend an hour. And for some reason my mind settled on a meeting I had had with a woman who runs a local Zen center. She approached me one morning together with a friend. She said she had seen my robes (passers-by pay attention to guys in dresses so I figure peace is worth getting dressed up for) and was curious about what lineage, what teachers, what Zen environment I had come out of.
I told her what I could and her eyes took on a pedagogic glow ... she was a Zen teacher and all situations deserved to be treated as part of Zen training. Our meeting, her tone and eyes said, was a ... wait for it! ... Zen event -- a time for her to tell me how meaningful lineage and teachings and our meeting were. It had a deeper meaning, a more impressive importance, than was obvious on the surface. Deeeep meaning!
Of course she was right, in one sense, but she was full of shit in a more profound way. Arm-twisting daily life is not the purpose of spiritual practice. The old teacher Ummon summed things up nicely when he said, "When you can't say it, it's there. When you don't say it, it's missing."
Naturally Zen students work pretty hard and encourage each other in a variety of ways. They make all sorts of mistakes before they can settle down and just ... well ... enjoy things. And one of those mistakes is to lock their doors too tight as they try to penetrate or fend off a universe full of suffering, confusion and uncertainty. Sweat and strain and ... I think it was John Lennon who coined the phrase, "Life is what was happening while you were busy making other plans."
Yes, discipline and practice can be fierce and fiery, but let's not lock the doors too tight.
.
Yesterday, I received a beautiful card with a nice note from the 90-plus-year-old woman who for years has been the backbone of the local peace picket. She said she missed my presence on the Saturday morning vigils and hoped I would feel better. Her words made me think I should get my ass in gear and return to the picket line.
The card made my mind skitter back to previous times on the line -- a nice way to spend an hour. And for some reason my mind settled on a meeting I had had with a woman who runs a local Zen center. She approached me one morning together with a friend. She said she had seen my robes (passers-by pay attention to guys in dresses so I figure peace is worth getting dressed up for) and was curious about what lineage, what teachers, what Zen environment I had come out of.
I told her what I could and her eyes took on a pedagogic glow ... she was a Zen teacher and all situations deserved to be treated as part of Zen training. Our meeting, her tone and eyes said, was a ... wait for it! ... Zen event -- a time for her to tell me how meaningful lineage and teachings and our meeting were. It had a deeper meaning, a more impressive importance, than was obvious on the surface. Deeeep meaning!
Of course she was right, in one sense, but she was full of shit in a more profound way. Arm-twisting daily life is not the purpose of spiritual practice. The old teacher Ummon summed things up nicely when he said, "When you can't say it, it's there. When you don't say it, it's missing."
Naturally Zen students work pretty hard and encourage each other in a variety of ways. They make all sorts of mistakes before they can settle down and just ... well ... enjoy things. And one of those mistakes is to lock their doors too tight as they try to penetrate or fend off a universe full of suffering, confusion and uncertainty. Sweat and strain and ... I think it was John Lennon who coined the phrase, "Life is what was happening while you were busy making other plans."
Yes, discipline and practice can be fierce and fiery, but let's not lock the doors too tight.
.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
traveling far enough
.
Aldous Huxley once wrote approximately
I wonder if the same thing might be said for the spiritually-inclined:
Being a non-believer does not imply that agnostics or atheists would somehow get a leg up on believers. Agnostics and atheists have worked pretty hard on their beliefs. Maybe a non-believer is more like a daisy in the summer time, unconcerned with economic downturns, deep philosophies, and warring states. A daisy doesn't care and doesn't not-care. A daisy is just a daisy.
I thought of this when idly scanning the spiritually-linked books gathering dust on the porch bookshelf. How I loved them in their time. How they encouraged me. How they buttressed an interest in which I was not yet quite comfortable ... what if the whole thing is just a crock of shit? What if I followed this path and just drove myself crazy? I didn't want to end up in some rubber room and these books and the temples I visited and the lectures I heard and the practices I practiced all supported me and my uncertainties. Thank you very much.
But eventually, like some knitting or stamp-collecting fad, those books fell back to what they were before I ever needed and relied on them. Something I didn't really know about and something, more important, that simply collected dust.
I'm not suggesting that those books, those buttresses, are somehow bad or useless. They're not. But they certainly do collect dust and dusting is not my favorite hobby.
.
Aldous Huxley once wrote approximately
If the intellectual travels long enough and far enough, he will return to the same point from which the non-intellectual never started.
I wonder if the same thing might be said for the spiritually-inclined:
If the believer travels long enough and far enough, he will return to the same point from which the non-believer never started.
Being a non-believer does not imply that agnostics or atheists would somehow get a leg up on believers. Agnostics and atheists have worked pretty hard on their beliefs. Maybe a non-believer is more like a daisy in the summer time, unconcerned with economic downturns, deep philosophies, and warring states. A daisy doesn't care and doesn't not-care. A daisy is just a daisy.
I thought of this when idly scanning the spiritually-linked books gathering dust on the porch bookshelf. How I loved them in their time. How they encouraged me. How they buttressed an interest in which I was not yet quite comfortable ... what if the whole thing is just a crock of shit? What if I followed this path and just drove myself crazy? I didn't want to end up in some rubber room and these books and the temples I visited and the lectures I heard and the practices I practiced all supported me and my uncertainties. Thank you very much.
But eventually, like some knitting or stamp-collecting fad, those books fell back to what they were before I ever needed and relied on them. Something I didn't really know about and something, more important, that simply collected dust.
I'm not suggesting that those books, those buttresses, are somehow bad or useless. They're not. But they certainly do collect dust and dusting is not my favorite hobby.
.
vote for me!
.
When I was a kid, a "million" was an extraordinary number, as mind-defying in its way as "ten thousand" once was to the Chinese who used it as a synonym for "incalculable." In the early 1970's, I can remember the newspaper I worked for stopping the presses in order to get a story on page one that the New York stock exchange had traded 16 million shares. Today, analysts consider it "light" if the number of stocks traded is under a billion and companies are bought and sold in the billions of dollars.
And this morning, in a news story, I read this:
A trillion -- that's 1,000,000,000,000. In a country of 307 million, not all of whom are taxpayers, $14 trillion works out to about $90,000 per taxpayer... many of whom never had $90,000 to lose in the first place. Those most clearly responsible for creating the debacle that is politely referred to as a "recession" are the Republicans.
Mid-term elections are next Tuesday. People are so dissatisfied and fearful about the lack of employment and congressional foolishness that it is expected voters will stand up and vote heavily ... for Republicans.
Greed crosses party lines, of course, but the relative foolishness of such a vote stuns my mind ... much as the number 10,000 might once have stunned the Chinese. It's like a collective masochism ... yes, let's improve things by reinstating those most responsible for making them worse in the first place... and wave the flag while we're at it.
Clearly this is my own expectation at work -- being unable to credit the endlessness of greed, my own included. However big the number, there is always one more number that can be added: One trillion becomes one trillion and one ... and two and three.
A little bit of greed becomes a little more and a little more and a little more. And I, like a lot of others, will bust a gut trying to get others to believe that eating shit is the right thing to do, the patriotic thing, the thing that will make me look refined even when I am plug-ugly. It is important that my needs, my greeds, be met and that others praise me for them.
Vote greed.
Vote for me!
.
When I was a kid, a "million" was an extraordinary number, as mind-defying in its way as "ten thousand" once was to the Chinese who used it as a synonym for "incalculable." In the early 1970's, I can remember the newspaper I worked for stopping the presses in order to get a story on page one that the New York stock exchange had traded 16 million shares. Today, analysts consider it "light" if the number of stocks traded is under a billion and companies are bought and sold in the billions of dollars.
And this morning, in a news story, I read this:
"American households lost $14 trillion of their net worth in the recent recession," said survey participant Albert Niemi, dean of the Cox School of Business at Southern Methodist University. "The loss in wealth, plus tight credit, will depress consumer spending for the next several years."
A trillion -- that's 1,000,000,000,000. In a country of 307 million, not all of whom are taxpayers, $14 trillion works out to about $90,000 per taxpayer... many of whom never had $90,000 to lose in the first place. Those most clearly responsible for creating the debacle that is politely referred to as a "recession" are the Republicans.
Mid-term elections are next Tuesday. People are so dissatisfied and fearful about the lack of employment and congressional foolishness that it is expected voters will stand up and vote heavily ... for Republicans.
Greed crosses party lines, of course, but the relative foolishness of such a vote stuns my mind ... much as the number 10,000 might once have stunned the Chinese. It's like a collective masochism ... yes, let's improve things by reinstating those most responsible for making them worse in the first place... and wave the flag while we're at it.
Clearly this is my own expectation at work -- being unable to credit the endlessness of greed, my own included. However big the number, there is always one more number that can be added: One trillion becomes one trillion and one ... and two and three.
A little bit of greed becomes a little more and a little more and a little more. And I, like a lot of others, will bust a gut trying to get others to believe that eating shit is the right thing to do, the patriotic thing, the thing that will make me look refined even when I am plug-ugly. It is important that my needs, my greeds, be met and that others praise me for them.
Vote greed.
Vote for me!
.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
certainty or uncertainty ... the mystery
.
I suppose discomfort and longing are the progenitors of mystery. If you can't explain something, you might want to find a way to explain it ... "it's a mystery," sounds good, or, "the Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao." I am as much a sucker for awe and meaning as the next fellow, but really, how long can anyone keep up such a pretense? How long must anyone accede to uncertainty? How important is the certainty alluded to in a "mystery?"
When I worked as a newspaper reporter, the touchstones were "who, what, when, where, why and how." Opinions and sincerities were kept in check, though of course there was always bias in what words were chosen and in what order they were placed. As a reporter, curiosity and the willingness to dig into the mystery were the tools of choice. Eventually, having dug far enough -- or after the city editor had yelled at you to "get the goddamned thing done! -- you wrote the story and, because it was written, because it was printed, or because other people may have read it as authoritative, the mystery was solved, sort of. There was more certainty and less uncertainty.
It's pretty smart to look into the certainties of others or the certainties of our own. But if it makes sense to examine our certainties, what makes us think that failing to examine our uncertainties is sensible? Isn't uncertainty -- and the weaving of mystery that may follow on its heels -- just another expression of certainty that deserves investigation? Is there really much difference between falling prey to certainty and falling prey to uncertainty? Maybe what is called a mystery is just another form of laziness ... I don't know: It's a mystery.
.
I suppose discomfort and longing are the progenitors of mystery. If you can't explain something, you might want to find a way to explain it ... "it's a mystery," sounds good, or, "the Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao." I am as much a sucker for awe and meaning as the next fellow, but really, how long can anyone keep up such a pretense? How long must anyone accede to uncertainty? How important is the certainty alluded to in a "mystery?"
When I worked as a newspaper reporter, the touchstones were "who, what, when, where, why and how." Opinions and sincerities were kept in check, though of course there was always bias in what words were chosen and in what order they were placed. As a reporter, curiosity and the willingness to dig into the mystery were the tools of choice. Eventually, having dug far enough -- or after the city editor had yelled at you to "get the goddamned thing done! -- you wrote the story and, because it was written, because it was printed, or because other people may have read it as authoritative, the mystery was solved, sort of. There was more certainty and less uncertainty.
It's pretty smart to look into the certainties of others or the certainties of our own. But if it makes sense to examine our certainties, what makes us think that failing to examine our uncertainties is sensible? Isn't uncertainty -- and the weaving of mystery that may follow on its heels -- just another expression of certainty that deserves investigation? Is there really much difference between falling prey to certainty and falling prey to uncertainty? Maybe what is called a mystery is just another form of laziness ... I don't know: It's a mystery..
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Einstein quote
.
Quote I read elsewhere:
Quote I read elsewhere:
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all science and all true art. He who can no longer pause and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead.".
-- Einstein
caution! coward at work
.
The forecast says the temperature today will get into the 70's F, a short, warming reprieve in the slow slide towards extra blankets and closed windows. Already there is a warmth along the damp streets and a quiet softness to accompany it.
Yesterday's posting of the documentary "Amongst the White Clouds," a rough-hewn film about Chinese Buddhist hermits in the mountains, intermingles in my mind this morning with an internet note that also had to do with Buddhist "teachers" and "students." I guess it may be the only option -- teachers and students -- given the uncertainties and attachments that can make people so unhappy, but it causes me to remember ....
How many times did my own teacher give me the option to set such things aside? How many times, from within my own uncertainty, did I refuse? Endless times, I imagine, but a couple of incidents stand out.
I once asked my teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, if he'd like to go out to lunch. He agreed and we ended up in an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village in New York. When the bill came, he asked how much his portion came to. I said I would pay. But he asked me again how much his portion was. And again I said I would pay. I ended up paying, but looking back I think I made a mistake: I didn't dare -- didn't really have the capacity -- to be friends with him.
And the same thing happened when he officiated at my wedding. How much should I pay him, I asked. He dismissed the notion immediately. Again I asked and again he dismissed the idea. I suppose this could be chalked up to a subtle humility, but I have a feeling it went deeper than that: What parent would not gladly do what a child requested? What child would not gladly do what a parent requested? What friend would not fulfill the needs of a dear friend ... without even thinking about it? In the end, I paid him some money.
Inequality clings like a leech sucking warm blood. Equality is frightening and excites all sorts of explanations and meanings ... the heart of inequality.
Practice takes some courage. You have to work through the cowardice. How long do you intend to rebuff what you long for ... or rebuff with your longings?
.
The forecast says the temperature today will get into the 70's F, a short, warming reprieve in the slow slide towards extra blankets and closed windows. Already there is a warmth along the damp streets and a quiet softness to accompany it.
Yesterday's posting of the documentary "Amongst the White Clouds," a rough-hewn film about Chinese Buddhist hermits in the mountains, intermingles in my mind this morning with an internet note that also had to do with Buddhist "teachers" and "students." I guess it may be the only option -- teachers and students -- given the uncertainties and attachments that can make people so unhappy, but it causes me to remember ....
How many times did my own teacher give me the option to set such things aside? How many times, from within my own uncertainty, did I refuse? Endless times, I imagine, but a couple of incidents stand out.
I once asked my teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, if he'd like to go out to lunch. He agreed and we ended up in an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village in New York. When the bill came, he asked how much his portion came to. I said I would pay. But he asked me again how much his portion was. And again I said I would pay. I ended up paying, but looking back I think I made a mistake: I didn't dare -- didn't really have the capacity -- to be friends with him.
And the same thing happened when he officiated at my wedding. How much should I pay him, I asked. He dismissed the notion immediately. Again I asked and again he dismissed the idea. I suppose this could be chalked up to a subtle humility, but I have a feeling it went deeper than that: What parent would not gladly do what a child requested? What child would not gladly do what a parent requested? What friend would not fulfill the needs of a dear friend ... without even thinking about it? In the end, I paid him some money.
Inequality clings like a leech sucking warm blood. Equality is frightening and excites all sorts of explanations and meanings ... the heart of inequality.
Practice takes some courage. You have to work through the cowardice. How long do you intend to rebuff what you long for ... or rebuff with your longings?
.
Monday, October 25, 2010
falling short
.
Yesterday, I went to my younger son's baseball game. The day was cold and grey.What might have been nothing special in past years -- the drive, the standing and sitting as the game progressed -- was made somewhat special by the fact that my heart problems have required a variety of pills, a variety of slowdowns, a variety of grudging changes.
On the sidelines, at one point, a missed ball came rolling to my feet. I reached down and picked it up. It was perhaps 50-60 feet to the player who had missed it and he looked at me expectantly. My mind was relaxed and assured in the hundreds or perhaps thousands of times I had made such a throw in the past. The habit and ability were in place. The scene was set in my mind -- past and present were one ... this was something I didn't even need to think about. Easy-peasy. And yet, when I threw the ball, it fell short by half. All my neurons and all of my past was prepared for a completion, but it didn't happen. The young man waiting for the ball looked at me briefly with something between commiseration and contempt. Once I had gotten over my own surprise, I had a similar look.
My Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, once said to me as he grew older, "I am getting weak." His mind was able to remember other times and places, but now those memories were just that -- memories much like throwing the ball 50-60 feet. The facts overcome the fictions. Old or young, I imagine that's pretty much the case for everyone. It kind of knocks the stuffing out of you, but it also brings on an imperfectly-enjoyed present. No need to taunt, "get real!" Reality just asserts itself without any effort or philosophy or bias.
I didn't like it much, but then, if I didn't have something to grouse about, how interesting would my life be?
:)
.
Yesterday, I went to my younger son's baseball game. The day was cold and grey.What might have been nothing special in past years -- the drive, the standing and sitting as the game progressed -- was made somewhat special by the fact that my heart problems have required a variety of pills, a variety of slowdowns, a variety of grudging changes.
On the sidelines, at one point, a missed ball came rolling to my feet. I reached down and picked it up. It was perhaps 50-60 feet to the player who had missed it and he looked at me expectantly. My mind was relaxed and assured in the hundreds or perhaps thousands of times I had made such a throw in the past. The habit and ability were in place. The scene was set in my mind -- past and present were one ... this was something I didn't even need to think about. Easy-peasy. And yet, when I threw the ball, it fell short by half. All my neurons and all of my past was prepared for a completion, but it didn't happen. The young man waiting for the ball looked at me briefly with something between commiseration and contempt. Once I had gotten over my own surprise, I had a similar look.
My Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, once said to me as he grew older, "I am getting weak." His mind was able to remember other times and places, but now those memories were just that -- memories much like throwing the ball 50-60 feet. The facts overcome the fictions. Old or young, I imagine that's pretty much the case for everyone. It kind of knocks the stuffing out of you, but it also brings on an imperfectly-enjoyed present. No need to taunt, "get real!" Reality just asserts itself without any effort or philosophy or bias.
I didn't like it much, but then, if I didn't have something to grouse about, how interesting would my life be?
:)
.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
the wuss factor
.
My wife has fired up the wood stove and last night I turned on the heat in the zendo. It's 43F this morning -- not especially cold, and yet the older I get the colder it gets ... and the same goes for heat.
Once I was all for toughing such things out -- facing heat and cold as if somehow they could be overcome. Today, my younger son has a baseball game and, assuming my body allows it, I will go ... and be bundled up into the bargain.
What's wrong with being a wuss?
.
My wife has fired up the wood stove and last night I turned on the heat in the zendo. It's 43F this morning -- not especially cold, and yet the older I get the colder it gets ... and the same goes for heat.
Once I was all for toughing such things out -- facing heat and cold as if somehow they could be overcome. Today, my younger son has a baseball game and, assuming my body allows it, I will go ... and be bundled up into the bargain.
What's wrong with being a wuss?
.
breakthrough to where?
.
It arrived under the email subject line "HAHAHAHAHA." It appeared to come from China and its first lines were these:
A email friend in Mexico once sent me a note in which he mentioned in passing that his Tibetan Buddhist teacher had approved his understanding. "But let's not make too much of it," he added. To discover the wind on your face or a red rose or the laughter that accompanies a good joke ... let's not make too much of it.
Still, I am happy if it's true.
.
It arrived under the email subject line "HAHAHAHAHA." It appeared to come from China and its first lines were these:
I understood! I finally understood!!!
There is no high, no low, no left, no right, no start, no end, no
better, no worse, no here, no there, no this, no that, no happiness,
no sadness.
And like a rongxiang whose heart momentarily saw no human beings, and
no self either, and he needed his computer to email some friends,
imagine that they exists.
Sob. A email friend in Mexico once sent me a note in which he mentioned in passing that his Tibetan Buddhist teacher had approved his understanding. "But let's not make too much of it," he added. To discover the wind on your face or a red rose or the laughter that accompanies a good joke ... let's not make too much of it.
Still, I am happy if it's true.
.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
George Santayana
.
Philosopher and essayist George Santayana is credited with writing, "Those who do not read history are condemned to repeat it." There are numerous variations of his words: Eg,
Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. But those who do learn from history seem to repeat it as well since what is learned depends entirely on the individual's attentiveness and outlook. Count the wars, count the famines, assess the fallout from various past kinds of greed, anger and ignorance ... someone must have learned something along the way, but I guess there was either not enough social consciousness of what needed to be learned or the appreciations of that learning were various and contradictory.
Learn or don't learn, read or don't read ... still the repetitions go on and the wiles of greed, anger and ignorance are best seen and dealt with after looking in the mirror.
.
Philosopher and essayist George Santayana is credited with writing, "Those who do not read history are condemned to repeat it." There are numerous variations of his words: Eg,
Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.It is such a nifty, quotable, intelligent, elevated and seemingly commonsensical remark. But how sensible is it where the rubber hits the road?
Those who do not remember their past are condemned to repeat their mistakes.
Those who fail to learn from the mistakes of their predecessors are destined to repeat them.
Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. But those who do learn from history seem to repeat it as well since what is learned depends entirely on the individual's attentiveness and outlook. Count the wars, count the famines, assess the fallout from various past kinds of greed, anger and ignorance ... someone must have learned something along the way, but I guess there was either not enough social consciousness of what needed to be learned or the appreciations of that learning were various and contradictory.
Learn or don't learn, read or don't read ... still the repetitions go on and the wiles of greed, anger and ignorance are best seen and dealt with after looking in the mirror.
.
who will remember?
.
In six months, who will remember that the Texas Rangers beat the New York Yankees yesterday and will therefore play in the upcoming baseball World Series?
Memory is an odd duck -- often inaccurate, often forceful, often compelling.
In six months -- or six seconds -- who will remember?
.
In six months, who will remember that the Texas Rangers beat the New York Yankees yesterday and will therefore play in the upcoming baseball World Series?
Memory is an odd duck -- often inaccurate, often forceful, often compelling.
In six months -- or six seconds -- who will remember?
.
technicolor lies
.
More important than the lies anyone else might tell us are the lies we might tell ourselves. I mean "lie" in this case as a statement or formulation we are somehow unwilling or unable to investigate with care.
What's the matter with lies? Generally, I think it is only that they sow confusion and inflict harm. Confusion and harm upend the longing for some kind of stable peace or happiness. In this arena, lies are bad and the truth, never quite adequately defined, is good. And good is better than bad. Socially, this is an acceptable postulate.
I got to thinking about this yesterday during an enjoyable email to-and-fro with a friend who makes a good case for the inadequately-grounded notion of Zen Buddhist lineage and the elevation of direct transmission of Mind. This, he argued better than I am arguing here, has downside consequences for students and other followers: Fabrications and lies do not aid or unveil the core truths of Buddhism; robes, rituals, ornate disquisitions on meaning, power-mongering, etc. all point in incorrect and perhaps painful directions. Buddhism needs no additions and the sooner students learn that, the better off they will be... roughly, as I got it,that was his argument.
And I see nothing wrong with his efforts and analysis. He is better grounded in history than I am, so I listen with interest.
But what occurs to me also is that I cannot think of a better mouse trap. When it comes to spiritual endeavor, when you open your mouth, it is more likely than not that what appears is just a new and improved lie -- a lie that, with luck, inspires a willingness to investigate things right down to the core. Spiritual endeavor is important because I am important, but am I really important? Of course I am ... or at least of course I am for the moment. And that emotional and intellectual importance knows of no other way to investigate itself than through its own emotional and intellectual importance.
It is useless to yell the truth into someone's ear when, for the moment, they simply can't hear. So it is OK to point a finger, but it is really pretty foolish to expect anyone to follow the advice offered by that finger. Robes and rituals and philosophies and religions point ... in technicolor. That technicolor invites and perhaps consumes the onlooker. But it can also inspire investigation of the lie as a means of winkling out the truth (whatever the hell that is).
I suppose I could go on and on and on and on about all this. I just don't know another option than to immerse oneself in the lies we tell ourselves and vow to find out. Human uncertainty and suffering deserve the best tool they can find, the most effective tool. And what reason is there to believe that fabrications and wonders are not appropriate and useful ... and realistically the only real choice?
Martin Luther King, the American civil rights leader, once said, approximately, "It is not what's wrong with the world that really scares people. What scares people is that everything is all right."
Technicolor fears. Technicolor peace. Technicolor lies. They may spell trouble, but how else could anyone pierce these uncertain times?
Just muttering in my beard this morning.
.
More important than the lies anyone else might tell us are the lies we might tell ourselves. I mean "lie" in this case as a statement or formulation we are somehow unwilling or unable to investigate with care.
What's the matter with lies? Generally, I think it is only that they sow confusion and inflict harm. Confusion and harm upend the longing for some kind of stable peace or happiness. In this arena, lies are bad and the truth, never quite adequately defined, is good. And good is better than bad. Socially, this is an acceptable postulate.
I got to thinking about this yesterday during an enjoyable email to-and-fro with a friend who makes a good case for the inadequately-grounded notion of Zen Buddhist lineage and the elevation of direct transmission of Mind. This, he argued better than I am arguing here, has downside consequences for students and other followers: Fabrications and lies do not aid or unveil the core truths of Buddhism; robes, rituals, ornate disquisitions on meaning, power-mongering, etc. all point in incorrect and perhaps painful directions. Buddhism needs no additions and the sooner students learn that, the better off they will be... roughly, as I got it,that was his argument.
And I see nothing wrong with his efforts and analysis. He is better grounded in history than I am, so I listen with interest.
But what occurs to me also is that I cannot think of a better mouse trap. When it comes to spiritual endeavor, when you open your mouth, it is more likely than not that what appears is just a new and improved lie -- a lie that, with luck, inspires a willingness to investigate things right down to the core. Spiritual endeavor is important because I am important, but am I really important? Of course I am ... or at least of course I am for the moment. And that emotional and intellectual importance knows of no other way to investigate itself than through its own emotional and intellectual importance.
It is useless to yell the truth into someone's ear when, for the moment, they simply can't hear. So it is OK to point a finger, but it is really pretty foolish to expect anyone to follow the advice offered by that finger. Robes and rituals and philosophies and religions point ... in technicolor. That technicolor invites and perhaps consumes the onlooker. But it can also inspire investigation of the lie as a means of winkling out the truth (whatever the hell that is).
I suppose I could go on and on and on and on about all this. I just don't know another option than to immerse oneself in the lies we tell ourselves and vow to find out. Human uncertainty and suffering deserve the best tool they can find, the most effective tool. And what reason is there to believe that fabrications and wonders are not appropriate and useful ... and realistically the only real choice?
Martin Luther King, the American civil rights leader, once said, approximately, "It is not what's wrong with the world that really scares people. What scares people is that everything is all right."
Technicolor fears. Technicolor peace. Technicolor lies. They may spell trouble, but how else could anyone pierce these uncertain times?
Just muttering in my beard this morning.
.
Friday, October 22, 2010
a Christian prayer
.
A Christian friend once told me there was a perfectly legitimate prayer in Christianity that goes:
"Dear Lord, please give him/her a swift kick in the ass!"
I'm not sure about the legitimacy, but it certainly is soothing to hear.
.
A Christian friend once told me there was a perfectly legitimate prayer in Christianity that goes:
"Dear Lord, please give him/her a swift kick in the ass!"
I'm not sure about the legitimacy, but it certainly is soothing to hear.
.
shadow and light
.
Today, I got an email from my older son telling me that he had sent in his absentee ballot from college and thus voted for the first time in his life. Now he, like a lot of young people, is old enough to vote, old enough to drive, old enough to be conscripted and killed in the latest war, but not yet old enough to drink legally.
Another email described carefully the corrupted nature of Zen Buddhist lineage and the damage such corruption can do to its adherents. Teachers manufactured out of whole (or damn near it) cloth; lineage relying on gizmos and gadgets to fill in the historical gaps between today and the time of Gautama Buddha; the authoritarian proclivities of those chosen to guide this spiritual parade ... all offered in a factual, quiet tone that I enjoy. I like it when someone points out the nose on anyone's face -- the down side of what otherwise might be an up side in someone's life. Emotional whining or hand-wringing (like hymns and hallelujahs) never convinces me well. Careful examination does ... and I like it when someone upsets whatever apple cart I may have loaded.
Is there anything so good that it does not cast a shadow? Is there such a thing as a shadow that does not refer to the good light?
It's impossible to make anyone hear what they can't yet hear and still I like the words of some old Zen teacher:
.
Today, I got an email from my older son telling me that he had sent in his absentee ballot from college and thus voted for the first time in his life. Now he, like a lot of young people, is old enough to vote, old enough to drive, old enough to be conscripted and killed in the latest war, but not yet old enough to drink legally.
Another email described carefully the corrupted nature of Zen Buddhist lineage and the damage such corruption can do to its adherents. Teachers manufactured out of whole (or damn near it) cloth; lineage relying on gizmos and gadgets to fill in the historical gaps between today and the time of Gautama Buddha; the authoritarian proclivities of those chosen to guide this spiritual parade ... all offered in a factual, quiet tone that I enjoy. I like it when someone points out the nose on anyone's face -- the down side of what otherwise might be an up side in someone's life. Emotional whining or hand-wringing (like hymns and hallelujahs) never convinces me well. Careful examination does ... and I like it when someone upsets whatever apple cart I may have loaded.
Is there anything so good that it does not cast a shadow? Is there such a thing as a shadow that does not refer to the good light?
It's impossible to make anyone hear what they can't yet hear and still I like the words of some old Zen teacher:
Wishing to entice the blind,"Playfully" ... now there's a good word.
The Buddha has playfully
Let words escape his golden mouth.
Heaven and earth are ever since filled
With entangling briars.
.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
frivolous
.
Driving back from the blacksmith's yesterday, I picked up a hitchhiker whose father had taken up blacksmithing in his retirement. I liked picking this young man up: It was a kind of late-blooming payback for all the rides I had once gotten when hitchhiking across the country.
For all of our 10-mile ride, it was pleasant conversation. He was/is a musician who taught guitar and drums and seemed to make a living even in an economy where people are cutting back on various 'frivolous' pastimes. We got to talking about the world of art and its trends and drawbacks, all with the assumption that art really wasn't frivolous when it came to assuaging the soul.
I can't remember his name, but during the Depression, there was once a man who cast a variety of famous bronze doors and other artifacts and spent a considerable portion of his personal fortune employing novices who would keep his art alive during hard times. His cathedral doors and other public pieces still grace the land, but the fame and fortune were clearly not his only motivators. Beauty was not frivolous.
Funny how one (wo)man's frivolity is another (wo)man's life blood.
Is there any pastime which, if followed with patience and determination, will not take the student home? I doubt it. From ant farms to symphonies to changing spark plugs to profound philosophy ... how frivolous could it be?
.
Driving back from the blacksmith's yesterday, I picked up a hitchhiker whose father had taken up blacksmithing in his retirement. I liked picking this young man up: It was a kind of late-blooming payback for all the rides I had once gotten when hitchhiking across the country.
For all of our 10-mile ride, it was pleasant conversation. He was/is a musician who taught guitar and drums and seemed to make a living even in an economy where people are cutting back on various 'frivolous' pastimes. We got to talking about the world of art and its trends and drawbacks, all with the assumption that art really wasn't frivolous when it came to assuaging the soul.
I can't remember his name, but during the Depression, there was once a man who cast a variety of famous bronze doors and other artifacts and spent a considerable portion of his personal fortune employing novices who would keep his art alive during hard times. His cathedral doors and other public pieces still grace the land, but the fame and fortune were clearly not his only motivators. Beauty was not frivolous.
Funny how one (wo)man's frivolity is another (wo)man's life blood.
Is there any pastime which, if followed with patience and determination, will not take the student home? I doubt it. From ant farms to symphonies to changing spark plugs to profound philosophy ... how frivolous could it be?
.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
playground
.
Does spiritual endeavor require complexity? This is not a trick question.
By complexity, I mean the intellectual and emotional meanings that are hung around its neck in a hundred books and in a thousand sermons and in a million temples?
On the one hand, my mind digs its heels in like a balky mule when I hear the dulcet meanings that can be brought to bear. "In the moment," "compassion," "ultimate," "authentic," "enlightenment" ... that sort of stuff. On the other hand it would be blindness not to recognize that seeds need to be planted before the corn can grow: People need handholds. If they begin with "ego," then the ego needs a little help, a nudge, a kick in the ass.
And if this is roughly the case, then it seems to me that spiritual endeavor may be called the child of ego, of self, of greed, anger and delusion. Now the only question is, who gave birth to this child ... and will the child become an adult? Given the clouds of religion in the world, I wonder if we shouldn't build a bigger playground.
.
Does spiritual endeavor require complexity? This is not a trick question.
By complexity, I mean the intellectual and emotional meanings that are hung around its neck in a hundred books and in a thousand sermons and in a million temples?
On the one hand, my mind digs its heels in like a balky mule when I hear the dulcet meanings that can be brought to bear. "In the moment," "compassion," "ultimate," "authentic," "enlightenment" ... that sort of stuff. On the other hand it would be blindness not to recognize that seeds need to be planted before the corn can grow: People need handholds. If they begin with "ego," then the ego needs a little help, a nudge, a kick in the ass.
And if this is roughly the case, then it seems to me that spiritual endeavor may be called the child of ego, of self, of greed, anger and delusion. Now the only question is, who gave birth to this child ... and will the child become an adult? Given the clouds of religion in the world, I wonder if we shouldn't build a bigger playground.
.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
political joke
.
A Politician's Take On Heaven And Hell
While walking down the street one day an American senator
was hit by a car and died. His soul arrives in heaven and
is met by St. Peter at the entrance.
"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in,
it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official
around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do
with you."
"No problem, just let me in," says the senator.
"Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from the higher ups.
What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in
heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."
"Really?, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,"
says the senator. "I'm sorry, but we have our rules."
With that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes
down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds
himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the
distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all
his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.
Everyone is very happy. They run to greet him, shake his
hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while
getting rich at the expense of the people.
They played a friendly game of golf and then dine on
lobster, caviar and the finest champagne. Also present is
the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who is having a
good time dancing and telling jokes. They are all having
such a good time that before the senator realizes it, it is
time to go. Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves
while the elevator rises. The elevator goes up, up, up and
the door reopens in heaven where St. Peter is waiting for
him.
St. Peter says, "Now it's time to visit heaven." So, 24
hours passed with the senator joining a group of contented
souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and
singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it,
the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.
"Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now
choose your eternity."
The senator reflects for a minute, then he answers: "Well,
I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been
delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell." So
St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down,
down, down to hell. The doors of the elevator open and he's
in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and
garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking
up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash
falls from above. The devil comes over to him and puts his
arm around his shoulders. "I don't understand," stammers the
senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course
and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank
champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just
a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable.
What happened?"
The devil smiles at him and says, "Yesterday we were campaigning, today, you voted."
.
While walking down the street one day an American senator
was hit by a car and died. His soul arrives in heaven and
is met by St. Peter at the entrance.
"Welcome to heaven," says St. Peter. "Before you settle in,
it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official
around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do
with you."
"No problem, just let me in," says the senator.
"Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from the higher ups.
What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in
heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity."
"Really?, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,"
says the senator. "I'm sorry, but we have our rules."
With that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes
down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds
himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the
distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all
his friends and other politicians who had worked with him.
Everyone is very happy. They run to greet him, shake his
hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while
getting rich at the expense of the people.
They played a friendly game of golf and then dine on
lobster, caviar and the finest champagne. Also present is
the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who is having a
good time dancing and telling jokes. They are all having
such a good time that before the senator realizes it, it is
time to go. Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves
while the elevator rises. The elevator goes up, up, up and
the door reopens in heaven where St. Peter is waiting for
him.
St. Peter says, "Now it's time to visit heaven." So, 24
hours passed with the senator joining a group of contented
souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and
singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it,
the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns.
"Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now
choose your eternity."
The senator reflects for a minute, then he answers: "Well,
I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been
delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell." So
St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down,
down, down to hell. The doors of the elevator open and he's
in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and
garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking
up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash
falls from above. The devil comes over to him and puts his
arm around his shoulders. "I don't understand," stammers the
senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course
and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank
champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just
a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable.
What happened?"
The devil smiles at him and says, "Yesterday we were campaigning, today, you voted."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)