Failure to Connect

Water, Laptop, Phone
Originally uploaded by earthdog

I am faced with the possibility that I am not interesting. Possibly a little desperate. Possibly even socially obnoxious.

When you spend time with a baby this age, you live in a world of big and sudden emotions. Joy is all-encompassing. Fear and overwhelm abruptly appear and disappear. A cuddle against the bosoms solves almost everything. We might spend long minutes trying to stand, or picking at a piece of floor dirt, or we might refuse to be put down and demand to ride around on mama all day. Although we are in a happy groove of togetherness and rapport, the instinctual physicality of this life doesn’t translate so well to the outside world of adult society.

Plus, I’m just lonely. Obviously, thanks to the baby, I have plenty of company all day long. But it’s been a while since I had the luxury of connecting—really connecting—with another adult. Too long since I faced someone and felt as if we understood one another, without hurry, without a baby inserting itself into the conversation.

Walking down the street, I called out a greeting to a mother and her son. She had stopped me on the street a week ago to chat about the baby carrier we were both using. Today, my baby rode on my back, playing with my scarf. You couldn’t see him. And so my too-friendly “Hi there!” fell flat. I got the ‘You’re Insane’ look as they went past.

Vowing to lighten up on the social enthusiasm, I made my way to the bank. By the time I left, I’d charmed the teller to pieces, or else frightened him entirely. He and his colleague were treated to a fascinating narrative of the baby’s habits and behavior, the reasons for my visit, my plans for the money in my account, and so forth.

I didn’t like what I was seeing of myself. The resolution to lighten up was renewed.

The little guy and I ducked into a swanky neighborhood bar (“My First Drinking Establishment”?) to say hi to someone. My excited conversation with my friend caused the only other person at the bar to move several seats farther away.

Finally we came home. The baby gave me a broad smile, like we shared some special secret. I let him play on the floor diaperless, while I checked my email. Incredibly enough, there were no new messages, for the fifteenth time just that day!

Strangely, those friends I wrote to—and those people I put off writing to for a week but got back to eventually—still hadn’t responded. Perhaps because they have jobs and things to do. Perhaps I used an outdated e-mail address. Perhaps our game of has gone on so long they’ve forgotten they’re “it.” Or quite possibly they have other things to think about besides me and my baby-development monologues. And perhaps they just aren’t feeling the spark of relationship, the energy that makes us interesting staying in contact.

No messages either on the phone I so carefully carry with me, in case one of my out-of-touch buddies should call. They don’t. Although calls do come in. The optometrist’s office wants to inform me that they can’t confirm my insurance coverage. Someone is looking for Dave. The baby grins whenever he sees the phone, and makes a lunge for it. He says it tastes good. And he’s in love with the camera part. I could just cancel my plan with Sprint and let him have it as a fancy toy.

Maybe it’s time to accept life, just as it is. I’m supposed to know all about this—it’s a classic theme in Zen circles. Probably for a reason: accepting life just as it is poses a real challenge! Put here is my life: I have a baby. I am a baby-plus-woman. Every conscious moment is infused with awareness of my son. Even in the formlessness of meditation, breath and body sit expanded by love.

When socializing does happen, and people ask how I am, I say “we’re fine.” The conversation will turn to the baby sooner if not later, because for me that’s what matters. How interesting is our conversation really going to be? If you’re not mad about babies, you will eventually tire of talking to someone who is.

So perhaps I should make friends with other mothers. Unfortunately, if another woman and I both have babies, chances are that’s about the only point of common reference. Having given birth within a year of another person doesn’t actually provide much of a connection once you’ve compared your babies’ weights, physical skills, eating habits, and sleeping patterns. Soon we come to the unorthodox details that have so naturally filled out my life: home birth, breast feeding, co-sleeping, few toys, mostly wood, fewer vaccinations, no baby “gear” to speak of, afternoons spent exploring the closet or smiling at strangers rather than engaging with toys or videos.

Perhaps it’s time to really believe what I already know: the deepest connection does not come from social-stroke-and-return-stroke. Obsessing about whether or not my friends are as in need of me as I think they should be—that’s just silliness. In time, the ties that are not supported will dissolve, and new ones will gradually form. That’s not being a good friend, or a bad one; it’s just the way of the world, the way things naturally grow, strengthen, and fall away.

Perhaps I should be enjoying the rare luxury of staying home with the baby, giving him attention, and having time to write and to sit zazen. The life I have affords a better opportunity than most for turning my focus to exploring that Deepest Connection, the one that doesn’t come from social superficialities, the one no one else can give you.

Before we were Us

On Sept 1 2002, my future husband and I crossed paths at a classmate's wedding. No sparks of any kind.

Back then, I owned dresses. This was before I "overdid it" with the Zen thing; before science and I gave up on each other; before I experienced cold and hunger and the possible depths of silence. Before I lost it, and found something familiar yet new.

I don't really recognize either one of us in this photo. Our eyes are different now.

another Way that doesn't pay

Childcare is so little valued in our culture--or really any culture that comes easily to mind. The people best-equipped to provide childcare, parents and grandparents, are paid the least (if at all) for a terribly important and challenging undertaking. Of course, they are also the ones willing to sacrifice whatever they possibly can for their kids. Economics doesn't recognize final value, only how much workers can afford to demand for their work.

And so, for free, I am a mom. It is magnificent, devastating, poetic. Really, all of life is just as beautiful and relentless, but in others areas it is easier to cheat. With a child, there is no fooling, there is no getting-away-with-it. You know, and they know, if their needs are not met. A moment's peace does not ensure the next moment's calm. Challenges constantly arise, and then it's time to eat, or nap, NOW.

Parenting is an undertaking that can only arise from the heart. Do it mechanically, and everything falls flat. You are required to care for the tiny human from your own human core. The baby unlocks your store of love, and when it cries out it unlocks your own lost suffering. Hearing the baby's cries, your own bawling self arises; what this brings up can be excruciating.

Passengers on a bus will tolerate the sounds of screeching brakes or loud music, but when a baby fusses, people start to complain. A few will really come unhinged. The wail draws our own inner infant to the surface. If you can't handle your own infantile pain, you're going to have a hard time tolerating the baby's.

And when the baby smiles, few are immune. Its chortles are sweeter than any music.

As a parent, you endure the wails not by withstanding them and hardening your heart, but by allowing them to tear you open. Each new cry rends you apart. Because of that opening, you can feel the pain, and you can feel the joy and wonder of your baby's journey of discovery with equal measures of awe.

Our task is not to tolerate our little ones, but to understand them. And we understand them because we allow their experience of the world to affect our own.

After a day spent prying my creeping son our of dusty corners, after extracting countless suspicious bits of godknowswhat from his mouth, after rescuing him time and again from teetering teacups and lurking power cords, I realized: he is not "naughty"-- that's my name for his being a baby and my being inconvenienced. He is acutally darn curious, and he's making the most of a wonderful space full of tantalizing objects just begging to be explored.

This realization didn't cause me to abandon my judgments about the value of eating carpet lint or scraps of paper. But it helped me understand that my baby is right on track in terms of his inquisitiveness and his brimming physical energy.

Seeing it that way, our busy day became a good day, and our adventures became a helpful lesson in baby-proofing. All these happenings both priceless, free of charge, and unsullied by any hope of monetary compensation.

So True, It's Funny

This from the site that meets all my humor needs:

How bad must the G.O.P. feel right about now? It portrayed Obama as a socialist, a communist, a Muslin, and a friend of terrorists, and the majority of American voters said, “Y’know, we’re O.K. with that, as long as he’s not a Republican.” – Jerry Smith

But here's what's weird. Before the election, I talked to someone who was convinced that Obama had a Muslim education, and that he had real ties to terrorists. This person was voting for him anyway, in hopes he could use his influence with the Bad Guys for our protection. (This individual also liked his economic policies, and thought an Obama presidency offered the best hope for the future.)

So, for at least one sweet but addled soul, the humorous quote above was spot-on. What a world!

Beyond Politics, Just Things As They Are

I remember the first election I was conscious of, in 1980. Jimmy Carter lost resoundingly to Ronald Reagan, winning 41% of the popular vote and a measly 49 electoral votes. On election night, I was disappointed because my parents were disappointed.

Now, in 2008, I have been thinking of that election a lot. Reagan was our first (and only) divorced-plus-former-actor president. Quaintly enought, those qualities did trouble some people at the time!

Like Obama, Reagan was immensely popular. He galvanized people, and his election profoundly shifted the American political landscape.

My parents' views on Reagan would evolve in a more fiercely negative direction, but on the night of the election, they were just sad and worried. They saw Reagan as a dangerous slick-talking con man.

This year, Obama has obviously shaken things up tremendously, and the shift that he represents is possibly more monumental than 1980. But a sizable number of people are worried, just as my parents were worried. The NY Times voter reactions from McCain supporters included words like "nauseous" and "terrified."

Some of these worried people are my relatives. To them, Obama (if they can bear to utter his name) is a slick con man. A danger to our country. Someone who has seduced the electorate and is going to take us to Hell the long, painful way. Pretty much the same way my parents felt about Reagan in 1980.

Lately, I have been practicing seeing every person I pass as fundamentally like me. Each pedestrian, each driver, each cashier--each one wants only to be happy. Every one of them yearns to feel safe, satisfied, and at peace. Every single person wants to have a rewarding life. Regardless of their hair style, or their Hummer, or the way they smell; and certainly regardless of how they voted in the election.

What motivates and animates my life motivates and animates their life too.

In 1980 a phrase from Carter's concession speech stuck with me, probably because I didn't understand it at the time. "In every victory," he said, "are planted the seeds of defeat. And in every defeat, the seeds of victory." Or maybe that was Mondale in '84.

Come to think of it, I'm still not sure the makes sense, except as a comforting bromide to someone who was just royally trounced.

[image from Wikipedia]

Years later, I would come across what I think Carter was aiming at: the Buddhist notion that everything inherently contains the seeds of its own end. The baby contains the potential to become a child, ending babyhood. The acorn has the potential--IS the potential--to become an oak tree. By our very existence, we ensure our future death. And so forth.

As we look ahead, and look past victory and defeat, we are entering a new era. But whether it will be a time of peace and prosperity, whether it will make us feel safe and happy, we can't know. Electing Obama might be a grand thing, given current circumstances..or it might not.

Which brings me to the Taoist story about the guy with the son and the horse. It's a helpful reminder that we label events as "good" or "bad" based on our perception of whether or not they promote our peace/happiness/etc. But really there is no objective good or bad, or punishment or reward, outside of our limited view and experience. Things simply are as they are.

Not sure what I mean? Here's the story, gratefully borrowed from here. Share it with your disgruntled, frustrated, nauseated friends, and your ecstatic, hopeful, proud ones too:

A man named Sei Weng owned a beautiful mare which was praised far and wide. One day this beautiful horse disappeared. The people of his village offered sympathy to Sei Weng for his great misfortune. Sei Weng said simply, "That's the way it is."

A few days later the lost mare returned, followed by a beautiful wild stallion. The village congratulated Sei Weng for his good fortune. He said, "That's the way it is."

Some time later, Sei Weng's only son, while riding the stallion, fell off and broke his leg. The village people once again expressed their sympathy at Sei Weng's misfortune. Sei Weng again said, "That's the way it is."

Soon thereafter, war broke out and all the young men of the village except Sei Weng's lame son were drafted and were killed in battle. The village people were amazed as Sei Weng's good luck. His son was the only young man left alive in the village. But Sei Weng kept his same attitude: despite all the turmoil, gains and losses, he gave the same reply, "That's the way it is."

[As told by Chin-Ning Chu, in "The Asian Mind Game: unlocking the hidden agenda of the Asian business culture -- a westerner's survival manual," New York:Macmillan Publishing Company, page 182. (1991)]

The Icelandic Horse
Originally uploaded by visiticeland@hotmail.com

Hoping for the Best

I really don't know how the election will go, and I can't say now what the future will hold if He and She hold power, or if The One sits in the Oval Office.

I am tired of electioneering; I am relieved that we will have something resembling a free and fair election, and that we will have it soon.

I have been giving money to the Obama campaign. Not much, but what I can afford. I think Obama is our best bet in uncertain times. I trust his analytical ability, his character, and his "elite" qualities: intelligence, understanding, accomplishment. I want a president who is smarter than I am, and more knowledgable than I am. I want a person who thinks before he acts, and who can articulate how his values shape his policy.

I did not plan to contribute money. But I did when I saw the really shameful behavior of the Republican machine. If you have the better policy, fine. Say so, say why, and let's discuss it. If you have the better candidate, delightful. Let her speak. But the nastiness, divisiveness, and bizarre comments--about "real" Americans and "not knowing" someone who's been under the public microscope for two ridiculously long years--those tricks make me sick. They are an assault on a person who has maintained his decency throughout the process. The only way I know to combat such filth is with commercial airtime.

So they have my $50. I hope they use it well. I hope that, in four years, I do not regret the expenditure.

I like this ad. It is sane. We need more sanity. We need a president who lives in the real world and who wants to make it a better place for the average American.



I donated last night, after I put the baby to bed. I cried in the monitor's glow. Hoping, hoping.

"Shugetsu" Wordle

You can make a wordle from any block of text, or any web site, here.

Blood. Bath. Love.

The baby looked puzzled and grunted last night
I rushed him to the potty and sat his green slimy butt there
while I examined a diaper fascinating in content
he reached for the shelves and toppled

a rising cry unfurled from his crumpled face
where red blood sauced his mouth
like a vampire, a monster, like death.

Somehow I undressed us both
soiling many things
held him to me
lowered our bodies into the tub
remembering our first time there too
(after birth)
covered with poop and blood

He found the breast as the water ran over him
and the blood stopped quickly; a tiny cut it was
I sponged that red stain stuck to my skin
thinking how wrong, a mother wearing her baby's blood

In as long as it takes to tell, he was fine
peeping up at papa, smiling through the water
while we parents tried to pull ourselves together, and give our son the bedtime he knows:
a brisk paternal rubdown with coconut oil, three storybooks, and then back to me for lights out and feeding

I held him in the dark, hoping he'd remember something about gravity
and things that are hard
about balance and comfort and pain

Without meaning, to the next day, I held him tighter
played with him longer, picked him up more.

Hearing music he calls out; bounces in my arms and yells, to sing and dance
in his little seven-months way, finding himself already a musical creature,
a lover of women's bodies
bound by the Law: from that, this comes
From what comes this love so strong, after the fall?

A Mother's Heart

I don't like this.

There is a new phenomenon of able-bodied blue-collar guys wandering aimlessly the streets of Portland.

One sits in a small car crammed with stuff, with eyes that do not want to be seen. It is not hard to guess what happened to him.

Another, at the bus stop, asks me if I have a quarter. I do actually not have a quarter. What I do have is a cranky child pulling at my chest, and two hands full of stuff. A chill wind is blowing. Rain is coming. I am exhausted.

Experienced panhandlers do not bother women in my predicament. I blow him off. And I feel terrible.

Today I hauled the baby around our neighborhood for a walk in the sunshine. Here, in one of the most desirable areas of one of the most robust housing markets in the country, there were too many For Sale signs.

I came home to find a realtor trying to gain entrance to our building. Our neighbor below us, who we thought had sold her condo, had the sale fall through. The bank foreclosed last night. Washington Mutual. So they are trying to figure out how to list the property, without having the keys, or any sense of what they now own.

I help the realtor, sort of.

I wish I was kinder to those in need. I have seen so many scams, and I didn't have a quarter. But I do have a heart, and I could've done something other than slamming it shut.

The baby opens my heart, and saves me from worrying too much about the economy. He is doing an incredible amount of growing, physically and mentally. The thirst for becoming is so obvious in him. When he was two months old, you could sense the hugeness of his desire to move across the floor. Now, at seven months, he yearns to stand, to climb, to explore. One person's "exploration" is another person's "getting into things." Outside of our names and opinions, the baby does what he does. And the world does what it does. Fortunes rise and fall because we experience them as fortunes.

From the baby's point of view, as long as he has his parents, he's happy. He really doesn't need much. Lately, something called "small-object fascination" ensures he will spend twenty minutes trying to pick up a cereal flake. Pop him in his new Bumbo chair, give him two flakes of cereal, and he's occupied for quite a while.

We will get through this. Humans have survived much worse; right now, in other places, people are meeting far greater difficulties. My wish would be for the open heart of the mother to depersonalize enough to encompass the world.

Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings;
Radiating kindness over the entire world:
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths;
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.....

Cutting Through the "Oh So Zen" Stuff

Seeing your nature is Zen. Unless you see your nature, it's not Zen

--Bodhidharma

I have started up a blog about living simply, and parenting a child with a minimum of Stuff and a maximum of Heart.

It is called Nothing Extra, and I invite you to look around, comment, and generally let me know what you think. Although inspired by Zen (inevitably, since it's written by a practitioner), it's not actually a "Zen" blog. Meaning it does not explicitly address life from the point of view of practice, as "Shugetsu" aims to.

So I was looking around the Internet the other day, searching for blogs about frugality and contemplating overlaps and distinctions between Frugality and Simplicity, when I came across a blog that seemed worthy of further exploration. Lots of information there about living the simple life, and saving money, and taking time to smell the flowers.

But then there was the title of this blog, ZenHabits.

Sigh.

I could spend my days and night whining about "Zen" cereal and "Zen" spa treatments and "Zen" couture and Ananda-Knows-What-Else. In fact there could be a whole blog there for Dharma curmudgeons: we submit truly egregious examples of "Zen" crapola and make fun of them amongst ourselves.

In common parlance, this is called "Discussing the Faults of Others." Something to be avoided. Recognizing this as an ethical matter provides a cue that this is a fraught topic.

What is the appropriate response, here in the crowded cacophony of the internet? Dismay? Or beyond that, recognition that humans have a deep-seated desire for simplicity, for meaning, for sacredness--and that the "Zen" label attempts to market to that impulse.

Desiring simplicity, we are sold more Stuff. How utterly--predictably, endearingly, dangerously--human.

And what is Zen, this thing we are all yearning to have?

I won't claim to know. If you go to the current Wikipedia entry:

Zen emphasizes dharma practice and experiential wisdom—particularly as realized in the form of meditation known as zazen—in the attainment of awakening. As such, it de-emphasizes both theoretical knowledge and the study of religious texts in favor of direct, experiential realization.

I suspect a few of the Zen priests I know would have something to say about this definition. Carpe Lector Wikipediam! You'd never know that Zen existed prior to DT Suzuki's rather iconoclastic take on the topic. Or that it has a rich textual history, within the context of an ancient and formal religious tradition.

The internet in general is full of vague circular discussions along the lines of, "Zen is beyond ideas, therefore how can you presume to discuss it?" This makes me sad. Which is not to say these people are wrong; they just don't know what they're talking about. Their spiritual energy is being directed away from practice and direct experience, and toward debate, or posturing.

But I digress from my original complaint. Assuming for a moment that the Wikipedia entry is an approximate starting point for the definition of Zen, is there anything about it that suggests a connection to the otherwise very nice ZenHabits blog, which is all about simplifying your life, getting organized, getting motivated, being a nice person, staying healthy, and so forth?

No. At least I don't see it. Maybe it's buried in "16 Tips to Triple Your Workout Effectiveness" It's certainly not to be found in the spirituality forum section, where someone asks, "Is anyone on this site into Zen?" To me, this sounds so plaintive; it is the voice of a searcher.

The answers are typically, "Not really. But the popular literature on the topic made Zen sound pretty much in accord with my preexisting beliefs about reality." Except for the few responses which are more along the lines of, "I am so Zen. That which you seek is causing you to seek. Be at peace. And check out my website, which also has a Zen name, and little to do with Zen."

Alas.

Sometimes at the beginning, reading is all we have. If you want to know more about Zen, please eschew vague new-age spiritual mishmash. See the poseurs for what they are. Read instead Joko Beck, Shunryu Suzuki, Taizan Maezumi, or (my secret favorites of late) Kyogen Carlson's lovely "Zen in the American Grain" and Robert Kennedy's "Zen Spirit, Christian Spirit."

And know that one's initial ideas about Zen, or any romanticized spiritual practice, are extremely useful because they provide material for disillusionment.

In order to actually practice , you should find a reputable teacher in an established lineage. This in contrast to self-appointed Zen teachers (the ones without a lineage of teachers going back in time), who are usually individuals who had a blaze of insight one day, realized it sounded like "Zen," and proceeded accordingly. They are not bad per se, but they are potentially very dangerous. Nobody sees their own weaknesses as a spiritual guide, least of all a self-styled spiritual teacher!

You don't want to entrust your deepest self to someone who's self-educated. And that someone includes yourself. Practice on one's own can be dangerous. You don't hear much about this, but I've personally known too many people who "meditated" their way to madness. All of us--certainly all of us drawn to spirituality--have within ourselves an tiny "self-appointed teacher." We tend to think that our profound early insights mean something about our spiritual greatness. And we may be spooked, or fascinated, by the hallucinations and odd physical sensations that are common in beginning meditators.

Look for a teacher who has through the years overcome any tendency to grandiosity, and whose students are people you would wish to be. Coming from a reputable lineage helps assure this; it's like a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for the most precious home there is.

But rather than continue to cast aspersions on the widespread co-option of the term "Zen," I will tell a story.

One morning over breakfast at Great Vow Monastery, Chozen Bays Roshi told the story of going to Japan and meeting the abbot of a prominent temple. Faced with this slight Western woman, he posed a question, "What is Zen?"

At that time, the answer that came to her was, "Zen is about having a calm mind and an open heart." You could argue that this is another way of saying "dharma practice and experiential wisdom." And you could argue that what she said at that moment was a minor matter compared to her own evident calm mind, and her own blazing heart.

Having told that story, here is what I know: In the living of our daily life, a clear and uncluttered space reflects and reinforces a calm mind. In the living of our daily life, certain activities deepen the spirit, salve the heart, and promote true peace. I am not above publishing lists of exercise tips; I am not even above reviewing products in Nothing Extra. But I want my heart to be in every post. I want to build a community with others who are making simplicity happen in their inner and outer lives.

Unlike "Shugetsu," Nothing Extra is not a blog about the Dharma in/as Life. The title is intended to be oblique, a signal to those in the know--if you get it, you get it. If you don't get it--well, you're probably also very content being hit over the head with considerably less-Zen blogs (and god-knows-what-else) bearing labels like ZenThis and ZenThat. I guess that's the wonder of the internet. We all find our way to the material that suits us. I don't know if we are challenged, or if our understanding progresses, but we do band together with like minds out there. What we discover together, or deny, or mindlessly reinforce in one another, is up to each of us.

Kalachakra-527x488
Originally uploaded by doctor_ian

☯

Movie Review: Once

I don't often talk about movies in this blog. I don't really pay attention to new releases these days (I have my own six-month-old "new release" to chase around the flat). So Once took me by surprise. I didn't watch the Academy Awards, and it's only now, still reeling from viewing Once on DVD, that I am finding out how much recognition this film actually received.

In case you, like me, have been living under a rock for the past year or so, I'd like to recommend this film, and say that it should have won an Oscar for Best Picture.

Once had little to recommend it as an instant personal hit. It's set in Ireland, true, but not in the romantic past. The characters are clinging to the underbelly of the Celtic Tiger, and their poverty is not of the picturesque shawl-and-donkey-cart variety. They are the people we brush past in the big city as we pretend look elsewhere: an Eastern European girl peddling flowers; and a scruffy street musician with a beat-up guitar. When these characters leave the busy street behind at the end of the day, they go home to spaces that exude authentic poverty: there is the clutter of near-worthless items, the narrow bed, decorations that are faded and cheap.

Beyond anything else, this movie is Real. The film is shot in a grainy, homespun style that deepens the sense that we are eavesdropping on another's life. There are no melodramatic camera tricks; you are simply somehow in the middle of these people's lives, drawn into the action by sheer human kinship. There is no heightened drama for the sake of drama. The most pivotal moments are, if anything, underplayed. They slide by, the way real life slides by. As the two main characters get to know each other, you feel party to their loneliness, their assumptions, their anticipation, to the simple poignancy of lives that are neither glamorous, nor romantic, nor easily-resolved.

And, improbability of improbabilities, this terrific movie is also a musical.

If you watched the Oscars, you know this already: Once won for Best Song. And rightly so. These are two musicians--the guy plays the guitar, and the flower-selling girl is an excellent piano player. With her on keyboards, and her help composing words to some of his tunes, the guy's music blossoms and starts to look like it might go somewhere. The songs are liberally scattered through the film, and--get this--they are never extraneous to the plot! When these people sit down to sing and play together, something happens, so that by the end of the song, things are not as they were before. Life has shifted; we know something new. Lyrics and melodies propel a developing relationship, or they illustrate the depth of an old heartbreak. In this story about musicians, music drives the story.

Today, the next day, I am still haunted. I want to know what became of my friends from the night before. I want to see them again. And I also don't want to. I have that funny aversion that comes when you face someone after too much revelation. I feel the way you feel around someone who has said too much; I feel that awkwardness that descends after an acquaintance confides something too large for a relationship to bear. This impression--that I have witnessed real lives, in all their gawky fragility--tells me that Once is truly a great film.

To Those Who are Gone

Murrays, c. 1931
Originally uploaded by Shugetsu

All these people are gone.

On one day in 1931 or so, they paused after a day of picking apples. Seventy-seven years later, what remains of them is memory, their shadow in the features of their children, and the fuzzy capture of this one moment.

The little girl in front is my Aunt Pat. I adored her when I met her sixty years later. Her children, my cousins, are dear to me. But on that day, she was a toddler with an apple.

In front of her sits my Great Aunt Ann. As an old lady, she answered all the letters I wrote her.

Behind her, Marguerite, of French Canadian stock, married one of her brothers. When I met her at Ann's house, they ribbed one another over their age difference; Marguerite is two years older than Ann, and always will be.

But they are all gone.

We are coming to the season of death, when summer gives way to fall. Everything seems to be spinning down, to some deeper place. Leaves circle to earth, to take up existence as loam. The financial markets are in disarray--where does the money go, when shares in a company lose their value?

On Tuesday, my mother in law was found dead in her house. Her life was too short, marked by hard work and little enjoyment. She had just retired. She was ill, but her death was a surprise.

And so we have been struggling with the big questions. Why do we die? Does life mean anything, beyond what we give it? Why are we here? Is there a reason for any of it?

There is no pat answer to these koans. You find the truth by living it.

What I feel now is a deeper engagement with the Dharma-unfolding-as-life, a kind of surrender, or faith. Faith that things find their own way, regardless of our ideas about them. Faith that this woman's life was what it was, as perfect and complete as a life can be. That we all fall, one day, like leaves to loam. That the days we have are precious; that they contain tiny unfurlings of life and death that mirror the Great Pattern.

And, this is sad. We have been sad. It is time to be sad, to look more closely at the life we are living, and the life we want to live. One day, we too, will be nothing but a photograph, and one day, not even that.