My dear friend Michael sent me a trove of Zen gear, which I am charged with sheperding to a good home. One of the goodies was a wearable reliquary filled with sharira. Michael gave me some of these Buddhist relics a couple years ago, which were the inspiration for a post on this very blog.
Turns out I have a few things to add about my personal experience with sharira--for the doubting, derisive and open-minded alike.
I first encountered sharira, relics of departed Buddhist masters, when they came through San Francisco on tour in December of 2003. I was at a crisis point in my life, and needed any and all auspicious aid.
More precisely, m first exposure to the relics was actually riding in the van used to transport them. This was the personal transport of Lama Zopa Rinpoche on his land-based travels in North America, and it was adorned in high Dharma style: every available surface, including the exterior of the vehicle, was covered with prayers, images of bodhisattvas, Buddhist symbols, little statues, and the like. An edition of the Prajna Paramitra Sutra in 2000 Lines sat wrapped in yellow silk on the dashboard. Mantras taped to the roof ensured the favorable rebirth of all insects that smeared the windshield.
The relics were not actually in the van at the time of my ride, but one of the passenger seats was occupied by a human-sized model of the giant Maitreya Buddha statue that Lama Zopa Rinpoche hopes to build in Kushinagar, India. In his full-size form, fifty stories high, a vast collection of relics will be enshrined in rooms at his various chakra centers. Things were pretty cramped in the van, so I sat squished in next to Maitreya. He was outfitted for the road in a natty purple velvet cloak.
As we rode along, my companion and I remarked that we were surprisingly happy and goofy. Acutally, it was no surprise, according to the nun at the wheel. She said that, in all her adventures taking the relics around the country, countless people (including frequently-stressed, suspicious and even sexist hosts at a variety of dharma centers) had dissolved into childlike simplicity, even giggling, once they were in proximity to the relics.
What are these things, anyway? I was told that when a great master is cremated, jewel-like deposits are often found in the ashes. These may vary in color according to the area of the body they came from; there are also blood relics that are not jewel-like at all, but resemble dried strands of saffron. The relic tour has sharira reputedly found in the remains of a number of masters, from Shakyamuni and Ananda on down to twentieth-century lamas. The relics are thought to embody the departed person's spiritual understanding. They may be used for healing, or enshrined on an altar as objects of veneration. Some say they are left intentionally, to inspire faith in the practice.
You can imagine the response of the average educated American to this, Buddhist or otherwise. In fact, you may be thinking right now that this stuff is just way too weird!
But does that make it a load of crap?
My attitude has always been more tolerant. I learned in my life as a scientist that we actually know very little about the world. And that, although science is a discipline grounded in a search for the truth without bias or preconception, scientists often are some of the least curious, leastopenminded people you'll meet. We can only ask questions we can imagine asking, and we are even more limited in the topics we actually have the means to investigate.
The reality of doing research is that you pursue what you have the tools to pursue. You investigate what will get funded. No one would be so suicidally idiotic as to write a grant proposal to investigate something that resembles a stupid woo-woo question (like gems forming in cremains). There are more certain uses for your time, and you're always in a race to publish.
I left that lifestyle; I've never regretted it. And, oddly enough, I left it more mystically-inclined than I entered.
In fact, there are plenty of reasonable people who will tell you that relics do, at least, form. Before the great Korean Zen teacher Master Seung San died last year, he made his disciples promise not to try to collect his relics. He wanted his legacy to be his teaching, to be the living practice he brought to the West. His followers should live the Dharma, not venerate some token. Nevertheless, one nun secretly placed a container of water under his pyre. Apparently this is a technique (perhaps the only one?) for collecting sharira. Later it was found, full of relics.
When I first saw the relics collected by Lama Zopa Rinpoche on tour in San Francisco, I was moved by their beauty. And curious as to what the might "really" be. Although they varied, the standard relic on the tour looked like a tiny, milky moonstone. Some were dark in color. One was still stuck to a fragment of bone. The atmosphere of lightness and joy I'd felt in the van was also present at the viewing, not surprisingly. I circumnambulated the relics, chanted, and felt exhausted. Then I continued with my life, mildly stunned.
A couple years later, when I was in residence at Great Vow Zen Monastery, Michael informed me that he was giving me some sharira. I barely knew what to say; I was flabbergasted that *I* might have custody of such a thing. He assured me that the relics were "real" and said that, in true millenial fashion, he'd found them on eBay.
When the relics arrived, the majority, except for a couple very dark little grains, were clear and bluish in tint. I thought they looked like tourmalines. In spite of a somewhat-dubious reception at the monastery, the relics were enshrined in a little wooden stupa in the founders' room--the spiritual heart of the facility--where incense and bows were offered daily.
At the end of my stay at Great Vow, I retrieved the relics and took them with me to Corvallis. In the process, I opened the stupa. The relics now had an unmistakable pale, milky cast--similar to the ones on the tour--and were no longer transparent at all.
In the course of moving to Portland after a year in Corvallis, I opened the stupa again. The relics were still milky and opaque, but they had taken on a definite peachy-pink cast.
Two days ago, I received the second gift of relics from Michael. These are brilliant orange, semitransparent, with traces of pink fire. They are housed in a clear glass pendant with silver fittings. I lit incense and chanted as I disassembled my altar, looking for a way to enshrine them together with the first batch of relics.
I opened the stupa. The pink relics were still as pink as they were six weeks ago. I gently nudged a couple that had fallen down between the outer wall of the stupa and their little silken "nest." Propelled by the springiness of the silk, a tiny dark one went flying. Shit!
Holding the stupa steady, I listened and watched the tiny dot as it bounced several times. Why O why was I doing this by candlelight? The wayward dot came to a rest and I carefully crouched down to pick it up.
To tell the truth, a funny feeling came over me at this point. Not a chill, but a sense of fullness. My finger found something hard and round on the floor. A relic. But it was not the little dark one; I was touching a typical peachy-pink one about an inch away.
The relics are said to multiply of their own accord. But I would never have expected to witness such a thing. Was I witnessing such a thing? Do relics multiply when you drop them on the floor?
Maybe, I thought, two relics had jumped free in the dim light. But then I considered likelihood of dropping two marbles, having them bounce five or six times, and then finding right next to one another. Not likely. Especially if one marble is five times the size of the other, and neither is perfectly spherical: how could they possibly take the same course?
Maybe I hadn't noticed that the pink relic was already stuck to my finger, and I only felt it when I touched the floor. My fingers were indeed a bit sweaty. I tried to pick up a relic with my sweaty finger. No way; they didn't even begin to stick to my skin.
So I'm out of ideas. As a matter of policy, scientists adopt the most straightforward explanation for phenomena. Maybe in this case that means giving creedence to an ancient and mysterious set of beliefs.
Fortunately, it doesn't matter what anyone thinks, most of all myself. I do zazen with the relics every day; I venerate them as best I can; I live my life and I don't worry too much about metaphysics. I hope the departed masters would approve.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Shugetsu Conquers The World. Sort Of.
I got my very first check from my very first copyediting gig today. I am thrilled beyond belief.
What's more, the inimitable Mary Jo Matsumoto has profiled me (me!) on her style blog (style blog!), if you can imagine such a thing. She says really nice things, and she made a great montage of some of my flickr images too. I say it's worth a look.
The photo you see here is MJ's self portrait. She's an example of being truly yourself in the world, doing that one thing that only you can do. Ganbatte!
What's more, the inimitable Mary Jo Matsumoto has profiled me (me!) on her style blog (style blog!), if you can imagine such a thing. She says really nice things, and she made a great montage of some of my flickr images too. I say it's worth a look.
The photo you see here is MJ's self portrait. She's an example of being truly yourself in the world, doing that one thing that only you can do. Ganbatte!
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
News of John King's Passing
Michael called me this morning, and wrote this at my request, because I know some people have found this blog in their search for news of Dharma teacher John King, who died of throat cancer last night.
For a long time, he was unable to eat food, but he continued to teach with a luminous intensity that was truly striking.
Before I turn things over to Michael, I'll say that one thought in my heart has to do with the fact that being ordained and holding the position of a Dharma teacher allows one to be witnessed performing a total service to the world in a way that a hidden life does not.
To my dear Dharma sister Shugetsu,
It is with heavy heart that I write you this morning. Our friend Hogetsu (Max) just called, and passed on word that dear John King died last night. As you know, John had been sick for a while. I feel very fortunate to have been able to not only sit with him at Hartford Street Zen Center, but to work as his kitchen assistant while he was tenzo for a sesshin we led there. John seemed to sense the urgency of practice--sometimes it was almost as if he himself composed the words painted on the han, this practice was so deep within him. Even as he and I stood around the kitchen drinking too much coffee, it was clear to me that he wasn't wasting a single moment at all--he was practicing, practicing, practicing.
I understand that some of the final talks and teachings he gave also focused on this practice of urgency--that in his final illness, he gave teachings that were clearly meaningful and relevant to our day to day lives. I remember a story of a dying zen master (was it Dogen?) who, while in his final moments, wrote the characters for "Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha" around a pillar in his room, and circumambulated the pillar, continually taking refuge in his final moments. John didn't need to write on a pillar- - it was clear to me that he practiced as if the entire world were the Triple Treasure, and he worked, though the example of his own practice, to show us all how to truly take refuge, to truly live the Buddha-Dharma.
Many people in San Francisco loved John. This was clear when I went to the part/"living wake" at his house a month or two ago--the house was overflowing with people, all there because they truly loved this great man, and were inspired by his practice. Others knew John better than I, and I'm sure that they (or his heart students) could write a more fitting tribute than I have done here. This small letter is just the deepest expression of my own heart--in deep sympathy for his departure, and in deep joy for his life. John really inspired me in my practice, and I grew to call him "friend." May his life and his practice only continue to grow--informing, inspiring, and enlightening all beings. I vow to truly undertake this practice of urgency--this practice of refuge as daily life. May I someday come to understand and live this practice as John did.
Blessings,
Michael.
For a long time, he was unable to eat food, but he continued to teach with a luminous intensity that was truly striking.
Before I turn things over to Michael, I'll say that one thought in my heart has to do with the fact that being ordained and holding the position of a Dharma teacher allows one to be witnessed performing a total service to the world in a way that a hidden life does not.
To my dear Dharma sister Shugetsu,
It is with heavy heart that I write you this morning. Our friend Hogetsu (Max) just called, and passed on word that dear John King died last night. As you know, John had been sick for a while. I feel very fortunate to have been able to not only sit with him at Hartford Street Zen Center, but to work as his kitchen assistant while he was tenzo for a sesshin we led there. John seemed to sense the urgency of practice--sometimes it was almost as if he himself composed the words painted on the han, this practice was so deep within him. Even as he and I stood around the kitchen drinking too much coffee, it was clear to me that he wasn't wasting a single moment at all--he was practicing, practicing, practicing.
I understand that some of the final talks and teachings he gave also focused on this practice of urgency--that in his final illness, he gave teachings that were clearly meaningful and relevant to our day to day lives. I remember a story of a dying zen master (was it Dogen?) who, while in his final moments, wrote the characters for "Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha" around a pillar in his room, and circumambulated the pillar, continually taking refuge in his final moments. John didn't need to write on a pillar- - it was clear to me that he practiced as if the entire world were the Triple Treasure, and he worked, though the example of his own practice, to show us all how to truly take refuge, to truly live the Buddha-Dharma.
Many people in San Francisco loved John. This was clear when I went to the part/"living wake" at his house a month or two ago--the house was overflowing with people, all there because they truly loved this great man, and were inspired by his practice. Others knew John better than I, and I'm sure that they (or his heart students) could write a more fitting tribute than I have done here. This small letter is just the deepest expression of my own heart--in deep sympathy for his departure, and in deep joy for his life. John really inspired me in my practice, and I grew to call him "friend." May his life and his practice only continue to grow--informing, inspiring, and enlightening all beings. I vow to truly undertake this practice of urgency--this practice of refuge as daily life. May I someday come to understand and live this practice as John did.
Blessings,
Michael.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
What Do You Leave Behind?
My aim is to die
as sane a person as possible--
and not as rich a person as possible.
This objective has the greatest benefit
to the world,
and to myself.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
A Body Brave and Shy
I noticed something after sesshin, when I did not want to practice Aikido with Deston; and I noticed it again yesterday, when my new acquaintance Heather called me to come hear live music in the neighborhood, and she danced while I did not: my body has become shy.
Deston told the story of a great teacher—an Aikido master—who grew old and frail and fell into a coma. Even in that insensible state, he still breathed from the hara. For so many years, he had cultivated that practice that, even when he was no longer fully in this world, his body still held the ingrained habit.
Alison/Yuko works with demented bodies whose minds have flown but who nevertheless walk and fight and cry out among us. She tells a similar kind of story: those whose lives were marked by trauma and drama; those whose bodies are wracked by addictions, are now in the worst shape. When happy, balanced people fall victim to Alzheimer’s, they teeter off the edge of now; their mind rolls back until they are left floating in a haze of childhood reality. They are sweet, befuddled, earnest. But the others, who may have once been able to keep it together, to function in the midst of alcoholism or a terrible marriage, now cannot contain their pain. The barriers against the truth have fallen, and what comes forth is their fear and rage, their inability to peacefully be with what is. It boils forth in an outburst, or oozes slowly in bizarre repetitive behaviors that stretch into eternity. Unmoored from time, you become what you have been cultivating, minus all pretense, minus all hope of dignity.
There will come a time when all that remains is habit and instinct, and a body that continues to live because it is already alive. Long before we grow old and the mind rots away, we will be called to act without thought: accident, calamity, attack and emergency all bring forth responses from a deep, unreasoning place.
You wake up. A man looms over your bed.
You come home. The front door is open.
On the freeway, skidding.
An earthquake that becomes stronger.
A knock at the door.
You don’t decide, in those moments, where your mind goes. If you are wise, and lucky, you may have an instant to choose how to act. But you may not be one who responds in a satisfyingly cool, enlightened manner. You won’t actually know what you do until the situation arises, and you act. To judge what you do then is useless as denouncing or praising the weather, your weight, or the passage of time: it’s all karma, and nothing else.
Fruit. If the plums are small and hard this year, if they fall before they ripen, that’s just how it is; there’s no one to scold.
The only sure choice is not when you face the man with the knife; or the building belching smoke; or the child vomiting blood. It is now: how do I use my mind now? How do I train my body now?
So, last night, this body would not dance. Because Cuban music in a parking lot filled with neighbors was not enough to move me. Because I have ideas about authenticity, and refuse to dance unless I’m truly moved. I have that luxury now that I am no longer engaged in “Zen training” under a qualified master.
With no one to tell me to dance, to play the marimba, to laugh on cue for a minute—I don’t do such things. Perhaps my timidity now is in reaction to those days where I didn’t have such luxuries. I can’t say that turning on a dime, acting on cue, under stress, actually did lay down habits of joy and expansive action. Maybe it only bred a closed and quiescent reaction.
Or maybe this is no reaction at all, just the fruit of sitting so quietly, for so long. For expressing Self in ever-more-subtle ways. Regardless, five years ago, I would have danced. Today, although I can’t say why, my body prefers to hide. To mince, to stand silently.
Five years ago, I would already have an Aikido date with Deston, and be throwing myself into attack, not knowing how he might fly me and guide me to the mat, but trusting his love and great power.
And maybe five years ago, I would have emerged from a walking reverie to enquire after the health of the well-dressed man who lay curled in a pool of light outside an apartment building a few warm evenings ago. At that time, the world was quiet and perfect, and he looked so peaceful. I walked on: that action a cause and a result; simultaneous seed and fruit.
I know about sitting now. So perhaps it is time to fly through the air, to slap the mat, to collide and be thrown without fear; to be guided on the dance floor, spun and lost to myself for a moment. Entrusting that my body will be there in the end, that the body lost in an instant will be found to exist in the next, and the next. Until one day, when the mind is a pitted fruit, lacking in structure, and only the body remains.
Deston told the story of a great teacher—an Aikido master—who grew old and frail and fell into a coma. Even in that insensible state, he still breathed from the hara. For so many years, he had cultivated that practice that, even when he was no longer fully in this world, his body still held the ingrained habit.
Alison/Yuko works with demented bodies whose minds have flown but who nevertheless walk and fight and cry out among us. She tells a similar kind of story: those whose lives were marked by trauma and drama; those whose bodies are wracked by addictions, are now in the worst shape. When happy, balanced people fall victim to Alzheimer’s, they teeter off the edge of now; their mind rolls back until they are left floating in a haze of childhood reality. They are sweet, befuddled, earnest. But the others, who may have once been able to keep it together, to function in the midst of alcoholism or a terrible marriage, now cannot contain their pain. The barriers against the truth have fallen, and what comes forth is their fear and rage, their inability to peacefully be with what is. It boils forth in an outburst, or oozes slowly in bizarre repetitive behaviors that stretch into eternity. Unmoored from time, you become what you have been cultivating, minus all pretense, minus all hope of dignity.
There will come a time when all that remains is habit and instinct, and a body that continues to live because it is already alive. Long before we grow old and the mind rots away, we will be called to act without thought: accident, calamity, attack and emergency all bring forth responses from a deep, unreasoning place.
You wake up. A man looms over your bed.
You come home. The front door is open.
On the freeway, skidding.
An earthquake that becomes stronger.
A knock at the door.
You don’t decide, in those moments, where your mind goes. If you are wise, and lucky, you may have an instant to choose how to act. But you may not be one who responds in a satisfyingly cool, enlightened manner. You won’t actually know what you do until the situation arises, and you act. To judge what you do then is useless as denouncing or praising the weather, your weight, or the passage of time: it’s all karma, and nothing else.
Fruit. If the plums are small and hard this year, if they fall before they ripen, that’s just how it is; there’s no one to scold.
The only sure choice is not when you face the man with the knife; or the building belching smoke; or the child vomiting blood. It is now: how do I use my mind now? How do I train my body now?
So, last night, this body would not dance. Because Cuban music in a parking lot filled with neighbors was not enough to move me. Because I have ideas about authenticity, and refuse to dance unless I’m truly moved. I have that luxury now that I am no longer engaged in “Zen training” under a qualified master.
With no one to tell me to dance, to play the marimba, to laugh on cue for a minute—I don’t do such things. Perhaps my timidity now is in reaction to those days where I didn’t have such luxuries. I can’t say that turning on a dime, acting on cue, under stress, actually did lay down habits of joy and expansive action. Maybe it only bred a closed and quiescent reaction.
Or maybe this is no reaction at all, just the fruit of sitting so quietly, for so long. For expressing Self in ever-more-subtle ways. Regardless, five years ago, I would have danced. Today, although I can’t say why, my body prefers to hide. To mince, to stand silently.
Five years ago, I would already have an Aikido date with Deston, and be throwing myself into attack, not knowing how he might fly me and guide me to the mat, but trusting his love and great power.
And maybe five years ago, I would have emerged from a walking reverie to enquire after the health of the well-dressed man who lay curled in a pool of light outside an apartment building a few warm evenings ago. At that time, the world was quiet and perfect, and he looked so peaceful. I walked on: that action a cause and a result; simultaneous seed and fruit.
I know about sitting now. So perhaps it is time to fly through the air, to slap the mat, to collide and be thrown without fear; to be guided on the dance floor, spun and lost to myself for a moment. Entrusting that my body will be there in the end, that the body lost in an instant will be found to exist in the next, and the next. Until one day, when the mind is a pitted fruit, lacking in structure, and only the body remains.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Blooming As Yourself
A snippet of a dharma conversation, here reproduced.
...Getting over one's delusions of being a tulku--or a departed zen celebrity--is part of the larger project of becoming free from the background noise of paralyzing mental formations, in order to function wholeheartedly in life, as the precious nothing-special person that you are. That was rant #1.
Rant #2 was about functioning wholeheartedly, expressing your full brilliance as a person, doing that thing that only *you* can do, unfettered by fear of success--or notions of inferiority, vulnerability etc. See? Not contradictory. Same rant.
Evan at the monastery told me the story of the great rabbi who carried a pebble in each pocket. On one little stone was written "I am the pinnacle of G-d's creation"; on the other, "I am dust and dirt." Or something to that effect. Depending on the situation, one pebble or the other would be a necessary reminder.
Maybe a more relevant set of pebbles for the likes of you and me would be one that says, "I will not shrink from destiny and greatness"; and another that says "Just do what's right in front of you."
You know that Mary Oliver poem, "When Death Comes"? She's overexposed in Zen circles, but that's because she's so good. Our life is as common, as wholly unique, and as fleeting, as a flower's....
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
...Getting over one's delusions of being a tulku--or a departed zen celebrity--is part of the larger project of becoming free from the background noise of paralyzing mental formations, in order to function wholeheartedly in life, as the precious nothing-special person that you are. That was rant #1.
Rant #2 was about functioning wholeheartedly, expressing your full brilliance as a person, doing that thing that only *you* can do, unfettered by fear of success--or notions of inferiority, vulnerability etc. See? Not contradictory. Same rant.
Evan at the monastery told me the story of the great rabbi who carried a pebble in each pocket. On one little stone was written "I am the pinnacle of G-d's creation"; on the other, "I am dust and dirt." Or something to that effect. Depending on the situation, one pebble or the other would be a necessary reminder.
Maybe a more relevant set of pebbles for the likes of you and me would be one that says, "I will not shrink from destiny and greatness"; and another that says "Just do what's right in front of you."
You know that Mary Oliver poem, "When Death Comes"? She's overexposed in Zen circles, but that's because she's so good. Our life is as common, as wholly unique, and as fleeting, as a flower's....
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
Friday, July 28, 2006
The Dhamma of GI Joe
Lately the majority of people with something useful to say to me have been veterans.
I'm not sure why that is. It could be simple probablity: the US military touches many, many lives. But I think it also has to do with the fact that veterans--the thoughtful ones-- so often find themselves unable to completely accept the consensus value system. They're not necessarily on the skids, but they are seeking some way of integrating an experience that doesn't match the myth American righteous democracy.
One exmple:
In a dusty cafe, a young man my age shreds all his ATM receipts. And he tells me that "they" can see everything you email; whether or not you encrypt is your only stab at privacy. That there is stuff built into your computer you don't want to know about. In the service, he knew dozens of guys whose only job was to gather intelligence: going through dumpsters, electronic spying, and so forth. Domestically. Once their period of duty is over, they have a very marketable, and dangerous, skill.
You may say you have nothing to hide from the government, but do you have nothing to hide from an out-of-work former snoop with bills to pay? Your phone records; your credit card records; your gmail archived on the main server: all these are vulnerable.
The problem is not that this is going on. The problem is that we imagine aspects of our lives to be private when they just aren't. Time to get smart and get over it. If it bothers you, pay cash and write letters.
Is it necessary, or a slowly-creeping fascism? Unlike many, I'm quite willing to accept that it may be the price we pay. But I want to know the price, even if success depends on people not knowing they're vulnerable to being spied upon. I really liked that guy in the coffee shop: I'd like to see him again, maybe have some more illusions shattered. Isn't that what practice is all about?
The documentary Sir! No Sir! tells the stories of the GI antiwar movenemt during the Vietnam era..and it takes an intriguing look at the manfactured memory--seeded by the movie "Rambo"-- of "the GI who returns to the US and the hippie girl with love beads calls him 'baby-killer' and spits on him, right there in the San Francisco airport." In spite of what friends-of-friends have heard...it likely never happened.
But this did:
My father reported for duty after the Tonkin Gulf "incident," to a base where the US vessel that had allegedly been attacked sat unscathed in dry dock for all to see. No wonder there was a GI antiwar movement! Nobody wants to put their life on the line for that kind of arrogance and hyporcrisy.
These days, we have a volunteer army, drawn from a segment of society that believes, often in spite of the evidence, that there is a moral task at hand. And deception, too, is undoubtedly more sophisticated now, except for an unfortunate lack of aplomb at the very top.
I like my emperor with no clothes on, and my army dolls baring the truth for everyone to see. Less dogma, more dharma! As in the quote from the Dhammapada that was paired with this photo:
Hostilities aren't stilled
through hostility,
regardless.
Hostilities are stilled
through non-hostility:
this, an unending truth.
I know our life comes about because of everything that has gone before; nothing happens by chance, including the dream of this country, which I very much love. Can we see that--that the conditions of our life have been dearly, even disturbingly, bought? And that the future depends on what we do now?
I'm not sure why that is. It could be simple probablity: the US military touches many, many lives. But I think it also has to do with the fact that veterans--the thoughtful ones-- so often find themselves unable to completely accept the consensus value system. They're not necessarily on the skids, but they are seeking some way of integrating an experience that doesn't match the myth American righteous democracy.
One exmple:
In a dusty cafe, a young man my age shreds all his ATM receipts. And he tells me that "they" can see everything you email; whether or not you encrypt is your only stab at privacy. That there is stuff built into your computer you don't want to know about. In the service, he knew dozens of guys whose only job was to gather intelligence: going through dumpsters, electronic spying, and so forth. Domestically. Once their period of duty is over, they have a very marketable, and dangerous, skill.
You may say you have nothing to hide from the government, but do you have nothing to hide from an out-of-work former snoop with bills to pay? Your phone records; your credit card records; your gmail archived on the main server: all these are vulnerable.
The problem is not that this is going on. The problem is that we imagine aspects of our lives to be private when they just aren't. Time to get smart and get over it. If it bothers you, pay cash and write letters.
Is it necessary, or a slowly-creeping fascism? Unlike many, I'm quite willing to accept that it may be the price we pay. But I want to know the price, even if success depends on people not knowing they're vulnerable to being spied upon. I really liked that guy in the coffee shop: I'd like to see him again, maybe have some more illusions shattered. Isn't that what practice is all about?
The documentary Sir! No Sir! tells the stories of the GI antiwar movenemt during the Vietnam era..and it takes an intriguing look at the manfactured memory--seeded by the movie "Rambo"-- of "the GI who returns to the US and the hippie girl with love beads calls him 'baby-killer' and spits on him, right there in the San Francisco airport." In spite of what friends-of-friends have heard...it likely never happened.
But this did:
My father reported for duty after the Tonkin Gulf "incident," to a base where the US vessel that had allegedly been attacked sat unscathed in dry dock for all to see. No wonder there was a GI antiwar movement! Nobody wants to put their life on the line for that kind of arrogance and hyporcrisy.
These days, we have a volunteer army, drawn from a segment of society that believes, often in spite of the evidence, that there is a moral task at hand. And deception, too, is undoubtedly more sophisticated now, except for an unfortunate lack of aplomb at the very top.
I like my emperor with no clothes on, and my army dolls baring the truth for everyone to see. Less dogma, more dharma! As in the quote from the Dhammapada that was paired with this photo:
Hostilities aren't stilled
through hostility,
regardless.
Hostilities are stilled
through non-hostility:
this, an unending truth.
I know our life comes about because of everything that has gone before; nothing happens by chance, including the dream of this country, which I very much love. Can we see that--that the conditions of our life have been dearly, even disturbingly, bought? And that the future depends on what we do now?
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Rumi & Me
I am going into sesshin tomorrow for a week.
So here is a poem:
Today, like every day, we are ruined--ruined.
(surrender now)
Don't open the door of thinking; pick up a lute.
(or a shovel, or a kitchen knife)
There are a hundred kinds of prayer, bowing and prostration.
(I vow to enter them)
For the one whose prayer niche is the beauty of the Friend.
(resting in the one mind)
Text in blue is an alternate translation from a review of a new edition of Rumi's work, published on my #1 favorite progessive Muslim news & views site, muslimwakeup.com.
So here is a poem:
Today, like every day, we are ruined--ruined.
(surrender now)
Don't open the door of thinking; pick up a lute.
(or a shovel, or a kitchen knife)
There are a hundred kinds of prayer, bowing and prostration.
(I vow to enter them)
For the one whose prayer niche is the beauty of the Friend.
(resting in the one mind)
Text in blue is an alternate translation from a review of a new edition of Rumi's work, published on my #1 favorite progessive Muslim news & views site, muslimwakeup.com.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Beautiful Girl
Walking up the hill, I suddenly feel very odd.
Investigation of states: what is this?
Ahead, a beautiful big dog is standing on the corner, all by himself.
He is striking a pose reminiscent of an old hunting print.
Several feet away, a beautiful young woman is absorbed
in vomiting green bile.
It is ten o'clock in the morning. And this is her dog.
I ignore her.
Waiting for the light to change.
Who am I? Do I want to say I passed this person by?
I turn around and go to her.
Would she like to be left alone? Would she like some help?
She is fine--fine. Her shirt has shirring at the shoulder; her makeup is tasteful.
Does she know what is happening, and why?
She does. Scared eyes.
Her dignity is the casualty here.
I tell her I had a similar thing happen recently.
I walk away with a very simple, sad feeling trilling in my heart.
I had been wondering what compassion is--how does it differ from lovingkindness, say?
THIS IS IT.
I must have bent to talk to her.
I can feel the imprint of the dog's wet nose on my chin.
Now I realize: had been looking for help for her.
And although I was too absorbed in her to notice, he had thanked me.
What noble animals we are, in spite of our confusion.
There's nothing left to do now. Just to feel.
Photos gratefully borrowed from flickr folk mrjoro and Wyrd.
Investigation of states: what is this?
Ahead, a beautiful big dog is standing on the corner, all by himself.
He is striking a pose reminiscent of an old hunting print.
Several feet away, a beautiful young woman is absorbed
in vomiting green bile.
It is ten o'clock in the morning. And this is her dog.
I ignore her.
Waiting for the light to change.
Who am I? Do I want to say I passed this person by?
I turn around and go to her.
Would she like to be left alone? Would she like some help?
She is fine--fine. Her shirt has shirring at the shoulder; her makeup is tasteful.
Does she know what is happening, and why?
She does. Scared eyes.
Her dignity is the casualty here.
I tell her I had a similar thing happen recently.
I walk away with a very simple, sad feeling trilling in my heart.
I had been wondering what compassion is--how does it differ from lovingkindness, say?
THIS IS IT.
I must have bent to talk to her.
I can feel the imprint of the dog's wet nose on my chin.
Now I realize: had been looking for help for her.
And although I was too absorbed in her to notice, he had thanked me.
What noble animals we are, in spite of our confusion.
There's nothing left to do now. Just to feel.
Photos gratefully borrowed from flickr folk mrjoro and Wyrd.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Images/Life
You can see more photos from my new studio apartment and enjoy nearly-impartial commentary on Independence Day festivities in Monmouth, Oregon--all by clicking on the photo or this link.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Finding the True Self
I've been working on a copyediting project that occasionally grabs me and shakes me. Here's a section, in progress from the book. It's by Harada Sekkei, entitled The Essence of Zen, forthcoming from Wisdom
Publications, 2007.
In our lifetime there is only one person we must encounter, one person we must meet as though we were passionately in love. That person is the essential Self, the true Self. As long as you don’t meet this Self, it will be impossible to find true satisfaction in your heart, to avoid feeling that you lack something, or to be clear about things in general.
To meet your Self is the purpose of human life, and the objective in Buddhism. The shortest, most practical way to do this is through Zen. Buddhism is the teaching of the Dharma, which Shakyamuni Buddha expounded after his liberation. This was not a conclusion he arrived at within the realm of ego-self thought, whereby reality is perceived as objective and thought is used to determine what reality is. Rather, Buddha discovered the nature of reality by liberating himself from discriminatory and dualistic thought, and he became reality itself. Thus, his teaching is very different from the sort of explanation that depends on dualistic thought, on knowing and not knowing—which is generally prevalent in the fields of religion, philosophy, physics, medicine, and biology.
Publications, 2007.
In our lifetime there is only one person we must encounter, one person we must meet as though we were passionately in love. That person is the essential Self, the true Self. As long as you don’t meet this Self, it will be impossible to find true satisfaction in your heart, to avoid feeling that you lack something, or to be clear about things in general.
To meet your Self is the purpose of human life, and the objective in Buddhism. The shortest, most practical way to do this is through Zen. Buddhism is the teaching of the Dharma, which Shakyamuni Buddha expounded after his liberation. This was not a conclusion he arrived at within the realm of ego-self thought, whereby reality is perceived as objective and thought is used to determine what reality is. Rather, Buddha discovered the nature of reality by liberating himself from discriminatory and dualistic thought, and he became reality itself. Thus, his teaching is very different from the sort of explanation that depends on dualistic thought, on knowing and not knowing—which is generally prevalent in the fields of religion, philosophy, physics, medicine, and biology.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Because of Brenda
I have moved into the land of plenty. Portland doesn’t get much ritzier than NW 23rd Avenue. Jaguars and BMWs are the norm; trendy boutiques and old-money dining establishments and Vespa dealerships and day spas line the streets. In many ways, it is quite lovely. Well-attired people of all ages live life at a civilized pace; they treat one another with dignity and good humor (when they’re not behind the wheel). There’s a distinct lack of “poverty mentality”; people smile at one another, and the storekeepers are generous with their time and insight. At its best, everyone radiates a certain sense of benign security; at worst, they slde into superificiality and and air of entitlement.
It is Friday night, and people with fancy clothes and nice hair clog the streets. A weekend sidewalk sale has begun, and the stores have put clearance tables out on the street, selling wonderful things at a steep discount. Its hard just to walk; people browse the sales, and spill out of restaurants holding drinks; they dine on lavish desserts at sidewalk tables. They are all beautiful. The whole street is bursts with midsummer abundance.
And then there’s Brenda.
Brenda is panhandling outside the Assistance League Thrift Store. She is painfully thin, but well-groomed, and she has a gentle air. There is a silver dish placed in front of her on the sidewalk. She has a cardboard sign that says she is a cancer patient. Nearby is a grocery cart full of her stuff. On the back of the sign, where she can see it, she is writing a prayer. I know this because I stopped to ask if she needed anything. She’d like a room. Fair enough.
She said she would also appreciate a slice of pepperoni pizza, so I went up to Escape From New York and got her a slice, and some lemonade, and brought them back to her, along with $5 for the room fund. We talked a little bit. She has nice eyes. She said, “I do all right; people can tell I’m not a drunk” and “I don’t worry; I know I’m with God.”
If we could all know that.
I walked away crying. I had forgotten to tell her that asking for help does a favor for others; it gives them the opportunity to be generous. She had said, “God bless you.”
I was tormented by the desserts and the shoes and the fancy sunglasses, all around me: how can people eat and shop and consume in such high fashion, when right in front of them, someone is asking for help? I know I am not the only one seeing the angel on the sidewalk. And…OK, I’m angry, so I know that this uncomprehending frustration with the world is the next thing requiring attention.
And so, I felt. I noticed that seeing my fellow upscale shoppers and eaters as different from Brenda only infuriated me. However, seeing them as similar brought peace, a sense of resolution. Really, none of us are that different from this skinny, quiet lady. We all hold the potential of one day being sick—maybe not on the street, but certainly depending on others—and of having very little time left. The guy with the clip-on ear phone is Brenda. The woman with the frosted hair and the scared eyes, is Brenda. The round-faced twenty-year-olds with the trendy halter tops and spike heels, are all Brenda. If we are fortunate to live long enough, we will all one day need help; and no matter how much money we have, or how many dinners we have enjoyed, we will all rely on the innate kindness of others.
And we give, not as some superstition to conjure away want or poverty, but because we see ourself in others. When it’s your turn to dine out, you dine out; when it’s your turn to ask for help, you ask for help. When you know how fortunate you are, and how fleeting and empty that is, you help.
Really, I helped Brenda not one bit. She helped me. And she’ll help anyone who looks at her, reflecting our vulnerability, and our basic grace.
It is Friday night, and people with fancy clothes and nice hair clog the streets. A weekend sidewalk sale has begun, and the stores have put clearance tables out on the street, selling wonderful things at a steep discount. Its hard just to walk; people browse the sales, and spill out of restaurants holding drinks; they dine on lavish desserts at sidewalk tables. They are all beautiful. The whole street is bursts with midsummer abundance.
And then there’s Brenda.
Brenda is panhandling outside the Assistance League Thrift Store. She is painfully thin, but well-groomed, and she has a gentle air. There is a silver dish placed in front of her on the sidewalk. She has a cardboard sign that says she is a cancer patient. Nearby is a grocery cart full of her stuff. On the back of the sign, where she can see it, she is writing a prayer. I know this because I stopped to ask if she needed anything. She’d like a room. Fair enough.
She said she would also appreciate a slice of pepperoni pizza, so I went up to Escape From New York and got her a slice, and some lemonade, and brought them back to her, along with $5 for the room fund. We talked a little bit. She has nice eyes. She said, “I do all right; people can tell I’m not a drunk” and “I don’t worry; I know I’m with God.”
If we could all know that.
I walked away crying. I had forgotten to tell her that asking for help does a favor for others; it gives them the opportunity to be generous. She had said, “God bless you.”
I was tormented by the desserts and the shoes and the fancy sunglasses, all around me: how can people eat and shop and consume in such high fashion, when right in front of them, someone is asking for help? I know I am not the only one seeing the angel on the sidewalk. And…OK, I’m angry, so I know that this uncomprehending frustration with the world is the next thing requiring attention.
And so, I felt. I noticed that seeing my fellow upscale shoppers and eaters as different from Brenda only infuriated me. However, seeing them as similar brought peace, a sense of resolution. Really, none of us are that different from this skinny, quiet lady. We all hold the potential of one day being sick—maybe not on the street, but certainly depending on others—and of having very little time left. The guy with the clip-on ear phone is Brenda. The woman with the frosted hair and the scared eyes, is Brenda. The round-faced twenty-year-olds with the trendy halter tops and spike heels, are all Brenda. If we are fortunate to live long enough, we will all one day need help; and no matter how much money we have, or how many dinners we have enjoyed, we will all rely on the innate kindness of others.
And we give, not as some superstition to conjure away want or poverty, but because we see ourself in others. When it’s your turn to dine out, you dine out; when it’s your turn to ask for help, you ask for help. When you know how fortunate you are, and how fleeting and empty that is, you help.
Really, I helped Brenda not one bit. She helped me. And she’ll help anyone who looks at her, reflecting our vulnerability, and our basic grace.
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