Being & Non-Being Helpfully Explained

This is carved into the granite 160+ feet below ground, in the Portland MAX (regional rail) station that serves the Oregon Zoo.

When you sit long enough, this makes sense. Then, after a while, you only remember that it once made sense.

There is being.
There is non-being.
There is a not-yet-beginning-to-be-non-being.
There is a not-yet-beginning-to-be-a-not-yet-beginning-to-be-non-being.
Suddenly, there is being and non-being.
But between this being and non-being,
I really don't know which is being and which is non-being.

--Taoist Philosopher Chuang-Tzu--

The Blessing String

A year ago last July, I sat a weeklong silent retreat at Great Vow with Ajahn Amaro. Although I didn’t know it then, this retreat would be the last for a long time.

I was very much in love with my darling future husband . We parted with great affection, and all week long I could feel a tremendous yearning. Was it him I sensed, pining for me? Perhaps I felt my own yearning for him. Or perhaps there was only yearning, felt by us both but possessed by neither, straining across the miles that separated us.

I was aware of practicing hard during that retreat. I sat up at night. I did not allow myself to spend the customary day or two in mental meanderings, as had been my habit and my luxury when I lived at the monastery. I knew I was at a turning point in my life. I knew I would be doing fewer long retreats. And I was determined to understand what the future ought to hold.

My chief existential dilemma had to do with whether or not lay practice--entering married life, having a household--was really as “good” as monastic practice. Was I losing out on spiritual development by getting married? Was I throwing away all those years of hard-core sitting? Was I imagining that there was something to be attained, after all? I had been happy living a simple life on my own outside the monastery, doing long retreats whenever time and money allowed. Could I really share my time and my life with another person and not lose sight of the psychological and spiritual truths I had found in monastic practice?

Daily, during that week of contemplation, we chanted the Mangala Sutra, the Buddha’s discourse on the characteristics of an ideal life. Interestingly, the Blessed One did not advocate retreat from the world, nor did he undermine social values. Instead, he described a life of quiet steadiness and kindness:

Providing for mother and father’s support
And cherishing family,
And ways of work that harm no being,
These are the highest blessings.

There, sung to a simple melody, came the answer to my question. Nowhere in those words was there mention of greatness and glory; nowhere was asceticism promoted. Instead, a life in the world, grounded in family and community, rich in respect and mutual support, a moral life in the simplest sense, was the greatest blessing. Deep down, I felt that this was right, that it was right for me.

By the end of the retreat, I knew in my bones that marriage could be a spiritually rich path, and more than that, I sensed that the life I was about to share with my husband ought to include having a family together. This was a big shift for me, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Until that week, I had never wanted children, and I had no idea that parenting be a spiritual path. But I did now! It seemed to be the way I needed to go.

Perhaps it was no coincidence that this interest in family life came when it did. Although I didn’t know it, I was not alone on my cushion. The farewell with my fiancee had planted a seed, so to speak, and as I sat that week, a tiny embryo was proliferating deep inside me. The inner and the outer worlds were changing faster, and sooner, than I knew.

At the end of the retreat, Ajahn Amaro blessed and cut lengths of white cord which he tied around our wrists as a blessing and a token of our intentions. I wore one string, and took another to tie around my husband’s wrist, to symbolized what I had learned about our new life together, as spiritual partners and parents.

Thirty-nine weeks later, I knelt over a chair in the bedroom and gave birth to our son. The cord on my wrist was stained with blood and meconium, the dark muck that fills a baby’s gut before he is born. After that, it was no longer white, but a suspicious dusky grey color.

Last Friday, I hiked uphill with the baby in a carrier. Near the waterfall where the koi slide under the water, my son grabbed for a camellia and stuffed a leaf in his mouth. I pried it out, or so I thought. At the bottom of the hill, he burst out coughing and choking. His eyes turned red; he looked extremely worried. We both did; I had never seen him that distressed, and there was little I could do. When he recovered, I took him home, put him down, and saw something in his mouth. The leaf was in there, a fragment still stuck to his cheek. Gingerly avoiding his chompy teeth, I hooked my little finger into his mouth and brought out the shard of camellia leaf.

As I pulled the leaf from the baby’s mouth, the string on my wrist fell to the floor.
I’m not sure how the string broke, or when. But in that moment of worry for my son and gratitude that he was safe, it seemed to me that the string acted as a charm, so common in Asian folktales, taking the baby’s misfortune upon itself and receiving the harm that would otherwise have come to him.

The string, and the bit of leaf, are here with me as I write this. Two unremarkable pieces of debris in what I pray will be an unremarkable, steady, and blessed life.

Parenting as Practice

I came across this interview with Jon Kabat-Zinn and his wife Myla about Mindful Parenting.

This quote from Jon sums up their philosophy, and mine too, these days:

I believe that spiritual practice is about life, not about retreat from life. The real work of spiritual practice in any tradition is to come to a deep understanding about what it means to be human.

Sometimes it's wonderful to just be very, very still for long periods of time, but for most of us, that can only happen occasionally. The real meditative practice is to open up to the full range of what happens in life. And parenting is a fantastic arena for doing that kind of spiritual training. It's as much a potential door into enlightenment as anything else.

It's interesting to look at your children as live-in Zen masters who can put their finger on places where you're resistant, or thinking narrowly, in ways no one else can. You can either lose your mind and your authenticity in the process of reacting to all of that stuff, or you can use it as the perfect opportunity to grow and nourish your children by attending to what is deepest and best in them and in yourself.

Jon Kabat-Zinn's impressive work bringing meditation to the mainstream has included promoting MBSR, Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction, as a complementary medical treatment. Something parents--and people everywhere--can benefit from.

Thanks to Lekshe's Tibetan Buddhist Resources for Kids for the link!

Into the Cycles of Life, with Baby

The baby is no longer a creature from the deep. He has thoroughly become a denizen of this world. He struggles to stand at the window, and looks for as long as he can at the courtyard, at the empty fountain and the naked trees. He eagerly watches a little video of himself in the tub—does he remember, last night?—and yells proudly at his splashing image.

He sucks his lips forlornly, and bangs toys against his sore mouth. Tired and cranky from so much teething, he quietly holds still so I can hoist him into the carrier on my back. We walk out into the world. He bucks in the carrier, hoping to get me to sing and jounce him as we walk.

The night bein’ dark and very cold
A woman took pity on a poor old soul
She took pity on a poor old soul and asked him to come in.
With a tooroo roo roo ranten high and a too roo roo roo ranten high
Tooroo roo roo ranten high and high for the beggar man

…

Who knows how long I’ve loved you
You know I love you still
Will it take a lonely lifetime
If you want me to, I will
Love you forever and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we’re together
Love you when we’re apart

At first the song makes him laugh, but soon he rests his head against my back and watches the world go by. After yesterday’s deluge of warm rain, the world smells clean. Wispy clouds ride high in the sky. Everybody on the street walks as if time is precious, feeling the hours until autumn rains resume.

When we come home, it’s all been too much somehow. He bounces back and forth between toys and breast, restless and worn thin. Then we hear the sound of papa on the stairs. The door opens to peals of dazzling baby laughter, smiles, and much waving of tiny arms.

They play together while I fry some fish for dinner. I make three bowls: two of rice, fish, and roasted vegetables; and a tiny one with coarsely-mashed avocado and roasted veggies. The baby holds one spoon in his fist and practices dropping it and picking it up while we guide spoonfuls of food into his mouth. Eventually, he looks to me, twisting and crying in his seat.

We all go into the bathroom. I hop in the tub to get clean while papa familiarizes the baby with the toothbrush. It’s not really about cleaning teeth at this point, more building good habits and getting comfortable with brushing and, from the baby’s point of view, massaging his aching gums.

Lately my days with the baby have been very peaceful, with a harmonious undertone that I associate with happy mammals. It’s the feeling of a body of many bodies, a congregation of monks moving together in their robes, a pack of animals functioning as one, a contented group of souls in limbic resonance with one another.

This entrainment of biorhythms is explored in A General Theory of Love. The psychiatrist authors of that book, one of my all-time favorites, describe how we intuitively instinctively pick up on one another, how we sense anxiety, panic, and warm-heartedness, and how multiples of us resolve into one macro-organism. Being around happy people makes you happy; for a nascent human with a highly plastic brain, positive entrainment is the key to future positive emotional disposition and bonding patterns.

Beyond neural connectivity, this sensation has physiological underpinnings. Meditators know they often breathe in unison with others; as a bodyworker I would frequently feel my heartbeat falling into time with a client’s pulse. Because of this natural falling into rhythm, premature twins thrive better, and their vital signs are stronger, when they are placed together in an incubator.

So no wonder then, as the baby and I cuddled together for a nap today, that I felt his heartbeat—my hand was in his armpit—keeping perfect time with my the throb of my own pulse in my neck and chest.

In spite of the pain of teething, in spite of his writhing around trying to nurse comfortably, in spite of the sleepless fussing, there is our synchrony. Today I sat zazen while the baby napped behind me on the bed. After thirty minutes or so, I came to the surface, and thought I heard a rustle. I turned to look at the bed, and there was my son, eyes alight, quietly giving me a conspiratorial smile. I laughed, and he laughed. I scooped him up and we bounded over to the potty, where he deposited a great big peepee, cooing happily and glowing pinkly from sleep.

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?