In a corner of my life I care for people who are dying, and my participation in this community called Zen Hospice Project has taken on large meaning for me. Sitting at the bedside of someone who is working hard at breathing and finding comfort and peace is a reminder of where we all are going, a huge teaching about the importance of living fully in our present moment, breathing as much life into that moment as we can....
All that we really have is this. My trip to Venice is gone, likewise my adventures in Africa, India, and Bhutan, my 60th birthday, my marriage, the great movie I saw last week, my most perfect dog, the meal I ate last night. Poof! Everything goes. Returning to the present moment appears to be the only real experience we have.
Tomorrow I will have a birthday and it is with mixed emotions that I anticipate it, probably because I see this arbitrary number as something that is in itself "real," that signifies a certain place on the continuum of life, and reminds me that the continuum is moving more and more rapidly toward an uncertain end. If I were to look at that birthday as a reminder of the amazing fact of being born into this life, instead of an arrow pointing the way to its end, I would feel quite differently, perhaps even celebratory! I WAS BORN 66 years ago, and have had some remarkable events and conditions in my life that have filled me with thought, emotion, vision, energy -- that have in essence shaped this being I call Mag. And always the opportunities for learning and awareness and connection have been my companions on the journey; when I return to the present I see all of this so clearly.
This dark winter has filled me lately with melancholy, the waves of loneliness nudging me here and there in a daunting landscape that reminds me of a windy moor in a British novel. I turn on a lot of lights in the evening, and make myself a lovely kosher chicken saute with lots of rosemary and garlic, and as I feed myself slowly I can feel the gratitude settling in, pushing aside sadness. It is all HERE, NOW, isn't it? The Rumi poem about treating everything as a guest comes to mind, the reminder to invite it all in, to push away nothing......
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
Meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Jelaluddin Rumi
Blessings to all beings who each day of this year will mark their birthdays, and perhaps be able to glimpse the beauty the comes with full attention to this life right now.
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Monday, February 21, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Traveling on the River
The days of February seem to be moving quietly and swiftly by ... it seemed it was just yesterday the beginning of February and Venice was close in my visual field, and now I look at a full calendar of events and know that if I were to space out in any way I would quickly find myself at the end of the month, looking the March retreat at Spirit Rock right in the face. Just move mindfully through time and space, I tell myself, and you will find the richness of your everyday life and you won't fret about the passage of time.... And yet my everyday life sometimes feels so wanting -- as though in my mind's view at least, there is something not quite full or rich or meaningful enough there. Ever since my adventure in Venice I have felt this acute aloneness that characterizes my life, and along with it, a questioning : Have I chosen this aloneness, and if so, why? If I have not chosen it, then how did it come to be? Or, should I just give myself a break (in Buddhist thinking) and understand it as simply a part of the passing phenomena of existence?
Am sitting in my house by the beach watching the sun try to break through the clouds, spreading its warmth on this damp place, and I am reflecting on a conversation with a dear friend from last night. We looked at our roles as single elder women in the world, and the different landscapes present in each of our lives -- hers filled with people and activities, all meaningful and fulfilling, mine just barely punctuated with people and work. As the conversation ensued, I began to realize that I somehow must have willed myself to stay apart, to pull back from the intercourse of society. Though I travel, eat out, go to movies, look at art, attend concerts, I usually do all this as a solitary soul. It was this solitary soul that I encountered so directly in Venice, and for whom I tried hard to have compassion. My dear friend described me as an "intellectual" and an "observer," as though the flow of my life is some sort of course of study for me, an opportunity to observe and understand the human condition, including my own. There is something about this observer character that feels very familiar to me, because in fact I have been doing this for a very long time. An only child trying to navigate a world of dysfunctional adults, I learned quickly to pull back to try to understand the lay of the land, to figure out where it was safe to go and when. Lots of time spent sitting and watching ... and thinking ... and more watching ... There have been chapters along the way of engagement and participation and energy : the relationship thing, raising children, getting a college degree or two, teaching, trying my hand at business. But, then I fall almost gratefully into a space of no structure: of learning how to take care of this 65 year old body, of discovering the joys and insights of meditation, of immersing myself in playing Bach or Chopin on my grandmother's exquisite piano, and in this chapter there is a watery flow to my life, and fewer people in my midst. Sounds like I'm describing one of the phases of aging -- going from being youthful IN the world to pulling away in order to reflect and embrace it all as an elder....
One question which occurs to me: can one have the space and time for reflection in the midst of a fully engaged life, or does it require some amount of detaching? And if I am in fact spending this solitude reflecting on the quality of life, what is it that I understand about it all?
What occurs to me right now, looking out at a magnificent blue ocean splashing to shore outside my window, is that life feels like one long river, with many little streams and tributaries feeding it, and many twists and turns in its timeless journey: nothing staying the same, looking the same, but just the constant of a current moving forward ..... until there is no more life force to travel anymore. The segment of the river I find myself on now is one which looks like solitude. Spacious and confined, light and dark, melancholy and joyous, mindful and dreamy. Downriver who knows what the geography will look like.
Am sitting in my house by the beach watching the sun try to break through the clouds, spreading its warmth on this damp place, and I am reflecting on a conversation with a dear friend from last night. We looked at our roles as single elder women in the world, and the different landscapes present in each of our lives -- hers filled with people and activities, all meaningful and fulfilling, mine just barely punctuated with people and work. As the conversation ensued, I began to realize that I somehow must have willed myself to stay apart, to pull back from the intercourse of society. Though I travel, eat out, go to movies, look at art, attend concerts, I usually do all this as a solitary soul. It was this solitary soul that I encountered so directly in Venice, and for whom I tried hard to have compassion. My dear friend described me as an "intellectual" and an "observer," as though the flow of my life is some sort of course of study for me, an opportunity to observe and understand the human condition, including my own. There is something about this observer character that feels very familiar to me, because in fact I have been doing this for a very long time. An only child trying to navigate a world of dysfunctional adults, I learned quickly to pull back to try to understand the lay of the land, to figure out where it was safe to go and when. Lots of time spent sitting and watching ... and thinking ... and more watching ... There have been chapters along the way of engagement and participation and energy : the relationship thing, raising children, getting a college degree or two, teaching, trying my hand at business. But, then I fall almost gratefully into a space of no structure: of learning how to take care of this 65 year old body, of discovering the joys and insights of meditation, of immersing myself in playing Bach or Chopin on my grandmother's exquisite piano, and in this chapter there is a watery flow to my life, and fewer people in my midst. Sounds like I'm describing one of the phases of aging -- going from being youthful IN the world to pulling away in order to reflect and embrace it all as an elder....
One question which occurs to me: can one have the space and time for reflection in the midst of a fully engaged life, or does it require some amount of detaching? And if I am in fact spending this solitude reflecting on the quality of life, what is it that I understand about it all?
What occurs to me right now, looking out at a magnificent blue ocean splashing to shore outside my window, is that life feels like one long river, with many little streams and tributaries feeding it, and many twists and turns in its timeless journey: nothing staying the same, looking the same, but just the constant of a current moving forward ..... until there is no more life force to travel anymore. The segment of the river I find myself on now is one which looks like solitude. Spacious and confined, light and dark, melancholy and joyous, mindful and dreamy. Downriver who knows what the geography will look like.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Forgetting the Self .... in Venice and at home
Venice feels so very far away now. I have been back in my San Francisco "nest" for four days or so, and slowly picking up the threads of daily/weekly life. As I look back on my 900 photographs taken in this mysterious city, I am reminded of several things: beauty, beauty everywhere - from the grey undulating waters to the sparkling shop windows or shimmering fish market filled with ladies in fur coats, and then of course the loneliness. Those images pull me back to a sense I had each day of how alone I felt in the midst of this dark city, as I walked and walked and searched for connection to it. Shooting a lot of pictures didn't necessarily mean connecting, as anyone knows who has photographed a lot. Sometimes, you must rest and just be in the middle of things, just receive what is there. There were times when just being made me feel so exposed, so raw, so alone, and there were times when I felt ONE with the life of Venice. I guess I should feel good that I could at times melt into the landscape, and forget myself. I have a little saying on my wall from the Zen calendar which goes like this: "The basic lesson of Zen is: 'Forget yourself.'" These times of forgetting the self are definitely ones where you are joined with your fellow beings in the adventure of life, without any script or expectations... Your mind settles. I discovered that the settling of the mind in Italy is often a challenge, so charged is the social climate. The city was quiet, yes, because it was winter, and there are no cars, but the Italians are never really quiet. They stir up the environment, as though creating little whirlwinds everywhere around them. Settling in the midst of this is difficult. The times when I felt myself laughing at the Italian "dance of life" were the times when I was really in the middle of it with no resistance or commentary or craving for what was ahead... I wasn't only laughing at their dance, I was in the midst of it!
The last day of my visit was a Sunday and I went to San Marco cathedral for a solemn mass. I wanted to sit with these people in the extraordinary beauty of that golden church and just feel the energy of the Sunday service, listen to the music, and the words, and lean into understanding the place of faith in their lives. I sat off to the side, not knowing the exact ritual of the mass -- setting myself apart of course -- and sat down and looked up at this epic domed ceiling covered with gold mosaics while the voices sang the hymns, and the priest intoned the Bible readings. Then I would close my eyes and feel as though I had disappeared into community of believers. I called up the Buddha and his messages of love and compassion, and I sent this forth into the vast space. And thought about the Dalai Lama's words long ago that reminded us that all religions seek the same thing: peace, love, transcendence from suffering, wisdom. And then I listened again to the priest talk of peace, not only in the larger context of the world, but in our daily lives. And I thought, yes, we really are all wanting the same thing. The trappings and rituals may be quite different, but the intention is the same. Buddha and Christ were certainly not that distant in their visions. The service over, I reluctantly exited the church, out into the steely grey morning, the square of San Marco now filling with the winter visitors from Europe and Japan. And the connection I had felt inside the church was still with me, and in a watery, flowing sort of way, I moved forward into the day, with very little on my radar. Moving through this last day as gently, kindly, and thoughtfully as possible...
And, then all of a sudden, it is all over. And you sit in your office at home, and listen to the dryer whirring, drink your green tea, eat some toast, and ready yourself to go on to your appointments. Venice is gone. The present is here, but imbued now with the sights, smells, and the misty cold dampness of that elusive city. I think the perpetual flowing movement of the water everywhere in Venice helped me let go of ideas of control and achieving, and allowed me to be in the present, moving with the water, and with the aching loneliness. I shall try to recall all that watery-ness here in my city, and move more slowly -- stop that leaning into the future, and just BE. It can be the one of the gifts of my journey.
The last day of my visit was a Sunday and I went to San Marco cathedral for a solemn mass. I wanted to sit with these people in the extraordinary beauty of that golden church and just feel the energy of the Sunday service, listen to the music, and the words, and lean into understanding the place of faith in their lives. I sat off to the side, not knowing the exact ritual of the mass -- setting myself apart of course -- and sat down and looked up at this epic domed ceiling covered with gold mosaics while the voices sang the hymns, and the priest intoned the Bible readings. Then I would close my eyes and feel as though I had disappeared into community of believers. I called up the Buddha and his messages of love and compassion, and I sent this forth into the vast space. And thought about the Dalai Lama's words long ago that reminded us that all religions seek the same thing: peace, love, transcendence from suffering, wisdom. And then I listened again to the priest talk of peace, not only in the larger context of the world, but in our daily lives. And I thought, yes, we really are all wanting the same thing. The trappings and rituals may be quite different, but the intention is the same. Buddha and Christ were certainly not that distant in their visions. The service over, I reluctantly exited the church, out into the steely grey morning, the square of San Marco now filling with the winter visitors from Europe and Japan. And the connection I had felt inside the church was still with me, and in a watery, flowing sort of way, I moved forward into the day, with very little on my radar. Moving through this last day as gently, kindly, and thoughtfully as possible...
And, then all of a sudden, it is all over. And you sit in your office at home, and listen to the dryer whirring, drink your green tea, eat some toast, and ready yourself to go on to your appointments. Venice is gone. The present is here, but imbued now with the sights, smells, and the misty cold dampness of that elusive city. I think the perpetual flowing movement of the water everywhere in Venice helped me let go of ideas of control and achieving, and allowed me to be in the present, moving with the water, and with the aching loneliness. I shall try to recall all that watery-ness here in my city, and move more slowly -- stop that leaning into the future, and just BE. It can be the one of the gifts of my journey.
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