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Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Blood. Bath. Love.
The baby looked puzzled and grunted last night
I rushed him to the potty and sat his green slimy butt there
while I examined a diaper fascinating in content
he reached for the shelves and toppled
a rising cry unfurled from his crumpled face
where red blood sauced his mouth
like a vampire, a monster, like death.
Somehow I undressed us both
soiling many things
held him to me
lowered our bodies into the tub
remembering our first time there too
(after birth)
covered with poop and blood
He found the breast as the water ran over him
and the blood stopped quickly; a tiny cut it was
I sponged that red stain stuck to my skin
thinking how wrong, a mother wearing her baby's blood
In as long as it takes to tell, he was fine
peeping up at papa, smiling through the water
while we parents tried to pull ourselves together, and give our son the bedtime he knows:
a brisk paternal rubdown with coconut oil, three storybooks, and then back to me for lights out and feeding
I held him in the dark, hoping he'd remember something about gravity
and things that are hard
about balance and comfort and pain
Without meaning, to the next day, I held him tighter
played with him longer, picked him up more.
Hearing music he calls out; bounces in my arms and yells, to sing and dance
in his little seven-months way, finding himself already a musical creature,
a lover of women's bodies
bound by the Law: from that, this comes
From what comes this love so strong, after the fall?
I rushed him to the potty and sat his green slimy butt there
while I examined a diaper fascinating in content
he reached for the shelves and toppled
a rising cry unfurled from his crumpled face
where red blood sauced his mouth
like a vampire, a monster, like death.
Somehow I undressed us both
soiling many things
held him to me
lowered our bodies into the tub
remembering our first time there too
(after birth)
covered with poop and blood
He found the breast as the water ran over him
and the blood stopped quickly; a tiny cut it was
I sponged that red stain stuck to my skin
thinking how wrong, a mother wearing her baby's blood
In as long as it takes to tell, he was fine
peeping up at papa, smiling through the water
while we parents tried to pull ourselves together, and give our son the bedtime he knows:
a brisk paternal rubdown with coconut oil, three storybooks, and then back to me for lights out and feeding
I held him in the dark, hoping he'd remember something about gravity
and things that are hard
about balance and comfort and pain
Without meaning, to the next day, I held him tighter
played with him longer, picked him up more.
Hearing music he calls out; bounces in my arms and yells, to sing and dance
in his little seven-months way, finding himself already a musical creature,
a lover of women's bodies
bound by the Law: from that, this comes
From what comes this love so strong, after the fall?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
A Mother's Heart
I don't like this.
There is a new phenomenon of able-bodied blue-collar guys wandering aimlessly the streets of Portland.
One sits in a small car crammed with stuff, with eyes that do not want to be seen. It is not hard to guess what happened to him.
Another, at the bus stop, asks me if I have a quarter. I do actually not have a quarter. What I do have is a cranky child pulling at my chest, and two hands full of stuff. A chill wind is blowing. Rain is coming. I am exhausted.
Experienced panhandlers do not bother women in my predicament. I blow him off. And I feel terrible.
Today I hauled the baby around our neighborhood for a walk in the sunshine. Here, in one of the most desirable areas of one of the most robust housing markets in the country, there were too many For Sale signs.
I came home to find a realtor trying to gain entrance to our building. Our neighbor below us, who we thought had sold her condo, had the sale fall through. The bank foreclosed last night. Washington Mutual. So they are trying to figure out how to list the property, without having the keys, or any sense of what they now own.
I help the realtor, sort of.
I wish I was kinder to those in need. I have seen so many scams, and I didn't have a quarter. But I do have a heart, and I could've done something other than slamming it shut.
The baby opens my heart, and saves me from worrying too much about the economy. He is doing an incredible amount of growing, physically and mentally. The thirst for becoming is so obvious in him. When he was two months old, you could sense the hugeness of his desire to move across the floor. Now, at seven months, he yearns to stand, to climb, to explore. One person's "exploration" is another person's "getting into things." Outside of our names and opinions, the baby does what he does. And the world does what it does. Fortunes rise and fall because we experience them as fortunes.
From the baby's point of view, as long as he has his parents, he's happy. He really doesn't need much. Lately, something called "small-object fascination" ensures he will spend twenty minutes trying to pick up a cereal flake. Pop him in his new Bumbo chair, give him two flakes of cereal, and he's occupied for quite a while.
We will get through this. Humans have survived much worse; right now, in other places, people are meeting far greater difficulties. My wish would be for the open heart of the mother to depersonalize enough to encompass the world.
There is a new phenomenon of able-bodied blue-collar guys wandering aimlessly the streets of Portland.
One sits in a small car crammed with stuff, with eyes that do not want to be seen. It is not hard to guess what happened to him.
Another, at the bus stop, asks me if I have a quarter. I do actually not have a quarter. What I do have is a cranky child pulling at my chest, and two hands full of stuff. A chill wind is blowing. Rain is coming. I am exhausted.
Experienced panhandlers do not bother women in my predicament. I blow him off. And I feel terrible.
Today I hauled the baby around our neighborhood for a walk in the sunshine. Here, in one of the most desirable areas of one of the most robust housing markets in the country, there were too many For Sale signs.
I came home to find a realtor trying to gain entrance to our building. Our neighbor below us, who we thought had sold her condo, had the sale fall through. The bank foreclosed last night. Washington Mutual. So they are trying to figure out how to list the property, without having the keys, or any sense of what they now own.
I help the realtor, sort of.
I wish I was kinder to those in need. I have seen so many scams, and I didn't have a quarter. But I do have a heart, and I could've done something other than slamming it shut.
The baby opens my heart, and saves me from worrying too much about the economy. He is doing an incredible amount of growing, physically and mentally. The thirst for becoming is so obvious in him. When he was two months old, you could sense the hugeness of his desire to move across the floor. Now, at seven months, he yearns to stand, to climb, to explore. One person's "exploration" is another person's "getting into things." Outside of our names and opinions, the baby does what he does. And the world does what it does. Fortunes rise and fall because we experience them as fortunes.
From the baby's point of view, as long as he has his parents, he's happy. He really doesn't need much. Lately, something called "small-object fascination" ensures he will spend twenty minutes trying to pick up a cereal flake. Pop him in his new Bumbo chair, give him two flakes of cereal, and he's occupied for quite a while.
We will get through this. Humans have survived much worse; right now, in other places, people are meeting far greater difficulties. My wish would be for the open heart of the mother to depersonalize enough to encompass the world.
Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings;
Radiating kindness over the entire world:
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths;
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.....
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Cutting Through the "Oh So Zen" Stuff
Seeing your nature is Zen. Unless you see your nature, it's not Zen
--Bodhidharma
I have started up a blog about living simply, and parenting a child with a minimum of Stuff and a maximum of Heart.
It is called Nothing Extra, and I invite you to look around, comment, and generally let me know what you think. Although inspired by Zen (inevitably, since it's written by a practitioner), it's not actually a "Zen" blog. Meaning it does not explicitly address life from the point of view of practice, as "Shugetsu" aims to.
So I was looking around the Internet the other day, searching for blogs about frugality and contemplating overlaps and distinctions between Frugality and Simplicity, when I came across a blog that seemed worthy of further exploration. Lots of information there about living the simple life, and saving money, and taking time to smell the flowers.
But then there was the title of this blog, ZenHabits.
Sigh.
I could spend my days and night whining about "Zen" cereal and "Zen" spa treatments and "Zen" couture and Ananda-Knows-What-Else. In fact there could be a whole blog there for Dharma curmudgeons: we submit truly egregious examples of "Zen" crapola and make fun of them amongst ourselves.
In common parlance, this is called "Discussing the Faults of Others." Something to be avoided. Recognizing this as an ethical matter provides a cue that this is a fraught topic.
What is the appropriate response, here in the crowded cacophony of the internet? Dismay? Or beyond that, recognition that humans have a deep-seated desire for simplicity, for meaning, for sacredness--and that the "Zen" label attempts to market to that impulse.
Desiring simplicity, we are sold more Stuff. How utterly--predictably, endearingly, dangerously--human.
And what is Zen, this thing we are all yearning to have?
I won't claim to know. If you go to the current Wikipedia entry:
Zen emphasizes dharma practice and experiential wisdom—particularly as realized in the form of meditation known as zazen—in the attainment of awakening. As such, it de-emphasizes both theoretical knowledge and the study of religious texts in favor of direct, experiential realization.
I suspect a few of the Zen priests I know would have something to say about this definition. Carpe Lector Wikipediam! You'd never know that Zen existed prior to DT Suzuki's rather iconoclastic take on the topic. Or that it has a rich textual history, within the context of an ancient and formal religious tradition.
The internet in general is full of vague circular discussions along the lines of, "Zen is beyond ideas, therefore how can you presume to discuss it?" This makes me sad. Which is not to say these people are wrong; they just don't know what they're talking about. Their spiritual energy is being directed away from practice and direct experience, and toward debate, or posturing.
But I digress from my original complaint. Assuming for a moment that the Wikipedia entry is an approximate starting point for the definition of Zen, is there anything about it that suggests a connection to the otherwise very nice ZenHabits blog, which is all about simplifying your life, getting organized, getting motivated, being a nice person, staying healthy, and so forth?
No. At least I don't see it. Maybe it's buried in "16 Tips to Triple Your Workout Effectiveness" It's certainly not to be found in the spirituality forum section, where someone asks, "Is anyone on this site into Zen?" To me, this sounds so plaintive; it is the voice of a searcher.
The answers are typically, "Not really. But the popular literature on the topic made Zen sound pretty much in accord with my preexisting beliefs about reality." Except for the few responses which are more along the lines of, "I am so Zen. That which you seek is causing you to seek. Be at peace. And check out my website, which also has a Zen name, and little to do with Zen."
Alas.
Sometimes at the beginning, reading is all we have. If you want to know more about Zen, please eschew vague new-age spiritual mishmash. See the poseurs for what they are. Read instead Joko Beck, Shunryu Suzuki, Taizan Maezumi, or (my secret favorites of late) Kyogen Carlson's lovely "Zen in the American Grain" and Robert Kennedy's "Zen Spirit, Christian Spirit."
And know that one's initial ideas about Zen, or any romanticized spiritual practice, are extremely useful because they provide material for disillusionment.
In order to actually practice , you should find a reputable teacher in an established lineage. This in contrast to self-appointed Zen teachers (the ones without a lineage of teachers going back in time), who are usually individuals who had a blaze of insight one day, realized it sounded like "Zen," and proceeded accordingly. They are not bad per se, but they are potentially very dangerous. Nobody sees their own weaknesses as a spiritual guide, least of all a self-styled spiritual teacher!
You don't want to entrust your deepest self to someone who's self-educated. And that someone includes yourself. Practice on one's own can be dangerous. You don't hear much about this, but I've personally known too many people who "meditated" their way to madness. All of us--certainly all of us drawn to spirituality--have within ourselves an tiny "self-appointed teacher." We tend to think that our profound early insights mean something about our spiritual greatness. And we may be spooked, or fascinated, by the hallucinations and odd physical sensations that are common in beginning meditators.
Look for a teacher who has through the years overcome any tendency to grandiosity, and whose students are people you would wish to be. Coming from a reputable lineage helps assure this; it's like a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for the most precious home there is.
But rather than continue to cast aspersions on the widespread co-option of the term "Zen," I will tell a story.
One morning over breakfast at Great Vow Monastery, Chozen Bays Roshi told the story of going to Japan and meeting the abbot of a prominent temple. Faced with this slight Western woman, he posed a question, "What is Zen?"
At that time, the answer that came to her was, "Zen is about having a calm mind and an open heart." You could argue that this is another way of saying "dharma practice and experiential wisdom." And you could argue that what she said at that moment was a minor matter compared to her own evident calm mind, and her own blazing heart.
Having told that story, here is what I know: In the living of our daily life, a clear and uncluttered space reflects and reinforces a calm mind. In the living of our daily life, certain activities deepen the spirit, salve the heart, and promote true peace. I am not above publishing lists of exercise tips; I am not even above reviewing products in Nothing Extra. But I want my heart to be in every post. I want to build a community with others who are making simplicity happen in their inner and outer lives.
Unlike "Shugetsu," Nothing Extra is not a blog about the Dharma in/as Life. The title is intended to be oblique, a signal to those in the know--if you get it, you get it. If you don't get it--well, you're probably also very content being hit over the head with considerably less-Zen blogs (and god-knows-what-else) bearing labels like ZenThis and ZenThat. I guess that's the wonder of the internet. We all find our way to the material that suits us. I don't know if we are challenged, or if our understanding progresses, but we do band together with like minds out there. What we discover together, or deny, or mindlessly reinforce in one another, is up to each of us.
☯
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Movie Review: Once
I don't often talk about movies in this blog. I don't really pay attention to new releases these days (I have my own six-month-old "new release" to chase around the flat). So Once took me by surprise. I didn't watch the Academy Awards, and it's only now, still reeling from viewing Once on DVD, that I am finding out how much recognition this film actually received.
In case you, like me, have been living under a rock for the past year or so, I'd like to recommend this film, and say that it should have won an Oscar for Best Picture.
Once had little to recommend it as an instant personal hit. It's set in Ireland, true, but not in the romantic past. The characters are clinging to the underbelly of the Celtic Tiger, and their poverty is not of the picturesque shawl-and-donkey-cart variety. They are the people we brush past in the big city as we pretend look elsewhere: an Eastern European girl peddling flowers; and a scruffy street musician with a beat-up guitar. When these characters leave the busy street behind at the end of the day, they go home to spaces that exude authentic poverty: there is the clutter of near-worthless items, the narrow bed, decorations that are faded and cheap.
Beyond anything else, this movie is Real. The film is shot in a grainy, homespun style that deepens the sense that we are eavesdropping on another's life. There are no melodramatic camera tricks; you are simply somehow in the middle of these people's lives, drawn into the action by sheer human kinship. There is no heightened drama for the sake of drama. The most pivotal moments are, if anything, underplayed. They slide by, the way real life slides by. As the two main characters get to know each other, you feel party to their loneliness, their assumptions, their anticipation, to the simple poignancy of lives that are neither glamorous, nor romantic, nor easily-resolved.
And, improbability of improbabilities, this terrific movie is also a musical.
If you watched the Oscars, you know this already: Once won for Best Song. And rightly so. These are two musicians--the guy plays the guitar, and the flower-selling girl is an excellent piano player. With her on keyboards, and her help composing words to some of his tunes, the guy's music blossoms and starts to look like it might go somewhere. The songs are liberally scattered through the film, and--get this--they are never extraneous to the plot! When these people sit down to sing and play together, something happens, so that by the end of the song, things are not as they were before. Life has shifted; we know something new. Lyrics and melodies propel a developing relationship, or they illustrate the depth of an old heartbreak. In this story about musicians, music drives the story.
Today, the next day, I am still haunted. I want to know what became of my friends from the night before. I want to see them again. And I also don't want to. I have that funny aversion that comes when you face someone after too much revelation. I feel the way you feel around someone who has said too much; I feel that awkwardness that descends after an acquaintance confides something too large for a relationship to bear. This impression--that I have witnessed real lives, in all their gawky fragility--tells me that Once is truly a great film.
In case you, like me, have been living under a rock for the past year or so, I'd like to recommend this film, and say that it should have won an Oscar for Best Picture.
Once had little to recommend it as an instant personal hit. It's set in Ireland, true, but not in the romantic past. The characters are clinging to the underbelly of the Celtic Tiger, and their poverty is not of the picturesque shawl-and-donkey-cart variety. They are the people we brush past in the big city as we pretend look elsewhere: an Eastern European girl peddling flowers; and a scruffy street musician with a beat-up guitar. When these characters leave the busy street behind at the end of the day, they go home to spaces that exude authentic poverty: there is the clutter of near-worthless items, the narrow bed, decorations that are faded and cheap.
Beyond anything else, this movie is Real. The film is shot in a grainy, homespun style that deepens the sense that we are eavesdropping on another's life. There are no melodramatic camera tricks; you are simply somehow in the middle of these people's lives, drawn into the action by sheer human kinship. There is no heightened drama for the sake of drama. The most pivotal moments are, if anything, underplayed. They slide by, the way real life slides by. As the two main characters get to know each other, you feel party to their loneliness, their assumptions, their anticipation, to the simple poignancy of lives that are neither glamorous, nor romantic, nor easily-resolved.
And, improbability of improbabilities, this terrific movie is also a musical.
If you watched the Oscars, you know this already: Once won for Best Song. And rightly so. These are two musicians--the guy plays the guitar, and the flower-selling girl is an excellent piano player. With her on keyboards, and her help composing words to some of his tunes, the guy's music blossoms and starts to look like it might go somewhere. The songs are liberally scattered through the film, and--get this--they are never extraneous to the plot! When these people sit down to sing and play together, something happens, so that by the end of the song, things are not as they were before. Life has shifted; we know something new. Lyrics and melodies propel a developing relationship, or they illustrate the depth of an old heartbreak. In this story about musicians, music drives the story.
Today, the next day, I am still haunted. I want to know what became of my friends from the night before. I want to see them again. And I also don't want to. I have that funny aversion that comes when you face someone after too much revelation. I feel the way you feel around someone who has said too much; I feel that awkwardness that descends after an acquaintance confides something too large for a relationship to bear. This impression--that I have witnessed real lives, in all their gawky fragility--tells me that Once is truly a great film.
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