This moment is the only moment one ever has. It is the only real. To be outside the present is to have the mind engaged with the past that is dead or the future that has yet to come. Such a mind is not alive to the living present where it actually resides. As soon as the rider dismounts the moment is lost, the surfer is stranded on the bank of time, the continuity of the present flows on without him. He has lost nirvana and is back in samsara's threefold time.
John Crook
(read more here)
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My baby son is melting down. Swollen purple lumps glisten under the surface of his gums. Here and there, the white blades of teeth begin to show themselves. The emergence of his chompers is not a gradual process but a free-for-all, a dental stampede. As far as I can tell from the near-continual caterwauling, fussing, and complaining, he is feeling it all with exquisite sensibility. He walks around the house, mewling, refusing to be distracted by the usual entertainments. Today, even his beloved breasts failed to provide comfort.
In his haze of pain, he is irrational, even for a baby. He signs to ask for milk, but will not drink. He asks to be picked up, only to squirm to be put down. He wants to go outside, then wants to go in. When he does not get what he wants, exactly in the way he wants it, he howls in sudden fury. The minute you irritate him, say by putting him down, he writhes in agony, throws himself to the floor, and crumples into a hot red demon-child. He is miserable, and he is desperate for some relief. Reaching for forbidden objects, yearning to play with the computer, it’s a constant search for some end to the pain; it’s a behavior I recognize from the more restless adventures of my own mind. He has really got to be hurting.
Beyond the effects of pure physical pain, the idea of suffering can also disorder the mind.
I remember clearly the day at the monastery when a guest who had come to live and work with us for several weeks lost her marbles. It was a relatively small meltdown as meltdowns go, but it came out of nowhere. One minute, she was a rational woman picking blackberries; minutes later she was in full-on reaction mode. Her fractiousness continued for several days. Although her targets varied, the complaint was essentially the same: she needed more than she was getting; no one was listening to her; she could not feel safe. Owing to the formalities of life in that place, I was technically the one in charge, and so it fell to me to listen to her as she weathered her mysterious crisis.
When the Roshi came home and the accustomed order was restored, she listened to my account of our guest’s behavior.
“This person,” the Roshi asked, “did she have any health concerns?”
She did. We were clearing blackberries away from the blueberry bushes when she told me about her kidney operation. And that she feared something—I don’t remember it now—that the underlying health issue might be about to recur.
“When people are worried about their health, they often become afraid and irrational,” the Roshi observed.
In the years since that conversation, I’ve been aware of the ways that health worries confer paranoia toward life in general. I see it in others and I see it in myself. Recently, when my child suffered from a mysterious ailment of unknown cause, unknown seriousness, and unknown cure, I felt pangs of fear. They came as a literal stabbing sensation in my body. Because I am bonded to my son, his illness birthed my fear.
We can forget about the body when it doesn’t hurt, but its safety is *our* safety. And of course one day we will not be safe anymore. The body is injured or fails in small ways and large ones, until one day we die. Some of us know enough to worry about this pain, or that pain, or the end of it all. And some of us—the very young, the very old, the very in-the-moment ones of us—live that moment fully as it comes, without anticipating a thing.
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
World Aflower
We are in the full swing of spring, not the painful first bursting that gives me annual pains in the head and heart, but the real open, easy flow of clear air, clear skies, and clear-mindedness. This time, right now, holds the fragrance of life in full bloom. Green plants are fresh, earnest, and lush. The world has awkened, stretched, and is under way.
This is the season of magnolias, magnolias of so many moods. There are the lacy fingers of Wada’s Gift, and the giant loud blossoms tiny trees in Washington Park that are dwarfed by their own enormous purplish flowers.
Camellias clamor from every corner, too, it seems. But today it was a pale pinkish daffodil trumpet that called to me as I walked with my son up to the Japanese Garden. I nearly heard that flower.
The son and I have been coming here since he was tiny. But a year ago, we were still mostly indoor creatures. One day at two weeks of age, I took him into the courtyard of our building, thinking he was long overdue for some fresh air, for the sight of the sky, for the smell of dirt. But he looked at me like a little blob. Take it or leave it, he seemed to say. Actually, he’d rather leave it. So we went back inside. But today he is calling out to birds and people as we walk through the woods, and his bouncing threatens my balance as we go up the wooded stairs to the garden.
I let him down on some flagstones near the Tea Garden. He’s been fond of stones lately. He finds a favorite one and carries it along, over a threshold here and past a mossy boulder there. We settle down near a favorite pavilion so he can study gravel. As I hunker next to him, I realize a square foot of gravel is a fascinating thing seen through a toddler’s eyes. The boy pops a couple little rocks in his mouth and looks at me. Spits them out on cue. Pours gravel into my hand. Holds his hand out for some. Locates the favorite stone, and hits it against the gravel. In this tiny patch of ground, he could spend hours. He could examine every rock as though it were a unique gift. Which of course it is.
Everywhere we go, I see old things through fresh eyes.
I spot things I've never seen before.
The camera seems inadequate. At best a photograph is a cue. Pixels on the screen hope to evoke the sound of water. The snowy cascade of blossoms afroth over white gravel. The way the sun rakes over texture and caresses form.
The Son spots a pagoda and calls out to it. Hey! You, standing here amid moss and trees. What are you?
This is the season of magnolias, magnolias of so many moods. There are the lacy fingers of Wada’s Gift, and the giant loud blossoms tiny trees in Washington Park that are dwarfed by their own enormous purplish flowers.
Camellias clamor from every corner, too, it seems. But today it was a pale pinkish daffodil trumpet that called to me as I walked with my son up to the Japanese Garden. I nearly heard that flower.
The son and I have been coming here since he was tiny. But a year ago, we were still mostly indoor creatures. One day at two weeks of age, I took him into the courtyard of our building, thinking he was long overdue for some fresh air, for the sight of the sky, for the smell of dirt. But he looked at me like a little blob. Take it or leave it, he seemed to say. Actually, he’d rather leave it. So we went back inside. But today he is calling out to birds and people as we walk through the woods, and his bouncing threatens my balance as we go up the wooded stairs to the garden.
I let him down on some flagstones near the Tea Garden. He’s been fond of stones lately. He finds a favorite one and carries it along, over a threshold here and past a mossy boulder there. We settle down near a favorite pavilion so he can study gravel. As I hunker next to him, I realize a square foot of gravel is a fascinating thing seen through a toddler’s eyes. The boy pops a couple little rocks in his mouth and looks at me. Spits them out on cue. Pours gravel into my hand. Holds his hand out for some. Locates the favorite stone, and hits it against the gravel. In this tiny patch of ground, he could spend hours. He could examine every rock as though it were a unique gift. Which of course it is.
Everywhere we go, I see old things through fresh eyes.
I spot things I've never seen before.
The camera seems inadequate. At best a photograph is a cue. Pixels on the screen hope to evoke the sound of water. The snowy cascade of blossoms afroth over white gravel. The way the sun rakes over texture and caresses form.
The Son spots a pagoda and calls out to it. Hey! You, standing here amid moss and trees. What are you?
Friday, November 21, 2008
Failure to Connect
I am faced with the possibility that I am not interesting. Possibly a little desperate. Possibly even socially obnoxious.
When you spend time with a baby this age, you live in a world of big and sudden emotions. Joy is all-encompassing. Fear and overwhelm abruptly appear and disappear. A cuddle against the bosoms solves almost everything. We might spend long minutes trying to stand, or picking at a piece of floor dirt, or we might refuse to be put down and demand to ride around on mama all day. Although we are in a happy groove of togetherness and rapport, the instinctual physicality of this life doesn’t translate so well to the outside world of adult society.
Plus, I’m just lonely. Obviously, thanks to the baby, I have plenty of company all day long. But it’s been a while since I had the luxury of connecting—really connecting—with another adult. Too long since I faced someone and felt as if we understood one another, without hurry, without a baby inserting itself into the conversation.
Walking down the street, I called out a greeting to a mother and her son. She had stopped me on the street a week ago to chat about the baby carrier we were both using. Today, my baby rode on my back, playing with my scarf. You couldn’t see him. And so my too-friendly “Hi there!” fell flat. I got the ‘You’re Insane’ look as they went past.
Vowing to lighten up on the social enthusiasm, I made my way to the bank. By the time I left, I’d charmed the teller to pieces, or else frightened him entirely. He and his colleague were treated to a fascinating narrative of the baby’s habits and behavior, the reasons for my visit, my plans for the money in my account, and so forth.
I didn’t like what I was seeing of myself. The resolution to lighten up was renewed.
The little guy and I ducked into a swanky neighborhood bar (“My First Drinking Establishment”?) to say hi to someone. My excited conversation with my friend caused the only other person at the bar to move several seats farther away.
Finally we came home. The baby gave me a broad smile, like we shared some special secret. I let him play on the floor diaperless, while I checked my email. Incredibly enough, there were no new messages, for the fifteenth time just that day!
Strangely, those friends I wrote to—and those people I put off writing to for a week but got back to eventually—still hadn’t responded. Perhaps because they have jobs and things to do. Perhaps I used an outdated e-mail address. Perhaps our game of has gone on so long they’ve forgotten they’re “it.” Or quite possibly they have other things to think about besides me and my baby-development monologues. And perhaps they just aren’t feeling the spark of relationship, the energy that makes us interesting staying in contact.
No messages either on the phone I so carefully carry with me, in case one of my out-of-touch buddies should call. They don’t. Although calls do come in. The optometrist’s office wants to inform me that they can’t confirm my insurance coverage. Someone is looking for Dave. The baby grins whenever he sees the phone, and makes a lunge for it. He says it tastes good. And he’s in love with the camera part. I could just cancel my plan with Sprint and let him have it as a fancy toy.
Maybe it’s time to accept life, just as it is. I’m supposed to know all about this—it’s a classic theme in Zen circles. Probably for a reason: accepting life just as it is poses a real challenge! Put here is my life: I have a baby. I am a baby-plus-woman. Every conscious moment is infused with awareness of my son. Even in the formlessness of meditation, breath and body sit expanded by love.
When socializing does happen, and people ask how I am, I say “we’re fine.” The conversation will turn to the baby sooner if not later, because for me that’s what matters. How interesting is our conversation really going to be? If you’re not mad about babies, you will eventually tire of talking to someone who is.
So perhaps I should make friends with other mothers. Unfortunately, if another woman and I both have babies, chances are that’s about the only point of common reference. Having given birth within a year of another person doesn’t actually provide much of a connection once you’ve compared your babies’ weights, physical skills, eating habits, and sleeping patterns. Soon we come to the unorthodox details that have so naturally filled out my life: home birth, breast feeding, co-sleeping, few toys, mostly wood, fewer vaccinations, no baby “gear” to speak of, afternoons spent exploring the closet or smiling at strangers rather than engaging with toys or videos.
Perhaps it’s time to really believe what I already know: the deepest connection does not come from social-stroke-and-return-stroke. Obsessing about whether or not my friends are as in need of me as I think they should be—that’s just silliness. In time, the ties that are not supported will dissolve, and new ones will gradually form. That’s not being a good friend, or a bad one; it’s just the way of the world, the way things naturally grow, strengthen, and fall away.
Perhaps I should be enjoying the rare luxury of staying home with the baby, giving him attention, and having time to write and to sit zazen. The life I have affords a better opportunity than most for turning my focus to exploring that Deepest Connection, the one that doesn’t come from social superficialities, the one no one else can give you.
When you spend time with a baby this age, you live in a world of big and sudden emotions. Joy is all-encompassing. Fear and overwhelm abruptly appear and disappear. A cuddle against the bosoms solves almost everything. We might spend long minutes trying to stand, or picking at a piece of floor dirt, or we might refuse to be put down and demand to ride around on mama all day. Although we are in a happy groove of togetherness and rapport, the instinctual physicality of this life doesn’t translate so well to the outside world of adult society.
Plus, I’m just lonely. Obviously, thanks to the baby, I have plenty of company all day long. But it’s been a while since I had the luxury of connecting—really connecting—with another adult. Too long since I faced someone and felt as if we understood one another, without hurry, without a baby inserting itself into the conversation.
Walking down the street, I called out a greeting to a mother and her son. She had stopped me on the street a week ago to chat about the baby carrier we were both using. Today, my baby rode on my back, playing with my scarf. You couldn’t see him. And so my too-friendly “Hi there!” fell flat. I got the ‘You’re Insane’ look as they went past.
Vowing to lighten up on the social enthusiasm, I made my way to the bank. By the time I left, I’d charmed the teller to pieces, or else frightened him entirely. He and his colleague were treated to a fascinating narrative of the baby’s habits and behavior, the reasons for my visit, my plans for the money in my account, and so forth.
I didn’t like what I was seeing of myself. The resolution to lighten up was renewed.
The little guy and I ducked into a swanky neighborhood bar (“My First Drinking Establishment”?) to say hi to someone. My excited conversation with my friend caused the only other person at the bar to move several seats farther away.
Finally we came home. The baby gave me a broad smile, like we shared some special secret. I let him play on the floor diaperless, while I checked my email. Incredibly enough, there were no new messages, for the fifteenth time just that day!
Strangely, those friends I wrote to—and those people I put off writing to for a week but got back to eventually—still hadn’t responded. Perhaps because they have jobs and things to do. Perhaps I used an outdated e-mail address. Perhaps our game of has gone on so long they’ve forgotten they’re “it.” Or quite possibly they have other things to think about besides me and my baby-development monologues. And perhaps they just aren’t feeling the spark of relationship, the energy that makes us interesting staying in contact.
No messages either on the phone I so carefully carry with me, in case one of my out-of-touch buddies should call. They don’t. Although calls do come in. The optometrist’s office wants to inform me that they can’t confirm my insurance coverage. Someone is looking for Dave. The baby grins whenever he sees the phone, and makes a lunge for it. He says it tastes good. And he’s in love with the camera part. I could just cancel my plan with Sprint and let him have it as a fancy toy.
Maybe it’s time to accept life, just as it is. I’m supposed to know all about this—it’s a classic theme in Zen circles. Probably for a reason: accepting life just as it is poses a real challenge! Put here is my life: I have a baby. I am a baby-plus-woman. Every conscious moment is infused with awareness of my son. Even in the formlessness of meditation, breath and body sit expanded by love.
When socializing does happen, and people ask how I am, I say “we’re fine.” The conversation will turn to the baby sooner if not later, because for me that’s what matters. How interesting is our conversation really going to be? If you’re not mad about babies, you will eventually tire of talking to someone who is.
So perhaps I should make friends with other mothers. Unfortunately, if another woman and I both have babies, chances are that’s about the only point of common reference. Having given birth within a year of another person doesn’t actually provide much of a connection once you’ve compared your babies’ weights, physical skills, eating habits, and sleeping patterns. Soon we come to the unorthodox details that have so naturally filled out my life: home birth, breast feeding, co-sleeping, few toys, mostly wood, fewer vaccinations, no baby “gear” to speak of, afternoons spent exploring the closet or smiling at strangers rather than engaging with toys or videos.
Perhaps it’s time to really believe what I already know: the deepest connection does not come from social-stroke-and-return-stroke. Obsessing about whether or not my friends are as in need of me as I think they should be—that’s just silliness. In time, the ties that are not supported will dissolve, and new ones will gradually form. That’s not being a good friend, or a bad one; it’s just the way of the world, the way things naturally grow, strengthen, and fall away.
Perhaps I should be enjoying the rare luxury of staying home with the baby, giving him attention, and having time to write and to sit zazen. The life I have affords a better opportunity than most for turning my focus to exploring that Deepest Connection, the one that doesn’t come from social superficialities, the one no one else can give you.
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