Snow Day

The snow makes everything silent.



The cars that pass, whisper.

At the cafe, we come together to compare stories. And just to be with others.

This is a good day because it's still magical: no slush, no lost income; just novelty and magic.



ee cummings said

the snow doesn't give a soft white damn who it touches

Signs of Progress

Originally uploaded by ruuku.

For anyone worrying that my life is incomplete...friendless...low on hipster-quotient...I offer this image of Luke (Dharma name = Kourei, or "Tiger Spirit").

Notice his wholehearted oneness with the bright truth of flatware obscenity.

And note also the flocked gold wallpaper and (can you see?) spangled-gold vinyl booths of "Junior's" --possibly the most desirably bohemian breakfast establishment in a city that offers a plethora of such amenities.

It was a treat to see Luke with heart and body, not just eyes. Until next time, I have his photos on flickr to keep me company. You can click on this one to view them.

Sun Pillar Refraction

Sun Pillar Refraction
Originally uploaded by algo.

Flickr pal Algo takes incredible photos of his life in the English countryside. This one is an orgy of optical effects! It's a sun pillar refracted through a raindrop. It's worth a click to see this photo, and the unrefracted pillar, in large format.

Contacting the Inner Anglo-Catholic

December 26 2006

I am not a Christian, but I had been admiring the High Anglican (aka "Anglo-Catholic") church in my neighborhood, and so Christmas Eve I went to midnight mass. As I walked through the rain, my heart was beating. I almost turned back, but I told myself I could go and just be curious. Besides, what better time to blend in than in the Christmas crowd?



Inside the church, everyone sat quietly under brick arches and boughs of greenery. Candles burned in the side altars; gilded murals and satin tapestries caught the light. The atmosphere was formal, not really friendly, but not forbidding either.

A flurry of organ music, and disembodied voices of the choir filled the hall. The first order of business had arrived: singing carols for half an hour. The woman next to me kept turning around. When I asked if she was OK, she told me she was looking for her friends.

My experience with Buddhist pomp and ceremony is that it reproduces certain refined states of perception—the entire sky turns to gold; the world works according to a mystical order; everything is sacred. And yet, we don’t sing. There are no heavenly choirs as a byproduct of meditation, at least never in my personal experience. But it’s a beautiful thing to do with others, albeit surreptitiously, in my case. I don’t sing well.

Then came the Procession. Men in robes, whirling incense, the gospel held high, brocade and bowing. Doing important things in various parts of the church. The priest and other ministers are all male; like everything else, this too has been preserved through time. I didn’t mind this: I find men in robes quite compelling. As I recall, the Bible is pretty clear about the priesthood being reserved for males; if you don't like that, do you get to pick and choose?

The more I sat and thought, the more this all looked like a variation of Buddhism: the eastern tone to it all, the standing in gassho, in shashu, the expiation of sins, the communion with the divine. We become zazen; they consume Christ’s flesh. We chant; they sing.

Beyond the ceremony, I am sure that people who devote their lives to the path of ministry must surely find similar difficulties, whether they be Buddhist or Christian: setting aside their personal desires in order to serve the congregation; demonstrating to others the real possibility of spritual transformation in the midst of this very life. And, inevitably, those who lead sometimes find themselves embroiled in sexual misconduct. Because when you undertake a mission of holiness all your nastiest stuff tries to flare up. No priest ordains because he is a predator. But when we dig deep, we all find parts of ourselves that are challenging to manage. And we do so with varying skill, using what resources we have.

Kneeling hurt my back. But Baby Jesus grew up to feel a lot worse pain, so I dealt with it as best I could. We sang and recited and Allelujah!ed and crossed ourselves. It dragged on and on, in conflict with our modern attention spans. My mind wandered. I could see why multimedia mega-churches are so popular these days. And I was glad to be doing it the old way instead.

Finally, there was Communion. I went up and knelt at the rail, arms crossed over my chest to signal I wished to receive a blessing rather than the bread and wine.

There was no time, and space was very bright. On either side of me, the communicants did something, went somewhere. Then stood up and returned to their seats more slowly then they had come.

The old man in the pew in front of me had a bright eye, and read and sang along with an unsual attention. He was wearing what looked like a heavy black wool cape. He tottered up to the front for Communion on the arm of one of the ushers. As he returned to his seat, I could see he wore black vestments, with a dark cross hanging at his chest. He was an old priest, maybe even a bishop.

After the climax of Communion, a certain urgency had dissipated from the room. My body felt spent, and my mind was quiet, pliable, and blissfully unfocused. It was time to leave, or else to take a nap. Of course, it was also after one o’clock in the morning.

The woman on my right dabbed at her eyes. She wore an immalculate red boiled-wool sweater and neat tartan skirt; her gray hair was pulled back softly. Her eyes were always on the altar; she every action was fervent. She genuflected fully, bowed when the procession passed, and knelt in prayer of her own accord. Something about her earnestness struck me as childlike, and very touching. Sitting next to her was perhaps the best part of all.

I walked home--more like dancing--through the rain of Christmas morning. For the next two weeks, my head rang with "Gloria in Exelcis Deo."


based on an original by Robby Garbett

Auditioning the New "Mr Delia"

Recently, enough hearts have been getting broken around here in Shugetsu-land that we've decided it's time for Delia to find a man. An accomplished and handsome fellow who will show her to herself, and who will in return have the opportunity to find out firsthand if all those stories are true. It's a different world these days. Did you know you can shop for men on the internet? And that most marriages end in divorce? These days you can be my age and on your second marriage. And yet here I am, unwed at 33. So, is it unwholesome to consider prospective mates with an eye to the aftermath? Should I notice not only whether someone would be a good father (in case reproductive reality should manifest), but also whether I would want to share joint custody with him? I signed up with chemistry-dot-com, heard from exactly three men, and decided my next month and my next fifty dollars could be better spent picking up guys in coffee shops. I've met my two favorite new-ish male friends that way. I thought I'd share my profile, since I like how it came out. But you're welcome to comment, especially if you think you know why it was such a resounding flop--in a certain sense. I suspect certain unavoidable realities came into play: very little hair, very little boobs, very much education, very much meditation. I figured full disclosure up front was wise. And it's not as if I want to fight off legions of electronic suitors. As a friend once said, "you only need one." And I'm not sure you even need one. It's good to know how to be single. And hearts…well, breaking is part of what they do. They feel, and they break. I couldn't want it any other way. I’m a native Oregonian, but relatively new to Portland. I was raised on a sheep farm (yes, yes, I've heard that one) in the Willamette Valley. I read a lot of books and took care of a lot of animals—and eventually got the heck out of the wilderness and made it to California for university and grad school (at Stanford and UC San Francisco). Somewhere in the middle of earning a PhD in neuroscience, I realized I didn’t actually want to end up where I was headed. So when I was done I went and lived in a Zen monastery. It makes sense, actually: you study the mind from the outside; and then you study the mind from the inside. I like the inside of my mind better, and the outside of the monastery better. If you’ve never lived in a monastery, let me say that it’s great to have a job and friends and unlimited menu options. Not to mention a beautiful city with lots to do. I’m very happy to go to plays and galleries and films by myself, but it’s a lot nicer with a friend. And although I have a ton of friends (I’m sociable when I’m not cocooning), it’s a lot nicer to do these things with a special friend. And—do you have a car?—I’m yearning for trees and rocks and wild rivers. And the sight of barns and livestock I’m not responsible for. I’m willing to be surprised by Mr Right, but I’m guessing he’s independent and self-motivated, professional and into what he does. He doesn’t think of himself as a boring, regular guy, because he’s not. He’s probably got an adventurous background, a dash of international spice, and a willingness to sit and talk my ear off. He’s not a wimp, but he is kind and communicative. He can deal with alone time; he dresses up pretty good; his nose hair is under control. He probably has a hobby that involves creative expression. He’s still learning from life, but he’s pretty pleased with how the whole project has gone so far. Let’s find out where it goes next.

Looking for: 30 to 40 year old Man within 25 miles of Portland, Oregon Relationship history: Single (never been married) Ethnic background: White/Caucasian Body type: Athletic/toned Height: 5'6"

Silence of Kindred Spirits

Okumura-sensei sent me a postcard in response to my holiday greeting. The carved bodhisattva it depicts now gazes out from my fridge.

Lately the song that echoes through my head and finds its way out through my throat is My Singing Bird, the Irish air.

I have seen the lark soar high at morn
Heard his song up in the blue
I have heard the blackbird pipe his note
The thrush and the linnet too

But there's none of them can sing so sweet
My singing bird as you.

If I could lure my singing bird
From his own cozy nest
If I could catch my singing bird
I would warm him on my breast

For there's none of them can sing so sweet
My singing bird as you.

I am singing to someone. To a particular person, and I know it.

The bodhisattva looked back at me from the fridge. I know it has to be this way. I have to trust life: the having and the not-having. I have to trust that a friend's silence may be the best thing, for the other and for myself. That the bond with a kindred spirit doesn't require a particular kind of interaction.

I took a sharpie and blessed the bodhisattva's body with an old Chinese saying:

If you keep a green bough in your heart
The singing bird will come

There's nothing to chase. But how good it feels
to sing
and sing.

Truth of Emptiness

[Original art card found in a lovely bookstore in La Conner, Washington. The artist's name, alas, I forget. I presume to share it anyway.]

Charm

[I wrote this a while ago, and there's something about it that doesn't yet sit right. It might be too abstract. Or it just might not be the entire truth. Throwing it away would be a shame, so I'm posting it with this disclaimer.]

charm
noun
1. the power or quality of giving delight or arousing admiration; an attractive or alluring characteristic
2. a small ornament worn on a necklace or a bracelet
3. an object, act, or saying believed to have magic power
4. an object kept to ward off evil or bring good luck
5. {physics} one of six flavors of quark

verb
1. delight greatly
2. gain or influence by charm
3. control or achieve as if by magic

Even at four and five years of age, I was interested in men. At that age, sidelong glances and batting eyelashes can have substantial impact. By age ten, I was a skilled conversationalist, “giving delight and arousing admiration” among my father’s business acquaintances at fancy restaurants. And by fifteen, my parents worried what I might be up to.

I am sociable and genuinely interested in others because I am myself so charmed by them. This warm thrill is the great reward for being human.

To charm and be charmed is to find the juice of life, to delight in another without knowing why. Our appreciation of one another is indeed a talisman, an exposed glimpse of the impulse to rise up shining in someone else’s heart. Doing this we become, as ourselves, a tiny object of power. This is magic, something ineffably delightful that sparkles between humans.

Thus, charm opens us deliciously, to something beyond the limited facts of life. It is an incantation that whispers, in the midst of an ordinary existence, “You are more than this.”

There are pitfalls, of course: you may forget the facts of who you are and behave inappropriately, giving the wrong impression, becoming addicted to the thrill, or forgetting when to stop. Nothing to do then but marvel ruefully from the wreckage of what we’ve done: at the life energy that flows through us; at our mysterious appreciation of the other; at how completely we can be snagged and made to feel alive by the promise of a lack fulfilled.

Whether as ornament, incantation, flirtation, all the faces of charm involve connection to something not actually separate from our self. The charms we utter and the charms we wear strike a chord within; they call out to something that resonates in return, as fundamental and invisible as the quarks that stir the nucleus of every atom. Momentarily connected to our own lost qualities, we are more than chance-bound beings, more than lumpen flesh. Opposites unite in us. Our nature is made whole, the garden regained; we are transfixed, transformed, and free.

Leaving the World Behind

Early on New Year’s morning, there wasn’t much to say. A cold wind blew along the train platform, and a few other waiting riders came and went. Small talk was always available: did anyone know if the train was running on time? Wasn’t it cold? And windy too.

The platform faced the rear of a government building. A few official cars were parked behind chain-link fence. The windows were narrow, frosted, and high.



”That’s the county jail,” my mother said. “It was built it for eighty and now they have over two hundred inmates.” Through some of the windows you could see folded bedding, or papers taped to the glass.

“Do they all have a window?”

”I think they have people sleeping in the lunchroom.” I thought about sleeping in a converted classroom, and how draining it is to try to sleep in a public space, never feeling quite safe. How much more so in a prison!

“That sounds awful.”

“Well, they did something stupid.” And they got caught, I think. I remember a friend of mine saying “What was I thinking? I wasn’t.” after the denouement of a particularly juicy crisis in personal judgment. Imagine coming to after a spell of particular stupidity and discovering that the shambles of your life include incarceration. And that incarceration includes sleeping in an open room with a bunch of felons.

My mother had fallen into an awkward non-conversation about weather and trains with a couple who had just arrived. So I observed the jail, and the arising of associated thoughts….

You’d never see anything like this in Northern Ireland. Even the police stations there are heavily fortified. You have razor wire and armoring and watch towers and a wall around the whole thing. Certainly not a chain link fence as the only barrier between yourself and an internal door. Certainly not only two surveillance cameras taking a look at you. City streets in the North are more heavily monitored than jails are here.

As my mother chatted on, a column of inmates emerged behind the chain link fence, and ambled slowly to another door. Eight or ten men, and two guards. The men looked small. The guards looked small. One was a woman. They were all much more docile and much more…petite than I would have guessed. I held my breath, just as I did the time I saw a coyote in the wild.

Would the prisoners look at us? Would they be curious about the free people standing not fifty feet away? No. One man’s face might have been turned our direction. But then they were gone, silently. I don’t think anyone else on the platform noticed. I felt like I’d seen a ghost—just like after the coyote sighting.

Were the inmates ashamed? Would they have been disciplined for looking at us? Or did they even care? Maybe the latter.

The guard with a neat ponytail closed the door. I thought about her job. Escorting prisoners here and there. What else do you do with prisoners? You feed them. You exercise them. You perhaps supervise some sort of work or therapy. But it’s boring. Time drips by. Maintaining humans. Keeping them alive. Like having two hundred compliant, silently duplicitous pets. They have all the time in the world.

In that situation, who cares who’s standing on the platform? Did I care who was standing on the platform, even now? Not really.

The minutes stretched on. My mother was silent next to me. “Did you see the inmates?” I asked.

“Oh, where? Were they wearing orange jumpsuits?” I nodded. “You know,” she continued, “they let out all the ones they can. The ones they keep are really dangerous.”

“They looked very small. And they seemed very mellow. I wonder if they were embarrassed.”

We agreed they might be, since doing stupid things lands you in jail.

The train came, flashing its lights and sounding its whistle. I kissed my mom and carried my bag up the steps. I forgot to wave again, or to look out at the people standing on the platform.

Beyond Non-Blogging

I haven't had much to say lately.

"You don't have to tell everything! This is ZEN! It's about keeping your mouth shut!"

Evan was expressing the best of Lao Tsu in his own inimitable style:

Those who know, do not speak. Those who speak, do not know.
-Tao Te Ching

(Which is not to say that silence implies some sort of deep knowledge. Although many have risen to prominence in the estimation of others merely by keeping their ignorance to themselves.)

But maybe that's it. I don't have anything to say. And I feel less qualified than ever to make observations about anything.

-

I signed up for an online writing course. In spite of my tendency to silence, I have written a couple of little paragraph-stories. In which the man getting off the bus turns out to be wearing a chicken costume. In the ghetto, at night. Not realizing the woman he's about to stumble into and injure with his beak is, in fact, his former....

I guess that qualifies as creativity. I'm not sure. But let's assume the creative juices are there. And yet I do not blog.

Perhaps nothing has been happening in my life of late. That would be a reason not to blog. (Although many do not find this a deterrent.)

But a sudden rediscovery of Yoga has torn me open and sweated me down to nothing but a stinky slick on the mat. And the High Anglican midnight mass I attended on Christmas Eve left me with plenty to say about ceremony, the Eastern heritage of Christianity, and the palpable power of their communion.

I have visited with friends. I have written a damn good haiku. I have told the truth and kept a secret. But I don't feel like writing about any of it here.

Stories about Zen, too; observations about practice; ideas about what it all means--these aren't interesting anymore. The experience of these is more compelling than ever. But talking about them? Reading a book about them? Please.

I started this blog to keep family and friends apprised of the details of my life while I lived in a Zen Buddhist training monastery. I barely had time to keep my nails trimmed, let alone keep in touch with people individually. But those days are over. I am a denizen of the world, and I received a slew of Christmas cards that proves I am at least minimally "in touch" with someone. And with you, still, my fourteen loyal readers in Corvallis, Fife, Dublin, DC, Portland, Redmond, Gualala &c.

When you're not reading this blog (which should be most of the time!) check out my current favorite, Power, Seduction and War. It's worth putting your squeamishness on hold for. I promise. The blogs he partners with are pretty awesome too, from what I can tell.

See, there are LOTS of people in this world eager to talk and talk, even if I'm not. Enjoy.

Reasons to Keep Moving

Charlie takes me through the dark trees of Golden Gate Park, past the bison and the windmill, to see the sun set behind the ocean. The waves are enormous.

His motorbike has sparkly-disco-crazy blue paint. I haven't forgotten how to hold on. We putt up and down hills and then find our way to dinner with an even older friend.

In the early morning, I enter my first (and so, in some ways, only) zendo. Here again. Breath establishes in body. Upstairs we go for service. I wish it would never end. Soji. Breakfast. Lots of hugs and news. Bowls full of soft sweet persimmons, ripened to the point of syrupy perfection.

Being loved this much is dizzying. I don't have to be anything for these people but myself, even if I share more than I should. In these years away, old edges have softened, and we just remember feeling close to one another.

In San Francisco

The city teems with people, the motorists are aggressive, but otherwise it is as I remember.

My old house smiles back at me; my friends are a bit wiser and more settled than they once were. A trip to the Zen Center elicits rounds of smiles and hugs. Coming back to this life is like touching a lover's familiar face.



The theme today has been what decent folk my friends are. One slides a cushion behind my back; one counsels me to never give up on the invisible but obvious sweep of life's purpose. Lessons aplenty if you agree to hear them.

I walk with some trepidation toward the house where H lives with his girlfriend. Turns out he and I are dressed in nearly identical coats, with dark turtlenecks underneath. Still in tune after all these years. He treats me to the perfect dinner, helps me retrieve the last few things I have stashed at his place, and hugs me long and hard upon parting.



There is no substitute for this person; it is insulting to look for one. Decency, familiarity, and knowing someone so well that conversations happen with the eyes alone; there's nothing to try to replace. Just a new life to enter. And gratitude for past and present.