Ejo Patrick Mc Mullen Osho is the dharma teacher at Eugene Zendo. Misunderstandings are entirely my own!
There is a difference between the experience of "suffering and the cessation of suffering" and the teachings about it. Teachings vary, describing various numbers of factors and causes, depending on the tradition and circumstances. There is no one "right" teaching. In fact, the litmus for a true teaching is its effect on practitioners. The Buddha said that misunderstandings of the nature of Karma are by definition those that discourage practice and benevolent action on the part of those who subscribe to them.
The present experience of the self is wholly based on previous karma. Actually, it is nothing but previous karma. The fundamental delusion is that there is a "self" that things happen to. There is a very real distinction between saying "I exist in dependence on everything" and "I am everything. Similarly "Everything changes" versus "Everything is change."
The diligent, active acceptance of karma is key foundation for practice. Understanding that karma laid down in the past appears in the present as the sensation of "self." For example, encountering a person who has hurt me brings all the hurt flooding back; I'm right back in that experience, which has lain dormant as a seed until now.
Outside of continual cycling through realms of difficulty and pleasure, there is the possibility of practice: karma which ends karma. The goal of our lives is not comfort, but liberation.
It was so good to be in a didactic class again. I have great respect for Ejo's understanding; I studied karma a fair amount and have found that even otherwise accomplished teachers have trouble discussing it in an accurate and satisfying manner. Ejo's mastery of the history of Buddhist thought is evident, and his manifestation of it in the present is—effortlessly, without fanfare—amazing.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Relating to a Spiritual Teacher - update
More from the email to Niall:
Interesting that you ask who my teacher is. That question is such a common one in zen and buddhist circles, and the relationship with a teacher is usually thought to be some sort of metaphysical mystical bond. I haven't found a teacher who I can study with in the way I want to, with whom there is ALSO the mystical bond I assume must be there. It's a topic of much introspection about my picture of practice vs the reality.
I received precepts from Shohaku Okumura, who I love, and I studied very deeply (or so it feels to me) with Hogen Bays at Great Vow. But I have not asked either of them to be my teacher or (more to the point) viewed them as "the one", the person to whom I am responsible for my practice, from whom I dare not hide any aspect of my personality, however unflattering. For years.
I am increasingly aware that ordination and spiritual ministry are a very likely path. I've been slow to figure this out, and I'm biased to mistrust the desire of those who come upon a vocation suddenly. So it's obviously time to work with someone in a more structured and committed way.
Interesting that you ask who my teacher is. That question is such a common one in zen and buddhist circles, and the relationship with a teacher is usually thought to be some sort of metaphysical mystical bond. I haven't found a teacher who I can study with in the way I want to, with whom there is ALSO the mystical bond I assume must be there. It's a topic of much introspection about my picture of practice vs the reality.
I received precepts from Shohaku Okumura, who I love, and I studied very deeply (or so it feels to me) with Hogen Bays at Great Vow. But I have not asked either of them to be my teacher or (more to the point) viewed them as "the one", the person to whom I am responsible for my practice, from whom I dare not hide any aspect of my personality, however unflattering. For years.
I am increasingly aware that ordination and spiritual ministry are a very likely path. I've been slow to figure this out, and I'm biased to mistrust the desire of those who come upon a vocation suddenly. So it's obviously time to work with someone in a more structured and committed way.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Ordinary Mysteries
(I started to write this to Niall, and then thought, Why should I share my deepest thoughts only with a 19-year-old zen prodigy in Northern Ireland? Surely others can relate as well. It's not so complicated.)
When I left the monastery I had the idea that life in the outside world would seem very concrete. But no. The impression that things are constantly falling apart continues. As does the experience of consciousness rooted largely in a mythic realm.
In fact, it's getting worse. Because so much more can happen when events are not bound by routine and schedule, there are many more opportunities for mysterious themes and coincidences to congeal. This "normal" life is thoroughly magical and beyond understanding.
When I left the monastery I had the idea that life in the outside world would seem very concrete. But no. The impression that things are constantly falling apart continues. As does the experience of consciousness rooted largely in a mythic realm.
In fact, it's getting worse. Because so much more can happen when events are not bound by routine and schedule, there are many more opportunities for mysterious themes and coincidences to congeal. This "normal" life is thoroughly magical and beyond understanding.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Bodhidharma
That man Bodhidharma
Planted tea bushes in my heart
And turned my head to flame.
So who now moans, as if nothing will do?
And how have I failed, to feel so unwhole?
Hills of bright trees are now silent sticks,
Geese pass over—thick fog.
Let's break the damn cup, and start over again.
12/05
Planted tea bushes in my heart
And turned my head to flame.
So who now moans, as if nothing will do?
And how have I failed, to feel so unwhole?
Hills of bright trees are now silent sticks,
Geese pass over—thick fog.
Let's break the damn cup, and start over again.
12/05
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Food Insecurity and the Finer Things in Life
$20 worth of cheese has moved through our refrigerator in the past week or so, and I've eaten only the barest portion of it. My housemates buy Muenster and smoked Mozzarella. I buy the most boring California Cheddar at $5 a pound.
Actually, I would rather not buy cheese.
This is not because I dislike fine cheese. To the contrary. Next to the others the Cheddar is nearly tasteless. Not as bad as what comes from Safeway, but still more exciting for its brilliant orange color than anything else.
I have taken to feeling personally hurt or worried when the heat is turned up to 68 degrees, and this joyful consumption of cheese—Rob melts it on nearly everything, burns it black in the broiler half the time—feels like something I can't afford.
Perhaps I could. I've earned $284 working at the store, or will have when Ruby pays me. Apparently she's notorious. (Which came as no surprise: I've been taking increasingly shrill calls from her landlady, on the 20th of the month, no less!)
I think the issue has to do with feeling pressure (largely self-generated) to pay for a luxury I wouldn't otherwise choose. I feel obligated to force bits of cheese into my diet so I'll get my money's worth. It feels terrible.
The view of My Self as an accomodating team player is clashing with some harsh economic realities. And it doesn't have to be like this. Saying what I need would be one way to cut through a lot of anxiety. But somehow I'm ashamed. I wouldn't mind being seen in the store paying with food stamps, and I wouldn't mind if people knew. Yet to say to the people I live with, "This isn't working for me," is a stretch.
In other words, welcome to the edge of practice. Where DeliaShugetsu gets to examine her assumptions that Worthwhile People don't have individual needs, and that Good Zen Students just trust the universe like clouds and water. I might have to work a bit to get the gratitude flowing, but I know this is exactly what I need to deal with. Thanks be to the cheese!
One of the girls at the store is on food stamps. Which is incredible considering how social services have been cut. But this happy young thing told me she and her boyfriend each receive $150 a month for groceries, by virtue of being OSU students who qualify for financial aid.
That's a tremendous amount of money.
I assumed that 32-year-old aspiring writers need not apply, but I looked at the online eligibilty calclulator, and...I'm going to go talk to a caseworker at the Benton County "Self-Sufficiency" Office. The prospect of receiving "Self-Sufficiency" rather than "Welfare" is awfully inspiring.
Actually, I would rather not buy cheese.
This is not because I dislike fine cheese. To the contrary. Next to the others the Cheddar is nearly tasteless. Not as bad as what comes from Safeway, but still more exciting for its brilliant orange color than anything else.
I have taken to feeling personally hurt or worried when the heat is turned up to 68 degrees, and this joyful consumption of cheese—Rob melts it on nearly everything, burns it black in the broiler half the time—feels like something I can't afford.
Perhaps I could. I've earned $284 working at the store, or will have when Ruby pays me. Apparently she's notorious. (Which came as no surprise: I've been taking increasingly shrill calls from her landlady, on the 20th of the month, no less!)
I think the issue has to do with feeling pressure (largely self-generated) to pay for a luxury I wouldn't otherwise choose. I feel obligated to force bits of cheese into my diet so I'll get my money's worth. It feels terrible.
The view of My Self as an accomodating team player is clashing with some harsh economic realities. And it doesn't have to be like this. Saying what I need would be one way to cut through a lot of anxiety. But somehow I'm ashamed. I wouldn't mind being seen in the store paying with food stamps, and I wouldn't mind if people knew. Yet to say to the people I live with, "This isn't working for me," is a stretch.
In other words, welcome to the edge of practice. Where DeliaShugetsu gets to examine her assumptions that Worthwhile People don't have individual needs, and that Good Zen Students just trust the universe like clouds and water. I might have to work a bit to get the gratitude flowing, but I know this is exactly what I need to deal with. Thanks be to the cheese!
One of the girls at the store is on food stamps. Which is incredible considering how social services have been cut. But this happy young thing told me she and her boyfriend each receive $150 a month for groceries, by virtue of being OSU students who qualify for financial aid.
That's a tremendous amount of money.
I assumed that 32-year-old aspiring writers need not apply, but I looked at the online eligibilty calclulator, and...I'm going to go talk to a caseworker at the Benton County "Self-Sufficiency" Office. The prospect of receiving "Self-Sufficiency" rather than "Welfare" is awfully inspiring.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Fire and Flood
19 Jan 2006, Corvallis, Oregon
Under a billowing black trail, the warehouse behind the mill is being eaten by red flames.
We watch from the park. The floodwater has climbed at least two feet since yesterday, and now benches and bike paths are part of the river. This wide and muddy Willamette bulges beneath the overpass, where cars go by, and roils under the mill. Under the smoke that pours skyward.
A few people with dogs and lattés in to-go cups gather to watch. Some pop open a digital camera, and try to make it into a picture: See the hungry flames, the dying mill, the surging water. As if the moment could be held against its will.
As if we will not all be destroyed in turn. As if the lesson is not being shouted by every log truck and new townhouse development: this world is eating itself.
I am crying, but I have to go to work. At the store, I dress in a shining silk mandarin jacket: metallic green armor for a morning in the retail realm. Mythology converges in sudden lucidity: we are always in witness to Kali the destroyer, birthing and eating her children; we are always attempting to ignore the self-consuming serpent, to face away from a world as terrifying and beautiful as a scorpion in the moonlight. To put something between ourself and flames that billow above a rushing flood.
The local paper reported this in their own way....
Under a billowing black trail, the warehouse behind the mill is being eaten by red flames.
We watch from the park. The floodwater has climbed at least two feet since yesterday, and now benches and bike paths are part of the river. This wide and muddy Willamette bulges beneath the overpass, where cars go by, and roils under the mill. Under the smoke that pours skyward.
A few people with dogs and lattés in to-go cups gather to watch. Some pop open a digital camera, and try to make it into a picture: See the hungry flames, the dying mill, the surging water. As if the moment could be held against its will.
As if we will not all be destroyed in turn. As if the lesson is not being shouted by every log truck and new townhouse development: this world is eating itself.
I am crying, but I have to go to work. At the store, I dress in a shining silk mandarin jacket: metallic green armor for a morning in the retail realm. Mythology converges in sudden lucidity: we are always in witness to Kali the destroyer, birthing and eating her children; we are always attempting to ignore the self-consuming serpent, to face away from a world as terrifying and beautiful as a scorpion in the moonlight. To put something between ourself and flames that billow above a rushing flood.
The local paper reported this in their own way....
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Writing Sample: Recycling's Rebirth
I wrote the following article for the newsletter of First Alternative, a grocery cooperative in Corvallis.
When I was little, we would drive 45 minutes to shop there. It had that health food store smell, bulk bins, and lots of idealistic propaganda strewn around. A vibrant quilted banner urging us to "Think Globally, Act Locally" hung on one wall. The panels were made by various individuals, and depicted fabric foodstuffs, or multicolored hands joining together, or ...toothbrushes.
In retrospect I realize how effectively I absorbed a progressive agenda by osmosis while my mother filled canning jars with soy sauce and ground peanut butter in the big machine.
Today I'm back in Corvallis, and volunteering on the recycling crew at First Alternative. This earns my household a 15% discount on groceries--which amounts to real money very quickly--in exchange for two hours of (wet, smelly) work per week.
The old "Think Globally, Act Locally" banner has been taken out of the store, and is hanging in the nearby "meeting room". This small cinderblock building in the parking lot was, back in the day, a scary, grimy bar sitting bizarrely on the edge of a hippie utopia. Now it's been absorbed into the co-op empire. And the banner is now severely faded, a relic of some other time. The colors have gone muddy, and only in my memory are they still bright and clear.
Recycling’s Rebirth
Everything we throw “away” has to end up somewhere, and thanks to First Alternative’s recycling program, a substantial stream of waste is diverted from the landfill to see a new life. The recycling compound behind the South Store parking lot serves households all over the Willamette Valley, and is the only location in Linn and Benton counties that accepts freezer board, aseptic containers (typically milk and soymilk cartons)—and even clean Styrofoam. These are all processed, sorted and packaged by volunteers. The packaged materials are hauled away for recycling: Styrofoam is taken to Portland by Parrott’s Home Furnishings, and First Alternative owner-workers haul aseptics and freezer board to Eugene.
This program—an outreach effort by First Alternative that touches many, many lives—is currently being reworked to make the recycling experience more pleasant and efficient for the community. It’s also being rebuilt from the inside, as a model for implementing the Owner Relations Committee’s recommendation that owner-worker committees become more self-governing. We hope you’ll appreciate the changes as they come, and consider joining us in this pioneering volunteer model.
Casual users of the recycling area can look forward to improved signage, instructions on how to prepare your recycling, increased neatness in the midst of inevitable chaos, and an overall streamlined experience.
You can help this community effort by remembering that another person must handle everything you leave behind. You’ll save the volunteers a lot of work—often dirty work—by bringing your recyclables in a state that makes the job easier:
Remove plastic spouts from aseptic containers—both the short square spouts that grace soymilk-type cartons and the tall round spouts on orange juice cartons.
Items should be clean of dirt and food residue. We can’t clean dirty Styrofoam or filthy bottles—these items are just thrown in the garbage. Excessive food waste also encourages mice, which is bad news for everyone, including the mice.
Flatten cartons and cardboard.
Sort your recyclables rather than leaving us with the proverbial mixed bag.
If a collection container is full, stack items neatly nearby. Disorder breeds disorder, and a little bit of mess soon leads to full-scale chaos.
Don’t dump nonrecyclable items. The range of items that can be accepted is pretty well-defined. Tires, car batteries, and household trash aren’t among them! And although larger pieces of Styrofoam are accepted, packing peanuts aren’t.
Dumping is unsightly, strains Co-op resources, and is potentially harmful to recycling workers. You can bring small batteries to Customer Service at the South Store for recycling.
Consider joining our team for spirited work parties, an exploration of the self-governing model, a 15% discount on your groceries, and—most importantly-- a deeper appreciation of the vast amounts of waste we generate, and the potential for positive change.
When I was little, we would drive 45 minutes to shop there. It had that health food store smell, bulk bins, and lots of idealistic propaganda strewn around. A vibrant quilted banner urging us to "Think Globally, Act Locally" hung on one wall. The panels were made by various individuals, and depicted fabric foodstuffs, or multicolored hands joining together, or ...toothbrushes.
In retrospect I realize how effectively I absorbed a progressive agenda by osmosis while my mother filled canning jars with soy sauce and ground peanut butter in the big machine.
Today I'm back in Corvallis, and volunteering on the recycling crew at First Alternative. This earns my household a 15% discount on groceries--which amounts to real money very quickly--in exchange for two hours of (wet, smelly) work per week.
The old "Think Globally, Act Locally" banner has been taken out of the store, and is hanging in the nearby "meeting room". This small cinderblock building in the parking lot was, back in the day, a scary, grimy bar sitting bizarrely on the edge of a hippie utopia. Now it's been absorbed into the co-op empire. And the banner is now severely faded, a relic of some other time. The colors have gone muddy, and only in my memory are they still bright and clear.
Recycling’s Rebirth
Everything we throw “away” has to end up somewhere, and thanks to First Alternative’s recycling program, a substantial stream of waste is diverted from the landfill to see a new life. The recycling compound behind the South Store parking lot serves households all over the Willamette Valley, and is the only location in Linn and Benton counties that accepts freezer board, aseptic containers (typically milk and soymilk cartons)—and even clean Styrofoam. These are all processed, sorted and packaged by volunteers. The packaged materials are hauled away for recycling: Styrofoam is taken to Portland by Parrott’s Home Furnishings, and First Alternative owner-workers haul aseptics and freezer board to Eugene.
This program—an outreach effort by First Alternative that touches many, many lives—is currently being reworked to make the recycling experience more pleasant and efficient for the community. It’s also being rebuilt from the inside, as a model for implementing the Owner Relations Committee’s recommendation that owner-worker committees become more self-governing. We hope you’ll appreciate the changes as they come, and consider joining us in this pioneering volunteer model.
Casual users of the recycling area can look forward to improved signage, instructions on how to prepare your recycling, increased neatness in the midst of inevitable chaos, and an overall streamlined experience.
You can help this community effort by remembering that another person must handle everything you leave behind. You’ll save the volunteers a lot of work—often dirty work—by bringing your recyclables in a state that makes the job easier:
Remove plastic spouts from aseptic containers—both the short square spouts that grace soymilk-type cartons and the tall round spouts on orange juice cartons.
Items should be clean of dirt and food residue. We can’t clean dirty Styrofoam or filthy bottles—these items are just thrown in the garbage. Excessive food waste also encourages mice, which is bad news for everyone, including the mice.
Flatten cartons and cardboard.
Sort your recyclables rather than leaving us with the proverbial mixed bag.
If a collection container is full, stack items neatly nearby. Disorder breeds disorder, and a little bit of mess soon leads to full-scale chaos.
Don’t dump nonrecyclable items. The range of items that can be accepted is pretty well-defined. Tires, car batteries, and household trash aren’t among them! And although larger pieces of Styrofoam are accepted, packing peanuts aren’t.
Dumping is unsightly, strains Co-op resources, and is potentially harmful to recycling workers. You can bring small batteries to Customer Service at the South Store for recycling.
Consider joining our team for spirited work parties, an exploration of the self-governing model, a 15% discount on your groceries, and—most importantly-- a deeper appreciation of the vast amounts of waste we generate, and the potential for positive change.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Driving Toward the Future
Today I drove up to Portland to talk to middle schoolers at The Catlin Gabel School, where I went from 8th-12th grade. Representatives from various religions were there to talk about ethics.
As an adult, I marvel at how beautiful they are. Their skin and eyes are so bright, and their minds are so fresh. And they have no idea what vibrant creatures they are. Some of them are clearly special-- quirky and lovable old souls sharing themselves without reservation.
I could say a lot about the talks I gave and the conversations we had. Mostly I'm humbled by my own inability to express the dharma. And that people respond anyway, because the truth is just so damn good, easily surviving mangling at my hands.
But the notable thing I'm here to write about was that: I drove to Portland, did the program and drove back. Ninety minutes each way. And the drive was wonderful.
The light reflected off the wet freeway, the sun came out, distant smokestacks puffed against a background of black clouds. It is possible to express metta--lovingkindness-- from the driver's seat, and to undertake the drive in a spirit of collaboration and love. Just sitting and driving and feeling the body (so the arms don't start to get tense). A ninety-minute heart-opening meditation.
This spirit first came over me when I made a 5.5 hour trek from Mt Vernon, Washington, to the monastery in Clatskanie, Oregon, just after Christmas. I saw two overturned SUVs on that drive. One was a Cadillac Escalade, the most ostentatious and muscular expression of anxiety salved by conspicuous consumption on the road today. To see that proud, nasty vehicle, freshly flipped and quivering, the people inside in great danger... after that, I am no longer "offended" by this dangerous monstrosity. I am just sad.
It's so unfortunate that people feel the need to climb into giant mounds of metal in order to feel safe. At a time when resources are dwindling and the very nature of Nature is changing, all we can do in our fear is to use more oil, drive bigger cars, make the problem worse?
One could hope that being faced with real shortages and consequences in oil consumption would force us to cut through the illusion of separation and begin to cooperate as if our lives depended on one another. As they always have. Pragmatic cooperation certainly does exist-- but it's also tempting to grab what little is left. When privation looms, who doesn't want to find some security against the rising tide of chaos?
But what security there is, is not in "things." Being able to be happy after three hours of driving seems much more satisfying.
As an adult, I marvel at how beautiful they are. Their skin and eyes are so bright, and their minds are so fresh. And they have no idea what vibrant creatures they are. Some of them are clearly special-- quirky and lovable old souls sharing themselves without reservation.
I could say a lot about the talks I gave and the conversations we had. Mostly I'm humbled by my own inability to express the dharma. And that people respond anyway, because the truth is just so damn good, easily surviving mangling at my hands.
But the notable thing I'm here to write about was that: I drove to Portland, did the program and drove back. Ninety minutes each way. And the drive was wonderful.
The light reflected off the wet freeway, the sun came out, distant smokestacks puffed against a background of black clouds. It is possible to express metta--lovingkindness-- from the driver's seat, and to undertake the drive in a spirit of collaboration and love. Just sitting and driving and feeling the body (so the arms don't start to get tense). A ninety-minute heart-opening meditation.
This spirit first came over me when I made a 5.5 hour trek from Mt Vernon, Washington, to the monastery in Clatskanie, Oregon, just after Christmas. I saw two overturned SUVs on that drive. One was a Cadillac Escalade, the most ostentatious and muscular expression of anxiety salved by conspicuous consumption on the road today. To see that proud, nasty vehicle, freshly flipped and quivering, the people inside in great danger... after that, I am no longer "offended" by this dangerous monstrosity. I am just sad.
It's so unfortunate that people feel the need to climb into giant mounds of metal in order to feel safe. At a time when resources are dwindling and the very nature of Nature is changing, all we can do in our fear is to use more oil, drive bigger cars, make the problem worse?
One could hope that being faced with real shortages and consequences in oil consumption would force us to cut through the illusion of separation and begin to cooperate as if our lives depended on one another. As they always have. Pragmatic cooperation certainly does exist-- but it's also tempting to grab what little is left. When privation looms, who doesn't want to find some security against the rising tide of chaos?
But what security there is, is not in "things." Being able to be happy after three hours of driving seems much more satisfying.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Gratification Lost and Found
What was lost in space has been found in Santa Barbara, CA. I’ve no idea how it got there, but my roller bag is on its way home, twenty-five days after we were separated between New York and Las Vegas.
I will be grateful to have my rakusu back; I had finally resorted to asking the Universe, very politely, for its return.
(A rakusu, according to the claim form I filed with America West Airlines, is a “handmade religious garment” valued at $248.)
More exciting to my housemates is the fact that the luggage contains a large quantity of Lithuanian chocolate. As my nearest, if not dearest friends, they are looking forward to this sweet, dark “sokolade” from Vilnius. Especially the dark chocolate filled with Camembert cheese.
There is some alchemy that takes place when this creamy high-fat cheese is married with chocolate. It’s quite intoxicating. After eating just one, your mind stops. You don't want or need anything. I mean anything. There is only complete hedonic overload. Every pleasure circuit is awake and humming. Of course as meditators we greet all phenomena with curiosity and gratitude. So it will be interesting to investigate this chocolate again.
I don’t have an easy relationship with extravagance, as I found out today on my first day of my first “real” job in ten (sorry, mom) years. I’m very happy to be at Golden Crane, a Corvallis store that sells beautiful, cute, flowy, creative garment–as well as gifts, jewelry, and house wares. If you need incense or Indonesian handicrafts or stained-glass Tiffany-style lamps, Golden Crane is your place. It certainly would have been mine a few years ago. It’s what I used to refer to as a “Delia trap.” (Nowadays, dharma books are my weakness.)
All my jewelry and vintage dresses and cute jackets are packed away, sitting in the damp silence of a basement in California. So I reported for work completely unadorned: no hair, no jewelry, no ruffles or furbelows-- a little Zen pinhead in the midst of all that opulence.
Ruby, the owner, is a good person to work for. She’s a Buddhist in the Tibetan tradition, and is very smart, trim, and stylish. In an earlier life as a computer programmer–a VIP in the days when almost nobody programmed computers–she wrote an assembly language. Her programs were stored first on punch cards, then on perforated tape, and finally floppy discs the size of LPs. (LPs, called “records”, were a music storage device before we had cassette tapes, CDs or iPods.) Eventually the discs would come in a stack of five, which you’d tote around in a big plastic case.
Ruby understands the practice of helping people connect with material objects. She wrapped a fancy scarf around my neck and put me to work doing something I know well: cleaning.
I swept and dusted and straightened racks of yoga tunics and spangly skirts. Lifted up crystal balls and Japanese bowls to dust underneath. All was peaceful –I was getting the hang of things, even enjoying the pretty scarf around my neck– until customers started coming in!
I was at a loss. What do I do? I'm a friendly person, but intruding on someone who is in their own space is not a skill we cultivate in Zen monasteries. Much easier to stand there looking vaguely beneficent. Or just looking vague. By the time my three-hour my "first day of work" was over, I was brimming with anxiety. Not believing it– but brimming nonetheless.
I walked over to the Book Bin and had two mugs of decaf coffee and a brownie. Read People magazine rather than dharma books. It was perfect, even though the brownie was old and dry and I recognize none of the current celebrities. I just felt so much better: the system was reset by polyphenols and sugar.
How wonderful to encounter relief, when so few problems are actually solved by food! Body and mind at rest, I walked home peacefully, enjoying my rare good fortune: o be saved by chocolate. It will not be so easy again. Next time, I’ll need the Lithuanian stuff.
I will be grateful to have my rakusu back; I had finally resorted to asking the Universe, very politely, for its return.
(A rakusu, according to the claim form I filed with America West Airlines, is a “handmade religious garment” valued at $248.)
More exciting to my housemates is the fact that the luggage contains a large quantity of Lithuanian chocolate. As my nearest, if not dearest friends, they are looking forward to this sweet, dark “sokolade” from Vilnius. Especially the dark chocolate filled with Camembert cheese.
There is some alchemy that takes place when this creamy high-fat cheese is married with chocolate. It’s quite intoxicating. After eating just one, your mind stops. You don't want or need anything. I mean anything. There is only complete hedonic overload. Every pleasure circuit is awake and humming. Of course as meditators we greet all phenomena with curiosity and gratitude. So it will be interesting to investigate this chocolate again.
I don’t have an easy relationship with extravagance, as I found out today on my first day of my first “real” job in ten (sorry, mom) years. I’m very happy to be at Golden Crane, a Corvallis store that sells beautiful, cute, flowy, creative garment–as well as gifts, jewelry, and house wares. If you need incense or Indonesian handicrafts or stained-glass Tiffany-style lamps, Golden Crane is your place. It certainly would have been mine a few years ago. It’s what I used to refer to as a “Delia trap.” (Nowadays, dharma books are my weakness.)
All my jewelry and vintage dresses and cute jackets are packed away, sitting in the damp silence of a basement in California. So I reported for work completely unadorned: no hair, no jewelry, no ruffles or furbelows-- a little Zen pinhead in the midst of all that opulence.
Ruby, the owner, is a good person to work for. She’s a Buddhist in the Tibetan tradition, and is very smart, trim, and stylish. In an earlier life as a computer programmer–a VIP in the days when almost nobody programmed computers–she wrote an assembly language. Her programs were stored first on punch cards, then on perforated tape, and finally floppy discs the size of LPs. (LPs, called “records”, were a music storage device before we had cassette tapes, CDs or iPods.) Eventually the discs would come in a stack of five, which you’d tote around in a big plastic case.
Ruby understands the practice of helping people connect with material objects. She wrapped a fancy scarf around my neck and put me to work doing something I know well: cleaning.
I swept and dusted and straightened racks of yoga tunics and spangly skirts. Lifted up crystal balls and Japanese bowls to dust underneath. All was peaceful –I was getting the hang of things, even enjoying the pretty scarf around my neck– until customers started coming in!
I was at a loss. What do I do? I'm a friendly person, but intruding on someone who is in their own space is not a skill we cultivate in Zen monasteries. Much easier to stand there looking vaguely beneficent. Or just looking vague. By the time my three-hour my "first day of work" was over, I was brimming with anxiety. Not believing it– but brimming nonetheless.
I walked over to the Book Bin and had two mugs of decaf coffee and a brownie. Read People magazine rather than dharma books. It was perfect, even though the brownie was old and dry and I recognize none of the current celebrities. I just felt so much better: the system was reset by polyphenols and sugar.
How wonderful to encounter relief, when so few problems are actually solved by food! Body and mind at rest, I walked home peacefully, enjoying my rare good fortune: o be saved by chocolate. It will not be so easy again. Next time, I’ll need the Lithuanian stuff.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Year-End Statistics
Holiday Cards Sent: 30
Holiday Cards Received: 4
Estimated Value of Lithuanian Chocolate I attempted to bring home: US$60
Cost of dental work in Lithuania, including one filling replacement, and large-scale repair of two teeth (just short of capping): US$50
Hours in the dentist's chair in Lithuania: 1
Hours in transit home to the US: 36, not including an unanticipated overnight stay in Las Vegas, NV
Books Acquired in 2005
(*)= currently reading
Ching……………Sutra on the Past Vows of Earth Store Bodhisattva
Dalai Lama……………The Universe in a Grain of Sand *
David-Neel……………Intiations and Initiates in Tibet
Emoto……………The Hidden Messages of Water
Harada ……………The Path to Bodhidharma
Hirschfield……………Nine Gates
Kennedy……………Zen Spirit, Christian Spirit
Keizer ……………A Dresser of Sycamore Trees
Kelly …………… Eleanor of Acquataine and the Four Kings
Kerr…………… Lost Japan
Larkin …………… First You Shave Your Head
Monks of New Skete ……………In the Spirit of Happiness
Oliver……………American Primitive
Nagao……………Madyhamika and Yogacara
Packer…………… The Art of Presence
Pine ……………The Heart Sutra *
Seife ……………Alpha and Omega
Stone …………… The Shadow King
Swaan …………… Japanese Lantern
Unno ……………River of Fire, River of Water *
Various…………… Pure Land, Pure Mind *
Waddell…………… Wild Ivy *
Watson…………… The Old Man Who Does as He Pleases
Wick ……………The Book of Equanimity
Holiday Cards Received: 4
Estimated Value of Lithuanian Chocolate I attempted to bring home: US$60
Cost of dental work in Lithuania, including one filling replacement, and large-scale repair of two teeth (just short of capping): US$50
Hours in the dentist's chair in Lithuania: 1
Hours in transit home to the US: 36, not including an unanticipated overnight stay in Las Vegas, NV
Books Acquired in 2005
(*)= currently reading
Ching……………Sutra on the Past Vows of Earth Store Bodhisattva
Dalai Lama……………The Universe in a Grain of Sand *
David-Neel……………Intiations and Initiates in Tibet
Emoto……………The Hidden Messages of Water
Harada ……………The Path to Bodhidharma
Hirschfield……………Nine Gates
Kennedy……………Zen Spirit, Christian Spirit
Keizer ……………A Dresser of Sycamore Trees
Kelly …………… Eleanor of Acquataine and the Four Kings
Kerr…………… Lost Japan
Larkin …………… First You Shave Your Head
Monks of New Skete ……………In the Spirit of Happiness
Oliver……………American Primitive
Nagao……………Madyhamika and Yogacara
Packer…………… The Art of Presence
Pine ……………The Heart Sutra *
Seife ……………Alpha and Omega
Stone …………… The Shadow King
Swaan …………… Japanese Lantern
Unno ……………River of Fire, River of Water *
Various…………… Pure Land, Pure Mind *
Waddell…………… Wild Ivy *
Watson…………… The Old Man Who Does as He Pleases
Wick ……………The Book of Equanimity
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Year's End, And All's Not Well
It’s Christmas and some things are wrong. In a season of goodwill, where Christians celebrate the story of a little baby born in a stable, thousands of souls are homeless, and thousands of children need food and shelter. Not just for today, but in their lives. We think nothing of taking care of a child’s needs: how are adults different? An adult who cannot look out for themselves needs to be helped, regardless of whether their inability is due to mental or physical disability, or a really bad string of luck. The stories a person tells, or the irritating things they do, don’t sway us from helping children. We aren’t offended when a three-year-old screams, “I hate you,” But an alcoholic adult is on their own, for some reason, is too much trouble. Jesus cared for, and ministered to, the most unfortunate in society. Why can’t we do the same?
I mean the question as more than a rhetorical one. On an unusually balmy morning, my mom and I went to the quaint little Mt Vernon shopping district to soak up some holiday atmosphere. The streets were quiet, even though most stores were open. It seemed that most of the holiday shopping was done. And sharing the street with us was a sober, kind-looking brown-skinned young man, wearing several layers of clothing, a tie-died floppy hat, and a huge backpack. He watched us walk by. We went into a store. We emerged, and he walked next to us for a while. I felt his eyes on me. We ignored him. I could feel myself retreating into a certain prim oblivion: I am at ease on this street. I do not see the man in transit, the man who is looking for nothing, the man who might need help on Christmas Eve.
Travelers at the inn. In the Old Testament, welcoming travelers who turn out to be angels. Over and over, through various means, the message is clear: virtue lies in helping the less fortunate. These are meant to be taken seriously, as guidelines for life. If we don’t bring the myths into our lives, what do they mean.
We ignored him. And we went to go buy a chicken to roast. The natural foods co-op was packed with people who had turned their minds to the culinary side of the holiday. 2006 calendars are on sale. Here’s one for the Tibetan’s Nun Project. Another called “A Simple Monk” celebrates the Dalai Lama. Photos are accented by quotes. His Holiness says: “Once we have enough to live, we must turn and help others.” I put the calendars back on the shelf.
I might have bought the calendar if I’d been feeling flush. But times are very, very tight. I’m living off of credit, which is running out, and running into debt. Just before I left to come to Mt Vernon, however, I had a job interview. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s a good foray into social services, and satisfies the career-seeking side of myself that contemplates being a therapist or social worker. But what is real right now is: I need money. And this job helps people. So for $8 an hour I am both getting enough to live on, and I am turning and helping others. The way I did not do today.
Another thing that is wrong: the Portland panty bandit is going to be in jail for decades. Because he’s a sick guy who has a thing for women’s undies. Meanwhile, a white collar criminal who did far more damage to society is back on the job. Undismayed by having enough to live on, he kept on going, causing harm in all quarters. With good lawyers on his side, he served very little jail time and is now tangling with the exclusive Multnomah Athletic Club—focus on the “Club”—it’s a networking venue for Portland’s high society, an indoor country club for those who have arrived. Seems jailboy wants the right to rejoin the club, after his criminal activities got him booted out.
Something’s not right here.
Go another level down, and things twist, while injustice is maintained: the panty pilferer is indeed man with a problem. Just look at the over 400,000 pornographic images on his computer hard drive. They’re what got him in jail. Thousands of them depict women being raped, tortured, killed and otherwise debased. It’s enough to make your blood run cold, and to wonder who else might be out there. But the photos of women are not what will put this man behind bars until he’s an old pervert instead of a young one. It’s the eight images involving children, that provide the basis for his conviction and sentencing.
Not to minimize the destruction and tragedy of child pornography, but why is it OK to profit from violent images of women? Again, why are children more sacred than other humans? Why are women on their own in a barren field of social outrage? Isn’t a dead woman as dead as a dead child? A raped and beaten woman as raped and beaten? We assiduously protect the rights of children everywhere not to be turned into sexual objects. Brutalizing women, on the other hand….
So, children, the sacred little things. Sacred enough that child molesters are routinely victimized once they make it to prison. Raped themselves, because rape is so terrible. Does that make sense?
Whatever is going on with our protective attitude toward children, it’s not a rational thing. Somewhere, we identify with the unguarded vulnerability of children. We access our own buried child self that way, and what we fight fiercely to protect is some part of ourselves, witnessed and made real by another person’s life. But we’re not seeing that child. We’re seeing ourself, and we’re mindlessly angry and protective of some part of our self.
Is our unthinking identification with the child so far removed from that of pedophiles, who love children a little too much? Who seek to reclaim what they’ve lost by sexual contact: abused children go up to abuse in turn. There’s some relief, some quest for explanation and psychological resolution that, unexamined, draws them back into the darkness. Failing to understand the traumatized child leads the pedophile to do his thing, and the person who abuses the pedophile to do his thing. Insanity.
Which brings me all the way back to Christmas.
I would like to know: Why do parents, who presumably take their job seriously and want to guard their offspring and instill values—why do parents lie to their children about Santa Claus? Why do they go out of their way to deceive their little ones, and find joy and relief in solidifying the deception for another year?
There must be some reward to it, to go to the effort of taking the kid to the mall, or hiring a Santa to call your home. But it doesn’t make sense. Nobody wants to teach their kid that lying is OK. That going out of your way to perpetuate a lie is OK.
So the reward for being “good”, for following the rules and slowly learning how to be a member of polite society, is to be lied to. Beyond that, there's the lesson that material pleasures are the true reward for upright behavior.
I don’t see what’s wrong with having Christmas be about the birth of a miraculous baby to transient parents who had to rely on the charity of others. I don’t see what’s wrong with families gathering to bless the children in their lives. While we’re at it, perhaps some positive values could be instilled; there’s no merit in a holiday based on deception. No need to deceive children. And no need to deceive ourselves that this is a world where everything is OK. Not when the homeless and luckless are right in front of our faces, and we’re in the midst of holiday focused on a tiny baby who grew to teach the world about charity and goodwill.
I mean the question as more than a rhetorical one. On an unusually balmy morning, my mom and I went to the quaint little Mt Vernon shopping district to soak up some holiday atmosphere. The streets were quiet, even though most stores were open. It seemed that most of the holiday shopping was done. And sharing the street with us was a sober, kind-looking brown-skinned young man, wearing several layers of clothing, a tie-died floppy hat, and a huge backpack. He watched us walk by. We went into a store. We emerged, and he walked next to us for a while. I felt his eyes on me. We ignored him. I could feel myself retreating into a certain prim oblivion: I am at ease on this street. I do not see the man in transit, the man who is looking for nothing, the man who might need help on Christmas Eve.
Travelers at the inn. In the Old Testament, welcoming travelers who turn out to be angels. Over and over, through various means, the message is clear: virtue lies in helping the less fortunate. These are meant to be taken seriously, as guidelines for life. If we don’t bring the myths into our lives, what do they mean.
We ignored him. And we went to go buy a chicken to roast. The natural foods co-op was packed with people who had turned their minds to the culinary side of the holiday. 2006 calendars are on sale. Here’s one for the Tibetan’s Nun Project. Another called “A Simple Monk” celebrates the Dalai Lama. Photos are accented by quotes. His Holiness says: “Once we have enough to live, we must turn and help others.” I put the calendars back on the shelf.
I might have bought the calendar if I’d been feeling flush. But times are very, very tight. I’m living off of credit, which is running out, and running into debt. Just before I left to come to Mt Vernon, however, I had a job interview. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s a good foray into social services, and satisfies the career-seeking side of myself that contemplates being a therapist or social worker. But what is real right now is: I need money. And this job helps people. So for $8 an hour I am both getting enough to live on, and I am turning and helping others. The way I did not do today.
Another thing that is wrong: the Portland panty bandit is going to be in jail for decades. Because he’s a sick guy who has a thing for women’s undies. Meanwhile, a white collar criminal who did far more damage to society is back on the job. Undismayed by having enough to live on, he kept on going, causing harm in all quarters. With good lawyers on his side, he served very little jail time and is now tangling with the exclusive Multnomah Athletic Club—focus on the “Club”—it’s a networking venue for Portland’s high society, an indoor country club for those who have arrived. Seems jailboy wants the right to rejoin the club, after his criminal activities got him booted out.
Something’s not right here.
Go another level down, and things twist, while injustice is maintained: the panty pilferer is indeed man with a problem. Just look at the over 400,000 pornographic images on his computer hard drive. They’re what got him in jail. Thousands of them depict women being raped, tortured, killed and otherwise debased. It’s enough to make your blood run cold, and to wonder who else might be out there. But the photos of women are not what will put this man behind bars until he’s an old pervert instead of a young one. It’s the eight images involving children, that provide the basis for his conviction and sentencing.
Not to minimize the destruction and tragedy of child pornography, but why is it OK to profit from violent images of women? Again, why are children more sacred than other humans? Why are women on their own in a barren field of social outrage? Isn’t a dead woman as dead as a dead child? A raped and beaten woman as raped and beaten? We assiduously protect the rights of children everywhere not to be turned into sexual objects. Brutalizing women, on the other hand….
So, children, the sacred little things. Sacred enough that child molesters are routinely victimized once they make it to prison. Raped themselves, because rape is so terrible. Does that make sense?
Whatever is going on with our protective attitude toward children, it’s not a rational thing. Somewhere, we identify with the unguarded vulnerability of children. We access our own buried child self that way, and what we fight fiercely to protect is some part of ourselves, witnessed and made real by another person’s life. But we’re not seeing that child. We’re seeing ourself, and we’re mindlessly angry and protective of some part of our self.
Is our unthinking identification with the child so far removed from that of pedophiles, who love children a little too much? Who seek to reclaim what they’ve lost by sexual contact: abused children go up to abuse in turn. There’s some relief, some quest for explanation and psychological resolution that, unexamined, draws them back into the darkness. Failing to understand the traumatized child leads the pedophile to do his thing, and the person who abuses the pedophile to do his thing. Insanity.
Which brings me all the way back to Christmas.
I would like to know: Why do parents, who presumably take their job seriously and want to guard their offspring and instill values—why do parents lie to their children about Santa Claus? Why do they go out of their way to deceive their little ones, and find joy and relief in solidifying the deception for another year?
There must be some reward to it, to go to the effort of taking the kid to the mall, or hiring a Santa to call your home. But it doesn’t make sense. Nobody wants to teach their kid that lying is OK. That going out of your way to perpetuate a lie is OK.
So the reward for being “good”, for following the rules and slowly learning how to be a member of polite society, is to be lied to. Beyond that, there's the lesson that material pleasures are the true reward for upright behavior.
I don’t see what’s wrong with having Christmas be about the birth of a miraculous baby to transient parents who had to rely on the charity of others. I don’t see what’s wrong with families gathering to bless the children in their lives. While we’re at it, perhaps some positive values could be instilled; there’s no merit in a holiday based on deception. No need to deceive children. And no need to deceive ourselves that this is a world where everything is OK. Not when the homeless and luckless are right in front of our faces, and we’re in the midst of holiday focused on a tiny baby who grew to teach the world about charity and goodwill.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Lost in the Rain
The rain today alternated between solid respectable downfall and deluge. In front of the house, Charlie Clark and a young rangy fellow named Jeremy who smoked hand rolled cigarettes were uprooting a tree with undesirable growth- and upheaval-potential. This went on for hours, and brought out a side of Charlie I hadn’t seen. He’s an anesthesiologist, and I hadn’t pegged him as one to get covered with mud in the cold and rain, and slog away with a lanky masculine hippy kid for company. But there they were, grunting contentedly for hours. By the time I went out for a drive, their green rain suits were covered in muck, their faces were spattered, and they seemed totally happy.
I didn’t know where to go, so I pointed the car towards the coastal mountains. Out beyond Philomath I turned into the little town of Wren, Oregon. “Town” is a generous term in this case: Wren is a tiny settlement, perched with fragile anticipation in the middle of nowhere, on a rail line that must have once carried lumber somewhere. The most notable thing about the place are the signs directing the visitor to a nearby covered bridge.
If you weren’t extremely lost, or in the wood products business, or didn’t live there already, the covered bridge is the only reason you’d show up in Wren. There's something mysterious and compelling about these bridges: they’re an odd gift left behind by the pioneers.
This bridge was actually not in Wren at all, but 2.5 miles outside it. Wren was merely the nearest settlement to the spot in the middle of nowhere where, once upon a time, something was important. I drove, and the pavement ended, and the fog bathed the layers of clear-cut hills, blowing silhouetted trees into existence, and then into oblivion. And there was the bridge. Nearby, an old wooden farmhouse, with not even a tin shed or a car parked outside to cue the year as anything other than 1920. Across the road, a freestanding dive-- a roadhouse-- that looked threateningly ready to erupt with pickup trucks, fistfights and methamphetamine should the weekend roll around.
The bridge is still in service, and traffic still goes over and through it. But there were no cars, and hadn’t been for miles. So I parked in front of the roadhouse and walked up and into it.
The floor-roadway was made of stout wooden planks, and the dark eaves resonated with the sound of the rain. It felt safe and dry and very unlike the middle of a road. I took some fantastic pictures, looking out at the hills, before the camera batteries failed.
Lurching back towards Wren, I passed an old log barn squatting like a colossal Lincoln Log structure near the road. No batteries! But I’ll go back there, and show it to Rob. The timbers are rough-hewn, thirty feet long. It’s something worth remembering, even if you don’t know why you need to remember such a thing. Because that’s once all there was? Because right now it’s just what is?
The rain and the ennui of life in the dark season had led me out of the house with no real goal; I only knew I was looking for something. So I headed north, up the Kings Valley Highway, to the terrain of my childhood.
It was twenty miles or more of unrelenting rain; hills and curves; fear of hydroplaning; and old, old farms. Farms so old that outhouses might be in use. Farms where nothing has changed, or will ever change. Trees crowded the road, and lichen hung from the naked branches in wisps, and then in ropes. The creeks and rivers were swollen, roiling high, creeping up their banks. Alone with the rain and no thoughts, I met no other vehicles until a big truck started riding my tail about five miles south of Dallas.
Dallas. Land of good old fellas and uptight Christian women. I found a little coffee place across from the courthouse. Two boys were playing chess and two older people were having an inane conversation. Some people were going to see Narnia, playing at the Fox movie theatre next door. I had clearly found the heart of the action!
I was famished, and not sure if ordering 1) a veggie burger in 2) a coffee shop was really such a keen idea. But the girl behind the counter piled on fresh lettuce and tomato and sliced an avocado on top! And there was a sizeable pile of potato salad on the side. I inhaled it with great appreciation.
On the way out of town, I tried to count bars, but gave up. Does the pizza parlor qualify? Dallas is notable for its large number of churches and drinking/fistfighting establishments, and a public life that embodies the clash between the two. Hence the well-fortified courthouse with the skybridge to the jail across the street. Does your tiny town have such a thing? I thought not.
From the highway heading east out of town, I turned off onto Ballard Road, and the crunching gravel I know so well. I’ve come back a handful times to drive by the farm where I grew up. But today for the first time, all memories seemed completely unsubstantial. It was beyond obvious: The fields and trees were not the same old ones. Not a single thing was as it had been before; I was in a truly unique and transient landscape, wondering about something that has gone, gone, gone. Nothing in here and nothing out there are what they were before.
Passing the house where I grew up, the structure glimpsed me—I was spotted by a familiar face, by windows like eyes under a cramped roofline. When you recognize someone before you actually see them, you sense them and do not perceive them in a normal way. Without thinking, I said "Hello!" to that alert spirit, to that recognition by inanimate intelligence.
Ray Adams’ kitchen light was on, as it’s been for 25 years and more. The trees are towering, and our old pasture is now vineyards. Along the road, the water was creeping out of the ditches and flooding in several places. Two pheasants stood in the way and looked at the car like it was something new.
Finally, on the big highway, 99W, I joined a long line of traffic on flawless asphalt, and we all sped home at a steady 60 mph, no curves or hazards in sight. Outside the house, there was a shallow mess of mud out front where the tree used to be. Inside, I was a bit startled to find the dishes in the sink, just as I left them.
(Pictures to come, once I buy a new camera cable.)
I didn’t know where to go, so I pointed the car towards the coastal mountains. Out beyond Philomath I turned into the little town of Wren, Oregon. “Town” is a generous term in this case: Wren is a tiny settlement, perched with fragile anticipation in the middle of nowhere, on a rail line that must have once carried lumber somewhere. The most notable thing about the place are the signs directing the visitor to a nearby covered bridge.
If you weren’t extremely lost, or in the wood products business, or didn’t live there already, the covered bridge is the only reason you’d show up in Wren. There's something mysterious and compelling about these bridges: they’re an odd gift left behind by the pioneers.
This bridge was actually not in Wren at all, but 2.5 miles outside it. Wren was merely the nearest settlement to the spot in the middle of nowhere where, once upon a time, something was important. I drove, and the pavement ended, and the fog bathed the layers of clear-cut hills, blowing silhouetted trees into existence, and then into oblivion. And there was the bridge. Nearby, an old wooden farmhouse, with not even a tin shed or a car parked outside to cue the year as anything other than 1920. Across the road, a freestanding dive-- a roadhouse-- that looked threateningly ready to erupt with pickup trucks, fistfights and methamphetamine should the weekend roll around.
The bridge is still in service, and traffic still goes over and through it. But there were no cars, and hadn’t been for miles. So I parked in front of the roadhouse and walked up and into it.
The floor-roadway was made of stout wooden planks, and the dark eaves resonated with the sound of the rain. It felt safe and dry and very unlike the middle of a road. I took some fantastic pictures, looking out at the hills, before the camera batteries failed.
Lurching back towards Wren, I passed an old log barn squatting like a colossal Lincoln Log structure near the road. No batteries! But I’ll go back there, and show it to Rob. The timbers are rough-hewn, thirty feet long. It’s something worth remembering, even if you don’t know why you need to remember such a thing. Because that’s once all there was? Because right now it’s just what is?
The rain and the ennui of life in the dark season had led me out of the house with no real goal; I only knew I was looking for something. So I headed north, up the Kings Valley Highway, to the terrain of my childhood.
It was twenty miles or more of unrelenting rain; hills and curves; fear of hydroplaning; and old, old farms. Farms so old that outhouses might be in use. Farms where nothing has changed, or will ever change. Trees crowded the road, and lichen hung from the naked branches in wisps, and then in ropes. The creeks and rivers were swollen, roiling high, creeping up their banks. Alone with the rain and no thoughts, I met no other vehicles until a big truck started riding my tail about five miles south of Dallas.
Dallas. Land of good old fellas and uptight Christian women. I found a little coffee place across from the courthouse. Two boys were playing chess and two older people were having an inane conversation. Some people were going to see Narnia, playing at the Fox movie theatre next door. I had clearly found the heart of the action!
I was famished, and not sure if ordering 1) a veggie burger in 2) a coffee shop was really such a keen idea. But the girl behind the counter piled on fresh lettuce and tomato and sliced an avocado on top! And there was a sizeable pile of potato salad on the side. I inhaled it with great appreciation.
On the way out of town, I tried to count bars, but gave up. Does the pizza parlor qualify? Dallas is notable for its large number of churches and drinking/fistfighting establishments, and a public life that embodies the clash between the two. Hence the well-fortified courthouse with the skybridge to the jail across the street. Does your tiny town have such a thing? I thought not.
From the highway heading east out of town, I turned off onto Ballard Road, and the crunching gravel I know so well. I’ve come back a handful times to drive by the farm where I grew up. But today for the first time, all memories seemed completely unsubstantial. It was beyond obvious: The fields and trees were not the same old ones. Not a single thing was as it had been before; I was in a truly unique and transient landscape, wondering about something that has gone, gone, gone. Nothing in here and nothing out there are what they were before.
Passing the house where I grew up, the structure glimpsed me—I was spotted by a familiar face, by windows like eyes under a cramped roofline. When you recognize someone before you actually see them, you sense them and do not perceive them in a normal way. Without thinking, I said "Hello!" to that alert spirit, to that recognition by inanimate intelligence.
Ray Adams’ kitchen light was on, as it’s been for 25 years and more. The trees are towering, and our old pasture is now vineyards. Along the road, the water was creeping out of the ditches and flooding in several places. Two pheasants stood in the way and looked at the car like it was something new.
Finally, on the big highway, 99W, I joined a long line of traffic on flawless asphalt, and we all sped home at a steady 60 mph, no curves or hazards in sight. Outside the house, there was a shallow mess of mud out front where the tree used to be. Inside, I was a bit startled to find the dishes in the sink, just as I left them.
(Pictures to come, once I buy a new camera cable.)
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