The Dhamma of GI Joe

I Surrender
Originally uploaded by kiddharma.

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?

Rumi & Me

Originally uploaded by Independant Superhero.

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.

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.

Originally uploaded by mrjoro.

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.

Originally uploaded by Wyrd.

Photos gratefully borrowed from flickr folk mrjoro and Wyrd.

Images/Life

Kitchen Table Still-Life
Originally uploaded by Shugetsu.

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.

Finding the True Self

latch
Originally uploaded by Robby Garbett [lawntffoto].

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.

Because of Brenda

homeless cart
Originally uploaded by Travelling Broke And Ugly.

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.

Recent Favorite Quotes

Bodhi isn't a tree
what's spotless isn't a mirror.
Actually there isn't a thing--
where you get this Dust?

--The Sixth Patriarch, Hui Neng





Without an agenda, I don't think you can do harm.
--Mushin





Bodhisattvas, regardless of the phenomenon, understand that form and emptiness share the same body.--Deva (Aryadeva) supp. to the Tripitaka, vol 41

Something About Religion

Feeling Blue
Originally uploaded by Independant Superhero.

There's a conversation I'd like to continue. Until the angel comes back to talk to me again, I have this to say:

Nothing I have experienced has ever disproved or called into the question the omnipresence of G-d. Quite the contrary.

Can't See This Parade Without Crying

Somme 90th Anniversary march #3
Originally uploaded by Robby Garbett [lawntffoto].

Life is something we barely comprehend. At its best, art tries to understand life.

A respected Flickr acquaintance in Northern Ireland has posted photos which carry a lot of meaning for me, even though I don't understand everything they symbolize-- to me, and even less what they mean to others. They are a snapshot of a complicated story; it's right to try to hold it all somehow; and right to share that complexity with the world.

Here's how I feel: The North has been trapped in time, even more so than the rest of Ireland. And it is poised to change very, very quickly. Life in this beautiful corner of Ireland will not be the same in a decade, with all the good and bad things that entails.

Men with fife and drum march past SUVs. Communities that have mistrusted one another for centuries do their thing, again. Maybe they hold off this year. Maybe one day, they will forget entirely what they used to be.

We in my mother's family were Jewish, before we weren't anymore. It all worked out fine, in spite of that Jewish-sounding surname..until a Holocaust memorial made things undeniable. That's the other side of the family.

Something of me came from Ulster, left Cavan; and was left again in Belfast.

I don't know the past. But I can tell you the future: One day, in Northern Ireland, there will be no marchers. There will be no opposition. There will be no one to remember this battle in World War I; no one to remember any long-ago life or death. Everything we love and everything that irritates the heck out of us will be gone. Vanished like a dream.

...gaté gaté paragaté...

Conmemorations keep an event alive: the conquest of Ireland; valor and slaughter on a French battlefield; the life and death of a beloved teacher.

How many lives are gone, remembered by no one? How many mornings, washing dishes, walking out into the cool air of a new day; how many evenings watching the fire, feeding the cows, finding a warm bed until dawn? Do you know anything about your great-great parents? Anything at all? And what of your life? Will anyone remember? You might end up a name on a piece of paper, a little genealogical entry, should anyone down the road think to capture your life as a bit of data.

Say you do create something. No matter how grand it is, one day, your brilliant poems; the quilts you pieced; the buildings you built; the books you wrote; will be gone, gone, gone.

...parasamgate...

This tiny personal life, with its tiny personal concerns, is so precious, so irrelevant, so approximately-nonexistent in the great span of time. This is not a reason to give up. This is a reason to live fully, greedily, savoring a wonderful meal of passing moments.

The world of twenty years ago is gone. The world of twenty minutes ago is gone. It was so complete and so beautiful, from what I recall.

The thing that keeps me crying about these pictures is not politics; I know who I'm supposed to be by birth and affiliation. It's that these men are
just
so
beautiful.

And every parade, every heartfelt demonstration of what we love, is over. So soon.

Robby Garbett's commentary is excerpted below.

...bodhi svaha!

Somme 90th Anniversary march #1
Originally uploaded by Robby Garbett [lawntffoto].

This series of pictures was taken this evening in the village where I live. For those of you not familiar with the politics and culture of Northern Ireland we are now in what is known as the 'marching season' when bands formed from one sector of the community march to commemorate key events in Loyalist history culminating in the celebration of the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne July 12th 1689 when the protestant King William defeated the catholic King James. The season is a time when, for some at least, the long term religious, cultural and political tensions surface - some years there are riots and an increase in sectarian violence.

So for some, these marches are far from neutral. They are symbols of a triumphalist, dominant and aggressive section of the community. From that point of view these pictures can be interpreted, focusing as they do on youth as part of this tradition, as a critique of an ingrained system that perpetuates difference and even intolerance. And that does happen.

But that would, to my mind, be a very narrow reading. This year on the 90th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme there is some sign of change.

The anniversary is important in Ireland because two divisions of Irish soldiers: the Ulster division formed mainly of men from the north and the Irish Division formed of volunteers from Ireland's other provinces (Ireland was nominally if reluctantly [and violently] part of the British Empire in 1916). In common with most other formations of the Empire and French troops on 1st July 1916, the Irish divisions suffered horrendous casualties. The social impact in the British Army was compounded by the recruitment strategy that had grouped men from the same towns and even factories together into units on the assumption they would fight better together. But the outmoded and flawed tactics of the British High Command meant that these close knit units were decimated. This naturally had a massive impact on those who survived. This was especially true or the Ulstermen drawn from a small community that historically had seen itself as a beleagured minority.

The anniversary is therefore an important one to remember. In the years following the first world war, civil war in the new Republic of Ireland meant that it was unpopular to remember the part played by Irishmen in the world war. But this year there will be events to commemorate their part (and their sacrifices) - something rare if not unique. At the same time news stories suggest that leaders within the Orange Order are making efforts to limit the tensions around the marches by negotiating routes that don't provoke nationalist communities.

So for me, there is another interpretation. These marches are militaristic. But they are an important part of cultural life and can exist more peacefully than they have in the recent past.

I've certainly become more aware of the complexity around the marches. And if you see them at face value you see pride and colour and a meaningful remembrance of lives given in war.

The tensions and ambiguities are still there. I was challenged by one of the marchers, while others were clearly suspicious.

But I'm glad I took them. It's a complicated history. In the past I have been tempted to see it in one dimensional terms, somehow taking pictures has helped me to look deeper.

Thank you, Robby.

The Old One-Two

Moving has never been easy.

When I left San Francisco for monastery #1, my fingernails bled from shoving things down into boxes. There was so much stuff to deal with that it was really only by getting slightly soused on some mysterious woody Lithuanian liquor that Hikari and I were able to make the final push--getting everything packed away and cleaning up.

When I left monastery #2, I filled trashcan after trashcan with crap I'd accumulated: empty yogurt containers, pieces of tissue paper, and plastic grocery bags. Even when you have nothing, the urge to accumulate persists. I was like a homeless person with a shopping cart filled with little bits of useless junk.

And now...

On Friday I was at work, having spent the previous day packing 85% of my stuff away. (On schedule, in other words. Although you know the last 15% is the hardest, and the last 5% is harder still.)

Within the span of thirty minutes I went from a happy person helping customers on a warm summer morning to a wretched, fainting, vomiting wreck. A long-lost medical monster from my past, dysmenorrhea, was back. The hardest thing is the waves of pain: it's actually uterine contractions.

The county health clinic said they could see me tomorrow. I left a message with the director, got in a cab and went there anyway. I said I had no problem sitting in the waiting room until they could see me. They saw me.

By the time I saw the nurse practitioner, I was feeling better. Exhausted. But the contractions and my period had abruptly stopped.

The unparalleled joy of not being in great pain was
so
deliciously
wonderful.

I didn't fill the prescription for painkillers. I went home and slept.

I woke up sore all over, and with a big day ahead. The plan was to load almost all my boxes into Abby's car, drive to Portland, sign some paperwork, and begin moving in to the new apartment. And to eat enormous sushi at that place in Moreland afterward, if all went well.

It didn't.

The car had been more tempermental than I remembered, and it started really giving me trouble: not accelerating reliably; dying at lights; and putt-putting on the open road, as though the engine was misfiring. Not a good time to get on I-5.

I pulled over into the only sign of civilization: a big-box hardware store in outermost Keizer.

I was suddenly grateful that I looked like a cute girl, because I know diddly about cars. On a good day, I can check the oil, but I wouldn't know where to put new oil.

A nice guy, Travis, helped me check the oil. No prob there. I tried to start the car, and it was dead; not even a whirring ignition. I went back inside and the floor manger, Max, diagnosed a fuel system problem, and set me up with a phone book.

I called around and got moral support and automotive insight (from a few friends); and a picture of what not to expect on a weekend (from a few mechanics).

The tow truck driver was a fellow my age who from that parallel universe in which beer and fishing and big trucks are taken for granted as basic aspects of life. With all that, we had a peaceful and companionable drive back to Corvallis. He was from Albany originally, and was hoping to pick up some buffalo meat from the place on Hwy 34 on the way back to Keizer. I felt--or I though I could feel--his mind move when a hybrid car with a "saving the earth" vanity plate passed; and again when a dusty old Mercedes wagon "Powered by Used Veggie Oil" overtook us. Or I was projecting; sometimes you don't know where the thought comes from.

Culture wars are all well and good: but I was helped over and over by burly white guys on this day. Human to human. And if my tow truck driver has just bought a new Jeep Grand Cherokee, well..may it benefit all beings, somehow. I was pretty delerious--mostly dehyrdrated--or I would have chuckled when we parted and he told me his name: Darrell. (It's a secret, guilty favorite of mine.)

So my stuff sits defenseless in the parking lot of an auto repair shop. Corvallis is a sweet and tiny town, but that's no guarantee this won't get ripped off. I worried. My head wouldn't stop hurting. I sat zazen on the front porch, watching the light fade, and went to bed.

I woke up this morning to find I'd left the front door unlocked; it had blown open in the night, and my wallet, camera, phone and keys were all sitting undisturbed, in plain sight just inside. Oh me of little faith! To have two major setbacks in two days, to be left really dependent on others' kindness, over and over... How could I possibly worry? I have no control at all; why should moving be easy this time? I can only do my best, keep going forward, and marvel at this life.

Photos of Note

Young Monk
Originally uploaded by Oasis Man.

Bart Aldrich is a flickr artist worthy of your attention, especially if you are interested in human beings living their lives.

He's a professional photographer based in Southern California, but from his work I'd say he's a true citizen (and lover) of the world.

Click on the photo to see his other work.

Away to the Wilderness of Pen & Paper

Our phone conversations are logged. Lasers from satellites can decode conversations based on vibrations in window glass. The sound of keystrokes can reveal the content of what's being typed with surprising accuracy. Is the only anonymity to be had in sheer numbers, in the miniscule chance that the laser will point this way? In leading a life devoid of notoreity?

A sangha member who is a foreign national glimpsed Chozen's dossier when she was asked by the HS folks at customs to provide a reference. (She had been entering the country too many times and staying for too long for their comfort.) A few keystrokes, and there were old photographs of Chozen, and data going back years. Years.

Of course you and I are not Zen masters, or the figureheads of brief but large worldwide peace movements. But still. I know I'm supposed to feel safer, but I don't.

The information is probably out there already, thanks to the internet. Google me and you can easily find my date of birth; and my parents' names and dates of birth (thanks to a family genealogy website-without-a-clue). You can see a petition I signed to halt the genocide in (current location). Plus publications, poster presentations, family photos...blogs.

Oh, hello!

To be known, but not too well. I suppose we all want that.

Things never turn out as you might think. Who could have forseen that writing a letter and dropping it in the mail would one day offer the best chance of a little privacy?