It is Easter time and I am in Florence, along with way too many visitors from places unknown. Tonight I had dinner at a local trattoria near my little rented apartment and as I walked across the Piazza del Carmine, I saw that the great church at one end was in fact open. I have never entered this stark looking church, to be sure, but rather have returned time and time again to this place to see Massaccio's stunning frescoes in the little chapel off to the side called the Brancacci Chapel. Tonight the square was pitch dark but there were lights close to the church and it appeared to be open for business. Since my very early years when I lived in Italy I have always been drawn to entering the churches here, and so I went. It was Good Friday, after all, and who knows what was about to happen.
After entering through spartan looking wooden doors, I entered the church which was lit and showing off its painted little chapels on the sides and felt ready for business. Such a contrast. Several women sat in the wooden pews and I joined them up at the front three rows back. Since the time I was young and marched through churches it was my perception that the women were the main inhabitants of churches here... A priest in white robes was talking to a woman up behind the altar, but I couldn't tell what they were saying. I sat and breathed and waited. More women came. More lights were ignited and I knew a service was about to happen. A large Christ on the crucifix was laying on the ground on the steps that let up to the altar, Yes, this was the day he died... Eventually the larger front doors of the church sprung open and a whole procession of people paraded in, led by a priest holding another crucifix, and everyone else holding small candles. It was quite beautiful. I stood up from my seat and moved to the side so I could see the whole procession...
I have watched these kind of processions a lot in my life and now I find them infinitely more interesting than I did back then. I guess it's because I inhabit the spiritual realm now in my own way, and I know the comfort of ritual. We are all trying to find our place in the larger picture, and while I used to denigrate the Catholic religion for its dogmatism and greed, I now sit there and receive it with gratitude and appreciation. Or is it compassion for those on the challenging path of awareness? What I was missing tonight was the pungent smell of burning candles everywhere which I associate with all the ancient churches I've walked into in Italy. But that's o.k. Because what I saw was a tender human drama unfolding quietly before my eyes on a chilly April night, as people mouthed prayers to the Virgin Mary in soft rippling voices. I bowed my own head but didn't say the words because I didn't know them. But, in a way, I think I did know them... They were words asking for comfort from Mary, supposed mother of Jesus, comfort and peace and wellbeing for us all. And how can you argue with that?
In the end, it doesn't matter that I am not Christian and believing in God and Jesus, because the vision is larger than any one religion: it is about simple peace, kindness, oneness, and wellbeing. The Dalai Lama once said that all religions were driven by the same human need or vision and they just happen to look different. Of course.
When I had had enough of the soft voices praying to the Virgin, I left the Carmine church with my little portion of leftovers from dinner, and I walked away into the dark night, realizing I didn't feel cold anymore. I had communion with others I would never know and that carried me as I walked away.
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Friday, April 3, 2015
Friday, March 27, 2015
Returning to an old house and finding some peace
On a beautiful Sunday morning I walked through the sagebrush with a friend to show her where I used to live many years ago ... a larger than life adobe structure on a hill overlooking Taos Valley in Northern New Mexico. I lived there for many years with someone I thought I loved, and who I tried like hell to have love me. It was a rich, dark, and turbulent time.
Life in northern New Mexico was about as different from my San Francisco experience as possible, but I was intoxicated with the new possibilities: teaching young Hispanic kids to write, making beaded jewelry, and tending my tribe of rescued cats and dogs, and finding meditation practice. I had left behind what had looked like a normal marriage and family life because love there had gone stale... I tried not to be disturbed by the rampant violence against women so common in poverty stricken areas like Taos, and all the young kids driving drunk and dying, and I taught with all my heart, and I reached people. And I began to see inside myself. But there was one person I couldn't reach, the one who seemed to matter the most. For thirteen years or so I tried, as my skin suffered in the killing dryness of high altitude air and I looked to the big sky and imagined it was like my beloved Pacific Ocean, and I called home every once in a while to reinstate my connection to my grown daughters.
It was a hard time, yes. Painful time. And I never found that love. At some point, I can't remember when, there was that proverbial last straw, the light bulb flashed and I was finally able to let him go so I could forge ahead alone and find myself. Back to San Francisco and the cool sea air, good espresso, and familiar smelling streets. And as I settled into my new life, New Mexico gradually became fainter in my memory. I didn't miss the perfume of the sagebrush, the startling magpies, or even the brilliant skies and the great Taos mountain. I missed my dear friends, but told myself that was just life. Gradually, I held the dark New Mexico years more lightly and began to let go of those old dreams. He died, this man I loved, some years later, and I was both surprised and deeply saddened. Another piece of the past was now irrevocably gone, though the images of his crooked smile and impossible charm still lurked.
Last Sunday when I walked about the house that I helped to build and lived in for so many years I was facing it for the first time since I had left, and instead of feeling chilled by old memories or regrets, I felt I was standing in front of something beautiful that I had helped create. My friend and I admired the adult birch trees all around and the gravesite of one of our wild and wonderful dogs, talking idly and breathing in the dry air. Even after two days my lungs were still trying to adjust to 7000 feet, and my skin was drawing tighter and tighter across my face... She bent down and found a small relic in the dirt, and she said, "Hey Mag, this must be yours!" A small wooden carving of a bodhisattva figure, one half of a little portable shrine from somewhere in Asia. So soft and weathered and pale in the bright sun. She handed it to me and I said, "yes, mine." How many years had that been laying on the dry earth by the house, fading into the dust? I put the piece in my pocket, and took one last look inside my old house. It was very dark in there ... it felt abandoned and neglected now ... I wanted to imagine some future inhabitants filling up the cavernous space. I felt a whiff of sadness at the forlornness of this once grand place, but I wasn't caught by the unsettling, unresolved stories of my early years; I realized I had come home, and it was just fine the way it was. Home for just a few more minutes on this Sunday morning...
We've both just become older, the house and I, I realized as I bumped on down the dirt road, and I breathed that in, and wasn't afraid.
Life in northern New Mexico was about as different from my San Francisco experience as possible, but I was intoxicated with the new possibilities: teaching young Hispanic kids to write, making beaded jewelry, and tending my tribe of rescued cats and dogs, and finding meditation practice. I had left behind what had looked like a normal marriage and family life because love there had gone stale... I tried not to be disturbed by the rampant violence against women so common in poverty stricken areas like Taos, and all the young kids driving drunk and dying, and I taught with all my heart, and I reached people. And I began to see inside myself. But there was one person I couldn't reach, the one who seemed to matter the most. For thirteen years or so I tried, as my skin suffered in the killing dryness of high altitude air and I looked to the big sky and imagined it was like my beloved Pacific Ocean, and I called home every once in a while to reinstate my connection to my grown daughters.
It was a hard time, yes. Painful time. And I never found that love. At some point, I can't remember when, there was that proverbial last straw, the light bulb flashed and I was finally able to let him go so I could forge ahead alone and find myself. Back to San Francisco and the cool sea air, good espresso, and familiar smelling streets. And as I settled into my new life, New Mexico gradually became fainter in my memory. I didn't miss the perfume of the sagebrush, the startling magpies, or even the brilliant skies and the great Taos mountain. I missed my dear friends, but told myself that was just life. Gradually, I held the dark New Mexico years more lightly and began to let go of those old dreams. He died, this man I loved, some years later, and I was both surprised and deeply saddened. Another piece of the past was now irrevocably gone, though the images of his crooked smile and impossible charm still lurked.
Last Sunday when I walked about the house that I helped to build and lived in for so many years I was facing it for the first time since I had left, and instead of feeling chilled by old memories or regrets, I felt I was standing in front of something beautiful that I had helped create. My friend and I admired the adult birch trees all around and the gravesite of one of our wild and wonderful dogs, talking idly and breathing in the dry air. Even after two days my lungs were still trying to adjust to 7000 feet, and my skin was drawing tighter and tighter across my face... She bent down and found a small relic in the dirt, and she said, "Hey Mag, this must be yours!" A small wooden carving of a bodhisattva figure, one half of a little portable shrine from somewhere in Asia. So soft and weathered and pale in the bright sun. She handed it to me and I said, "yes, mine." How many years had that been laying on the dry earth by the house, fading into the dust? I put the piece in my pocket, and took one last look inside my old house. It was very dark in there ... it felt abandoned and neglected now ... I wanted to imagine some future inhabitants filling up the cavernous space. I felt a whiff of sadness at the forlornness of this once grand place, but I wasn't caught by the unsettling, unresolved stories of my early years; I realized I had come home, and it was just fine the way it was. Home for just a few more minutes on this Sunday morning...
We've both just become older, the house and I, I realized as I bumped on down the dirt road, and I breathed that in, and wasn't afraid.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Trying to Find a Leopard ...
I just recently put down a book that I have been savoring for many weeks now, taking my time each evening in the reading and turning of pages, because it was such a beautiful journey. The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen is unlike any book I have read in my long life, a story of a journey across a vast territory that is the Himalayas, and a journey into the mind of man, one man in particular. Over ice and snow this writer treks with his friend whom he calls GS (aka George Shaller), an accomplished field biologist who is researching the exotic blue sheep called bharal and attempting to witness once again the elusive snow leopard. Matthiessen keeps us so close to the environment, both forbidding and lyrical, that we literally feel the icy feet, hear the wind's scary howl, and see the infrequent blessing of sun on a mountainside. His eye doesn't miss anything. He writes from such clear seeing that we are able to track his mind at the same time that he's on the search for the snow leopard! He carries deep loss on this journey, a wife dead of cancer, and a tugging inside for his children at home. But he is able to carry this suffering because he is wonderfully, humanly buddhist; he is a person who stays present and open to what comes his way and sheds (as he must) what he does not need. When you are trekking in the wilderness, you will not survive if you stay burdened by too much baggage (thinking of all kinds of baggage right now...). When far far away from all the support systems you know, you have to keep it simple. This goes for all the little discontents that arise on the journey because other humans perhaps let you down or piss you off, or the disappointments that come because you have not (perhaps are not meant to) succeeded in coming face to face with the legendary mystical snow leopard who knows how to disappear in the snow. This adventure in the harshest of natural landscapes is certainly a major metaphor for man's own life journey, and the message that is crystal clear to me is: do not lay your hopes too heavily on a particular outcome or goal, because everything in this life is uncertain. In this case, the snow leopard. I had a feeling all the way through this modest but very dense book that Matthiessen and his team would never come upon the leopard, because in a way that would have seemed too tidy a finish. And even though there is plenty of evidence that this beast does walk in their territory, lurking in the vast whiteness around them, he is not willing to be witnessed. Why, I wonder? Is there a particular time and alignment of forces that permit the innocent traveler to finally come upon his envisioned goal? Or arrive at his beloved destination? And the question always is, of course: then what? We must hold the desire lightly, it appears.
I learned a lot about mountain climbing, sleeping on icy mountainsides, about the culture of the sherpas and porters, and Nepalese Buddhism, about ancient pre-Buddhist remains in the landscape, and about dealing with suffering. Or should I say, dealing with adversity and pain? Because the only thing that is tangible really is the pain ... the suffering comes as a result of our human mind's dance with the difficulty. I felt the pleasure of reading clear, honest, poetic writing, which for me is one of life's major joys. I was grateful that this man worked so hard to make this journey on the mountain, and that he labored perhaps just as hard (but in a different way) to craft his experience and show us the world. I felt lonely and satisfied when I turned the last page, and was returned to my own strange landscape of mind...
In the end, what he has done makes me feel honored to be part of a community of travelers and writers, a brave and unusual bunch who write from their loving hearts, and their tireless eyes.
I learned a lot about mountain climbing, sleeping on icy mountainsides, about the culture of the sherpas and porters, and Nepalese Buddhism, about ancient pre-Buddhist remains in the landscape, and about dealing with suffering. Or should I say, dealing with adversity and pain? Because the only thing that is tangible really is the pain ... the suffering comes as a result of our human mind's dance with the difficulty. I felt the pleasure of reading clear, honest, poetic writing, which for me is one of life's major joys. I was grateful that this man worked so hard to make this journey on the mountain, and that he labored perhaps just as hard (but in a different way) to craft his experience and show us the world. I felt lonely and satisfied when I turned the last page, and was returned to my own strange landscape of mind...
In the end, what he has done makes me feel honored to be part of a community of travelers and writers, a brave and unusual bunch who write from their loving hearts, and their tireless eyes.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Hungry Mind Pauses Before Beginning Again
After almost two years of nudging and agonizing, my draft manuscript of "the memoir" is now out of my hands, sent off to be scrutinized by one of my writing teachers. I finally found a title I loved for this book, and I scoured back and forth through its pages for the last couple of weeks to make it look as tidy as I could. The theory was: if you work hard on the exterior cleaning, then cleaner, more ordered, more honest writing will emerge! Hope so. It was an interesting exercise, all that close focus ... good for the brain. The book's name is: Bowing to Elephants; Discovering Myself in the Landscape of Memory. Paying homage to elephants makes a lot of sense to me, as they conjure two important themes for me: memory and maternal character. And I happen to wholeheartedly love those beasts, and appreciate them being front and center in my book. It's an unorthodox little work, but I have to admit I am rather fond of it, and proud of myself too that I came up with 215 pages that really look like a book! We'll see........
As I look around my house I find reminders everywhere of my passion for the hallowed past, the soft textured landscape that came before. There are old paintings and drawings, old books, antique Buddhas, a beautiful old baby grand piano, an ancient dining room table, and the list goes on. On the wall by my desk a pastel drawing of when I was about six, a black and white photograph of my dad as a very young boy, and a couple of contemporary images (print-outs) of the man I first loved when I was all of 14. I seem to be addicted to stumbling around in my memory and ruminating about things that happened long ago; an astrologer long ago cautioned me not to get stuck in the past, and did I listen? Guess not. As I said yesterday to my chiropractor, I find many aspects of the past a lot more interesting and comforting to reflect on than what surrounds me today in 2015. People's manners were better, culture was revered in many ways, books were more important than television, people dressed up to go to fine restaurants or a concert, and human beings treated each other with more respect and gentleness ... and so on ... As I consider a second book to take up, I think of the life of my grandmother Dimond who was born at the turn of the 20th century and lived for 89 years, and was the person most responsible for my current wisdom and sanity. If I took up her life, I would AGAIN journey back in time (where I have been journeying these last two years!) to consider the culture she lived in and the conditions that shaped her personality, which was, by the way, a remarkable personality, a larger than life character. So, do I look back some more? And if I do, will it pull me away from what is going on around me now?
When I took a leave of absence from my hospice job, and thought about the opportunity to gain some perspective on my life journey going forward, I think I imagined I might write another book, make jewelry again, take some more trips of course, and take up the piano again ... all of these opportunities to engage in my present, not my past. I want, I need to be involved in creative work, but not rush forward with a manic "must do" attitude. I want to see my path as a full and rich one, filled with inspiration, energy, lovingkindness, and beauty. Maybe just pausing briefly now and looking at the whole picture would be helpful. There is no rush, after all. That is one of the beautiful pieces that I learned when I was a volunteer caregiver -- it was one of our core precepts. When someone is on the brink of dying, there is no need for rushing, sounding alarms, and moving quickly to fix something, because there is nothing to fix really. Only comfort and love to be given.
So, I perhaps will treat my own "future" like that, do a little contemplating, and then move forward with clarity and interest. There's comfort in that. I like the idea of picking up things you have temporarily discarded, picking them up and seeing how they feel NOW. How different is it really? Do you still love it the way you did? A very interesting exploration. When I kept returning to the pages of my book to revise and polish, I kept seeing new and different things show up, and so I tweaked and fiddled. And then set it down. And then returned to do that all over again... We keep changing, and what we scratch out on the page one day may not be what we will love and be excited about a week down the road! This all requires terrific patience, this being with the process, and trusting yourself. I think I'll give it a try ... no big decisions now, just reflecting and appreciating and gently inclining my mind to stay in the present.
As I look around my house I find reminders everywhere of my passion for the hallowed past, the soft textured landscape that came before. There are old paintings and drawings, old books, antique Buddhas, a beautiful old baby grand piano, an ancient dining room table, and the list goes on. On the wall by my desk a pastel drawing of when I was about six, a black and white photograph of my dad as a very young boy, and a couple of contemporary images (print-outs) of the man I first loved when I was all of 14. I seem to be addicted to stumbling around in my memory and ruminating about things that happened long ago; an astrologer long ago cautioned me not to get stuck in the past, and did I listen? Guess not. As I said yesterday to my chiropractor, I find many aspects of the past a lot more interesting and comforting to reflect on than what surrounds me today in 2015. People's manners were better, culture was revered in many ways, books were more important than television, people dressed up to go to fine restaurants or a concert, and human beings treated each other with more respect and gentleness ... and so on ... As I consider a second book to take up, I think of the life of my grandmother Dimond who was born at the turn of the 20th century and lived for 89 years, and was the person most responsible for my current wisdom and sanity. If I took up her life, I would AGAIN journey back in time (where I have been journeying these last two years!) to consider the culture she lived in and the conditions that shaped her personality, which was, by the way, a remarkable personality, a larger than life character. So, do I look back some more? And if I do, will it pull me away from what is going on around me now?
When I took a leave of absence from my hospice job, and thought about the opportunity to gain some perspective on my life journey going forward, I think I imagined I might write another book, make jewelry again, take some more trips of course, and take up the piano again ... all of these opportunities to engage in my present, not my past. I want, I need to be involved in creative work, but not rush forward with a manic "must do" attitude. I want to see my path as a full and rich one, filled with inspiration, energy, lovingkindness, and beauty. Maybe just pausing briefly now and looking at the whole picture would be helpful. There is no rush, after all. That is one of the beautiful pieces that I learned when I was a volunteer caregiver -- it was one of our core precepts. When someone is on the brink of dying, there is no need for rushing, sounding alarms, and moving quickly to fix something, because there is nothing to fix really. Only comfort and love to be given.
So, I perhaps will treat my own "future" like that, do a little contemplating, and then move forward with clarity and interest. There's comfort in that. I like the idea of picking up things you have temporarily discarded, picking them up and seeing how they feel NOW. How different is it really? Do you still love it the way you did? A very interesting exploration. When I kept returning to the pages of my book to revise and polish, I kept seeing new and different things show up, and so I tweaked and fiddled. And then set it down. And then returned to do that all over again... We keep changing, and what we scratch out on the page one day may not be what we will love and be excited about a week down the road! This all requires terrific patience, this being with the process, and trusting yourself. I think I'll give it a try ... no big decisions now, just reflecting and appreciating and gently inclining my mind to stay in the present.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Navigating My Hungry Mind
Now that I have officially become seventy, I am going to stop thinking about it. Or so I claim! One thing that occurred to me that made me feel all warm inside was that I have officially outlived my mother who died at 69. For some reason this feels momentous. She lived a life very different from mine and sadly never found the liberation in old age that I am now looking at. She never knew the phrase: "60 is the new 40 ... 70 is the new 50 ...." Just as well, I guess. She wouldn't have believed it anyway. She was a desperate and forever hungry soul, and I have had the memory of this living in my own body all my life... So, I had to go down the path differently, I knew this.
I have returned from a weeklong retreat of my very own making, as I hibernated at my beach house and worked on my memoir project for the entire period, every day sitting down and attending to it, and listening to the ocean at the same time, and laughing as my cats chased each other hither and yon when the wind started to howl. When I was outside and looking at the plants and hearing the Canadian geese fly overhead, I felt an immense gratitude for all the peace and the beauty, the likes of which I haven't felt in a long time. The timing was perfect, as this all followed a difficult week of confusion and self doubt, and a wish for a lot more love in my life. When I was sleeping in my bed at the beach and hearing the ocean roar in the black night, I felt comfort and love. How was this? Was it simply finding my place in the larger scheme of things? Belonging in my world for a change? I slept better and more deeply than I had in a long time. I kept my life simple, and I worked each day without much conversation with anyone. Very therapeutic. I was conversing with myself enough anyway!
Next week I will send my manuscript off to have it read and responded to by one of my young wise teachers. I look forward to the act of slipping it into a manila envelope and sending it off without a lot of fanfare, getting it out of my sight for a while. Letting it travel out there in the world feels hard. I want to see this as the very natural step that it is, like letting your own child fly away. Of course it's not easy, but it is necessary. It is what is required, after all, for things to move forward in the righteous and normal way. Someone said to me a while back, "remember your book is not you, it is just something you made..." OK ... BUT, I still feel it carries a lot of me as I imagine giving it flight. Even though it does carry much of who I am, it needs to continue somehow beyond me. That's the whole point. You don't write a book just for yourself - you write it for the world to read. And in order for that to happen, you must let it go.
Ah ... there seems to be a lot of ruminating about letting go in my mental universe these days! Must be significant. Let go of everything and you will avoid suffering, the Buddhist teacher said once. I doubt if I will ever get to that point in my life, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
One way of allowing this thing to fly more comfortably is to take my good mind and focus it on something it likes to do and something that might make me happy. There are any number of ideas here: start a new writing project, begin making jewelry with amazing beads again, get rid of 60% of my unnecessary "stuff" and feel that freedom, or return to JS Bach on the piano (I have been taking a little sabbatical from piano playing lately, thinking it was going to distract me needlessly from the writing project). And then there's my returning craving for another dog. That could take up a lot of my mental energy for sure! I have to look at this carefully, mind you, since it is likely that my wanting a dog has a lot to do with being lonely. And I also know that you can't really cure or fix loneliness. You need to weather it, and continue moving on in the present moment... It is like a lot of difficulties in our lives, which always become more painful as we butt our heads against them and try to fix them. These days I find myself staring at people walking the streets with sweet fluffy small dogs in tow, and I think, yes, this is what I want. Oh yeah? And then I remember the walking and the training and all the adjustments required in my very entrenched routine when another four legged enters my home. It is complicated. I had one remarkable dog in my life for 15 years, and she was my best friend... But as is true with all our human relationships, we are bound to lose the loving company of our four legged friends because nothing we love, crave, and long for, will endure forever. Many people will tell me I'm bonkers to take this on, have too complex a life ... my daughter's against it, and I'm sure my cats are too, but, hey, I AM the one in charge of this experience, right?
I have returned from a weeklong retreat of my very own making, as I hibernated at my beach house and worked on my memoir project for the entire period, every day sitting down and attending to it, and listening to the ocean at the same time, and laughing as my cats chased each other hither and yon when the wind started to howl. When I was outside and looking at the plants and hearing the Canadian geese fly overhead, I felt an immense gratitude for all the peace and the beauty, the likes of which I haven't felt in a long time. The timing was perfect, as this all followed a difficult week of confusion and self doubt, and a wish for a lot more love in my life. When I was sleeping in my bed at the beach and hearing the ocean roar in the black night, I felt comfort and love. How was this? Was it simply finding my place in the larger scheme of things? Belonging in my world for a change? I slept better and more deeply than I had in a long time. I kept my life simple, and I worked each day without much conversation with anyone. Very therapeutic. I was conversing with myself enough anyway!
Next week I will send my manuscript off to have it read and responded to by one of my young wise teachers. I look forward to the act of slipping it into a manila envelope and sending it off without a lot of fanfare, getting it out of my sight for a while. Letting it travel out there in the world feels hard. I want to see this as the very natural step that it is, like letting your own child fly away. Of course it's not easy, but it is necessary. It is what is required, after all, for things to move forward in the righteous and normal way. Someone said to me a while back, "remember your book is not you, it is just something you made..." OK ... BUT, I still feel it carries a lot of me as I imagine giving it flight. Even though it does carry much of who I am, it needs to continue somehow beyond me. That's the whole point. You don't write a book just for yourself - you write it for the world to read. And in order for that to happen, you must let it go.
Ah ... there seems to be a lot of ruminating about letting go in my mental universe these days! Must be significant. Let go of everything and you will avoid suffering, the Buddhist teacher said once. I doubt if I will ever get to that point in my life, but that's not going to stop me from trying.
One way of allowing this thing to fly more comfortably is to take my good mind and focus it on something it likes to do and something that might make me happy. There are any number of ideas here: start a new writing project, begin making jewelry with amazing beads again, get rid of 60% of my unnecessary "stuff" and feel that freedom, or return to JS Bach on the piano (I have been taking a little sabbatical from piano playing lately, thinking it was going to distract me needlessly from the writing project). And then there's my returning craving for another dog. That could take up a lot of my mental energy for sure! I have to look at this carefully, mind you, since it is likely that my wanting a dog has a lot to do with being lonely. And I also know that you can't really cure or fix loneliness. You need to weather it, and continue moving on in the present moment... It is like a lot of difficulties in our lives, which always become more painful as we butt our heads against them and try to fix them. These days I find myself staring at people walking the streets with sweet fluffy small dogs in tow, and I think, yes, this is what I want. Oh yeah? And then I remember the walking and the training and all the adjustments required in my very entrenched routine when another four legged enters my home. It is complicated. I had one remarkable dog in my life for 15 years, and she was my best friend... But as is true with all our human relationships, we are bound to lose the loving company of our four legged friends because nothing we love, crave, and long for, will endure forever. Many people will tell me I'm bonkers to take this on, have too complex a life ... my daughter's against it, and I'm sure my cats are too, but, hey, I AM the one in charge of this experience, right?
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Holding Things Close & Letting Them Go ...
Tomorrow I will face another birthday, and I must admit that I've been been repeatedly announcing to any who will listen lately that I'm going to be 70 so that I will actually believe it! These decade birthdays are tricky. As soon as you land on one, you begin to look back at the others: reminiscing with yourself about what it felt like to be 50, 60, or god knows, even 40. I swear that I can't go back beyond 40. That seems too far... It becomes pretty dim, like the swirl of chaotic memories I have been navigating lately in my book.
Yesterday I had a surprising conversation with a young woman in her late thirties, I'm guessing, who was actually reflecting on how cool she thought older people were. They in fact didn't seem old to her. And I started to think about the delights that come with the increased freedom as you get older. Freedom to think your own weird thoughts without apology, freedom to just up and go to the movies at the last moment, spend a lot of your day in your pajamas, eat left-over chicken for the third time, or better yet, splurge on an expensive sushi dinner! Yes, freedom comes, and slowing down comes, and reflections galore. You spend a lot of time in your head; you settle in there and begin the process of getting to know your elder self. You don't worry -- and this I told the young woman with great pleasure -- about the things you're NOT going to do in your life. There is nothing to prove to yourself anymore, except perhaps that you have the desire and capacity to take good care of yourself, and open your heart to others. You worry less about going out there and changing the wrongs of the world. You stay close to home.
Speaking of staying close to home, I am acutely aware of the things I hold close, as I remain close to home. They are, for starters: those I love, and my cats. And finding truth. My Zen calendar had a great message for me today -- it said: "Love of the truth puts you on the spot." Yes sirree, it does! I recently experienced one of the great noble truths when I forged ahead to uncover a truth that was not going to be forthcoming, and I experienced suffering. Yes, there was hurt in my heart because for some reason I assumed that everyone in the world held the same conviction as I that telling the truth is an inherently good and necessary thing to do as long as we watch our intentions, of course, and not speak "truths" with destructive or harmful wishes. What I discovered in this last experience was that I was not in control (yet again!), and that there would be things inside the heads of others that I would never know, no matter how much I persevered in the cause of truth. What do you do then? Well, of course you let it all go, and breathe, and put one foot in front of the other to engage in the array of opportunities that present themselves to you. Everything IS uncertain, and some of what comes can be unpleasant, BUT also some of what shows up is pure magic, a tiny fragment of time that sets your heart stirring, like a little house finch gobbling up seeds on your roof, or listening to the words of Alice Walker. Small moments, big expanded feelings...
We must let go and show up, or show up and let go, whether we're 70 or 40, really. I do think that as we age we have an easier time with this letting go stuff. Is it that we just have less energy to wage all our battles? Or ... that we are in fact wiser? I like to think the wisdom plays a part because that just sounds better to me! I've always loved the idea of being wise. And it is wise to see that all the varied and uncertain phenomena we meet make for a great adventure.
Tonight I will share a dinner with a number of people I hold very dear, and have gratitude for this array of good friends and family. If you don't have love and closeness in your life, you miss the point of this human journey, I am positive. And the more you see the ephemeral nature of loving relationships, the more extraordinary and beautiful they become. As I get older I promise to pause so I can really see what is in front of me, to be held with care, and to express my own true nature. I cannot do this if I stay entangled in struggle, unable to let go... I'm going to remember the words of the wise Thai forest monk Ajhan Cha who said in so many words that the more you let go the more happiness will be yours.
And tomorrow I will get in my car and drive north to the ocean to be in my little beach house and work for a week on revisions of my manuscript, and I will bring with me my beloved cats and the affection of those I have had the fortune to call loved ones. That sounds like a most lovely prospect, and I'm sure all of this will dull whatever angst I have been carrying about becoming old. Simple as that........
Yesterday I had a surprising conversation with a young woman in her late thirties, I'm guessing, who was actually reflecting on how cool she thought older people were. They in fact didn't seem old to her. And I started to think about the delights that come with the increased freedom as you get older. Freedom to think your own weird thoughts without apology, freedom to just up and go to the movies at the last moment, spend a lot of your day in your pajamas, eat left-over chicken for the third time, or better yet, splurge on an expensive sushi dinner! Yes, freedom comes, and slowing down comes, and reflections galore. You spend a lot of time in your head; you settle in there and begin the process of getting to know your elder self. You don't worry -- and this I told the young woman with great pleasure -- about the things you're NOT going to do in your life. There is nothing to prove to yourself anymore, except perhaps that you have the desire and capacity to take good care of yourself, and open your heart to others. You worry less about going out there and changing the wrongs of the world. You stay close to home.
Speaking of staying close to home, I am acutely aware of the things I hold close, as I remain close to home. They are, for starters: those I love, and my cats. And finding truth. My Zen calendar had a great message for me today -- it said: "Love of the truth puts you on the spot." Yes sirree, it does! I recently experienced one of the great noble truths when I forged ahead to uncover a truth that was not going to be forthcoming, and I experienced suffering. Yes, there was hurt in my heart because for some reason I assumed that everyone in the world held the same conviction as I that telling the truth is an inherently good and necessary thing to do as long as we watch our intentions, of course, and not speak "truths" with destructive or harmful wishes. What I discovered in this last experience was that I was not in control (yet again!), and that there would be things inside the heads of others that I would never know, no matter how much I persevered in the cause of truth. What do you do then? Well, of course you let it all go, and breathe, and put one foot in front of the other to engage in the array of opportunities that present themselves to you. Everything IS uncertain, and some of what comes can be unpleasant, BUT also some of what shows up is pure magic, a tiny fragment of time that sets your heart stirring, like a little house finch gobbling up seeds on your roof, or listening to the words of Alice Walker. Small moments, big expanded feelings...
We must let go and show up, or show up and let go, whether we're 70 or 40, really. I do think that as we age we have an easier time with this letting go stuff. Is it that we just have less energy to wage all our battles? Or ... that we are in fact wiser? I like to think the wisdom plays a part because that just sounds better to me! I've always loved the idea of being wise. And it is wise to see that all the varied and uncertain phenomena we meet make for a great adventure.
Tonight I will share a dinner with a number of people I hold very dear, and have gratitude for this array of good friends and family. If you don't have love and closeness in your life, you miss the point of this human journey, I am positive. And the more you see the ephemeral nature of loving relationships, the more extraordinary and beautiful they become. As I get older I promise to pause so I can really see what is in front of me, to be held with care, and to express my own true nature. I cannot do this if I stay entangled in struggle, unable to let go... I'm going to remember the words of the wise Thai forest monk Ajhan Cha who said in so many words that the more you let go the more happiness will be yours.
And tomorrow I will get in my car and drive north to the ocean to be in my little beach house and work for a week on revisions of my manuscript, and I will bring with me my beloved cats and the affection of those I have had the fortune to call loved ones. That sounds like a most lovely prospect, and I'm sure all of this will dull whatever angst I have been carrying about becoming old. Simple as that........
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Drops of Rain
Was it something that was said yesterday or just listening to the rain falling on my roof on this grey Sunday morning that makes me want to talk about impermanence? About the truth of everything mutating moment by moment in our lives and continually becoming ... something different. Rain, the food I eat, and the cat who perches on my desk one day looking right at me and today with his back to me ... It is clear that nothing is solid. The earth is different this morning than it was yesterday, my body has changed because I ate salmon and potatoes and beet salad at a party last night, and the cat ... well, cats are enormous mysteries, aren't they? Yesterday he was interested in staring me down as I wrote, and today not so much. Beautifully different.
When you admit to the not knowing, to the mystery, it makes the world a fascinating place, one in which you can be always curious. There is a lightness and a freedom in that. And in being curious you will have realizations, you will gain wisdom and understanding.
I sat yesterday at the Green Dragon Monastery - aka Green Gulch Farm - north of San Francisco on a deeply misty morning along with a handful of my fellow Zen Hospice volunteers in order to consider the value of sangha, or community. We sat on dark pillows and heard the rain on the roof of our yurt and our teacher said with a sly smile, "it's all about impermanence." He was repeating something Suzuki Roshi told a student, I think, which pointed to the blurring of boundaries between inner and outer, the fluid character of existence, and the interdependence of all beings. And on this peaceful day yesterday we were urged to carry this understanding of impermanence into our work with the dying, not just because we are dealing with death (certainly a symbol of impermanence), but because we as witnesses to death become part of the landscape of arising and falling away, coming and going, as we show up without our agendas and plans. Agendas actually don't work here. Remember: we are not in control, and everything changes. We are now free to be shown the mystery of the end of life. The dying will actually teach us how to do it...
Last night I attended the 80th birthday party of a very dear friend, a woman I have known for forty years or so. I watched as she accepted with grace the speeches of her loving daughters, and all the raised champagne glasses toasting her wonderfulness, and I marveled at her snow white hair and the bright light that shone in her face. Though her fine snow white hair has shown up recently, the bright light from her spirit and heart has always been there, or perhaps it is coming through more clearly now that she manifests a certain transparency. As we become older, I believe we're consciously and unconsciously shedding our skins, our stuff, our thoughts, and the surface of our bodies and our lives becomes less hard and tough, and more translucent. We become more who we really are.
And for that I am very grateful.
Proud.
And more myself.
From Peter Matthiessen's Snow Leopard:
"... there is no real edge to anything, that in the endless interpretation of the universe, a molecular flow, a cosmic energy shimmers in all stone and steel as well as flesh."
When you admit to the not knowing, to the mystery, it makes the world a fascinating place, one in which you can be always curious. There is a lightness and a freedom in that. And in being curious you will have realizations, you will gain wisdom and understanding.
I sat yesterday at the Green Dragon Monastery - aka Green Gulch Farm - north of San Francisco on a deeply misty morning along with a handful of my fellow Zen Hospice volunteers in order to consider the value of sangha, or community. We sat on dark pillows and heard the rain on the roof of our yurt and our teacher said with a sly smile, "it's all about impermanence." He was repeating something Suzuki Roshi told a student, I think, which pointed to the blurring of boundaries between inner and outer, the fluid character of existence, and the interdependence of all beings. And on this peaceful day yesterday we were urged to carry this understanding of impermanence into our work with the dying, not just because we are dealing with death (certainly a symbol of impermanence), but because we as witnesses to death become part of the landscape of arising and falling away, coming and going, as we show up without our agendas and plans. Agendas actually don't work here. Remember: we are not in control, and everything changes. We are now free to be shown the mystery of the end of life. The dying will actually teach us how to do it...
Last night I attended the 80th birthday party of a very dear friend, a woman I have known for forty years or so. I watched as she accepted with grace the speeches of her loving daughters, and all the raised champagne glasses toasting her wonderfulness, and I marveled at her snow white hair and the bright light that shone in her face. Though her fine snow white hair has shown up recently, the bright light from her spirit and heart has always been there, or perhaps it is coming through more clearly now that she manifests a certain transparency. As we become older, I believe we're consciously and unconsciously shedding our skins, our stuff, our thoughts, and the surface of our bodies and our lives becomes less hard and tough, and more translucent. We become more who we really are.
And for that I am very grateful.
Proud.
And more myself.
From Peter Matthiessen's Snow Leopard:
"... there is no real edge to anything, that in the endless interpretation of the universe, a molecular flow, a cosmic energy shimmers in all stone and steel as well as flesh."
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