Last week a rainbow arced over San Francisco as we saw happiness arise in our hearts and minds when the Supreme Court made legal affirmation of equal rights to marriage throughout the country. For some it was the formalizing of what had always felt to be a normal and natural right, and for so many others there was the huge cathartic experience that at last equality under the law pertained to them. I felt tears rise to the surface as I imagined people's relief and joy at attaining this "inalienable" right, and I felt proud of the country for just a little while, this place so weighed down by the cruel legacy of racism, prejudice, and excessive reliance on firearms. I was so relieved to feel this happiness for my fellow human beings.
Lately it has been hard for me to feel any pride in being an American, though my brain tries to assure me that we live in a land of great opportunity. I do my practice, I sit in meditation, and send lovingkindness to all beings, and yet there are times when I feel I'm caught in a web of unkindness and ignorance, and I can't see the way out of it. When our fellow humans are shot down in churches, when black churches are burned to the ground in the South, when black males are targeted by law enforcement, when gays and lesbians are subjected to hate crimes and humiliation, I see a landscape, indeed a whole world that is hostile and hateful, with little courage manifested in the face of this darkness.
The Supreme Court ruling stated last week that those who are of any sexual orientation have the right to be married because they belong to our American society that was born out of principles of equality. And yet many more fights for gender equality will be necessary before gays and lesbians can count themselves on equal footing with the white establishment. As a result of Martin Luther King's tireless work in the late sixties, various laws were passed assuring basic civil rights to the African American population long shunned and denigrated. But we have come to see that despite the good intentions of such legislation, we live in a racist culture where various members of the population whose skin is dark are considered inferior and expendable. And lately we have see an inordinate amount of hatred unleashed on African American men, not to mention the continuing campaign of the conservative Republicans in Washington to defeat and humiliate our black President. A veil of deception has fallen over much of this agenda. There is no ownership of the hatred, and because there is no ownership it can metastasize and continue to spread ill will. And all this in a country that was founded on the individual person's right to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."
How do we hold all this with equanimity? How do we hold the pain of the world, whether it be elephants being slaughtered in massive numbers in Africa, women kidnapped and raped in Nigeria, the homeless dying on our city streets, and the be-heading of regular people by terrorists. Is it enough to meditate and try to spread lovingkindness, to write your own dark truths as best you can, to practice gratitude and generosity in all ways, to feed wild birds, practice speaking a foreign language, or be a model of righteousness for our grandchildren? I would like to think so. The Dalai Lama said that all change starts with the individual, and that the creation of peace starts with finding it in yourself. I believe him. And yet … I feel so small sometimes, so separated from the community of civil, kind, hardworking human beings. The disconnection is scary, sort of like the darkness I wrote about last time. In the darkness we can't see or feel our relatedness and we float fee, and sometimes we're scared. A good friend shared this insight with me last evening over dinner: this primal fear of the dark is in fact our fear of death. This is normal, she reminded me. Most of us want to hold on to our precious lives for some time to come, to not "go gently into that dark night," even though it looks way better when you say you are prepared to die. There's something so tenacious about this human life, and I think we all share a deep wish to be in communion with this imperfect process of being human, knowing as we do that the journey into death is a solitary one.
When I'm going with this, I don't exactly know. I do know these things: everything shifts and changes and we are called upon to be with that, that we are social creatures who want to be in community with one another, to be supported and attended to, that as mortals we are beset with occasional fears that our journey will soon end, that we possess hearts capable of great love and even joy for our fellow humans, and that this joy is infinitely precious… I see these truths and know that our way isn't easy. But, here we are, after all, and it does make sense to show up for our lives.
And for the burning and the mayhem … and for rainbows of justice that occasionally spread across the sky...
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Fear and Loathing in the Dark of Night
As a child I was scared of the dark. In some of the bedrooms that I inhabited growing up, I had a night light on the wall that glowed in the darkness so I could get my bearings, and when that wasn't possible, I would always open the door a crack to let light from the rooms beyond reach me. There have been times when I have had to adjust to lying there in total darkness, and believe me, it has been very difficult. There was a time in Bhutan when the village we were staying over in lost all its power just as we were eating our dinner. Makeshift flashlights were produced and I soon navigated my way to my room, but I remember feeling a sense of dread that soon I would lie down in bed and disappear in the darkness. It was blacker than black outside in Punakha, tucked away in the towering Himalayas, and I suddenly felt fear where it had not existed before. There is also isolation that comes in the dark... I felt farther away from my homeland and my people than I had ever felt, and I lay in bed and longed for night to pass quickly. Recently on retreat at Spirit Rock, I lay in my little bed in my very quiet room in the darkness and unfortunately recalled a time long ago where terror, a fear of dying in my sleep, took me over. This old memory began to possess me, for no clear reason. I tried deep breathing and "noting" the fear, I used all that I had in my toolkit then for coping with fear, and it didn't work. My body seemed to vibrate with anxiety. I even imagined staying awake until it became light, when I was sure the fear would drift away...
I have been thinking a lot since then about fear and where it comes from. Is this debilitating fear of mine rooted in childhood trauma, perhaps? And if so, must I find that, understand it, see it for what it is in order to become free of it? This is entirely possible. Like so many others, I had a childhood of instability and essential loneliness. Ignored by my alcoholic mother most of the time, I created a cocoon of other-ness in self defense. My opinions, my feelings were rarely attended to, and so I pulled into myself. And became used to loneliness, and the weird irrational feelings that come with it.
There is another possible root to this irrational fear that visits. It is part of my response to the darkness of the world we live in. I confess I spend a great deal of time reading the news and thinking about what is going on, and in the last several years my heart has felt more and more beat up, and there has been more and more anger at the greed, hatred, and ignorance of those who take guns into their hands and murder others. Along with the hurt and the anger comes the horrible feeling of helplessness. A classroom of children assaulted and young lives snuffed out, people in a movie theater, just living their lives, gunned down by a madman, so many black men attacked in many of our cities because they are black, and now a congregation of black people in an historic sanctuary in Charleston shot down by a frightening young man with racist intentions.... The fabric of our country's high moral, egalitarian values is now shredded to bits, as lawmakers in Washington sit in trepidation of the NRA and our supposed right to bear arms. There aren't words to describe this state of helplessness and anger and deep despair. So, I (we) sit with this horrible, sick feeling that our world doesn't work anymore, that we are all lost without anchors because no one seems to have the guts to stand up for victims of terrorism and violence here at home. And it is a dark place we sit in. And it is scarier than any of my nighttime dances with fear.
Where are we going as a country? How are those who are disadvantaged, poor, hurt, sick and dying, invisible ... how are those people going to be cared for? When will the system recover its conscience and courage, and fulfill the vision of this being a government "of the people, by the people, and for the people"?
I worry for my precious grandchildren and the world they are becoming adults in, but then I guess that's the prerogative of all elders. I remember my own grandmother expressing her distress at the way our world was becoming more violent and chaotic and cruel, and that was over thirty years ago. So the wheel of my life is turning, and it is my turn to stand at the edge and look out into the great sprawling, uncertainty that death offers, and feel fear in my heart for the landscape my beloved family have to travel.
The Buddhist teachings tell us fear is just a feeling that comes and then passes, like all sensations, thoughts, and phenomena. Yes, I understand. I saw that when night ended and it became light, and the fear of being dead moved on. My job apparently is to hold this fear as best I can when it appears, and to try to love my fragile self in the process. We are all vulnerable, and we also know there are those who are exceedingly more vulnerable than we are. We humans have a shared frailty and uncertainty and we must feel it and speak about it, and somehow we must endure through the dark times. Gandhi once said of India's relationship to the British something like, "we will not fight, but we will wear them down with our capacity to suffer." I'm thinking that we must suffer through this inexplicable and violent time without giving up, even as we are visited by the dark fears, the sleepless nights, and outburst of rage and tears.
I guess I will continue my practice of making sure there is some light shining in the darkness when I am trying to sleep...
I have been thinking a lot since then about fear and where it comes from. Is this debilitating fear of mine rooted in childhood trauma, perhaps? And if so, must I find that, understand it, see it for what it is in order to become free of it? This is entirely possible. Like so many others, I had a childhood of instability and essential loneliness. Ignored by my alcoholic mother most of the time, I created a cocoon of other-ness in self defense. My opinions, my feelings were rarely attended to, and so I pulled into myself. And became used to loneliness, and the weird irrational feelings that come with it.
There is another possible root to this irrational fear that visits. It is part of my response to the darkness of the world we live in. I confess I spend a great deal of time reading the news and thinking about what is going on, and in the last several years my heart has felt more and more beat up, and there has been more and more anger at the greed, hatred, and ignorance of those who take guns into their hands and murder others. Along with the hurt and the anger comes the horrible feeling of helplessness. A classroom of children assaulted and young lives snuffed out, people in a movie theater, just living their lives, gunned down by a madman, so many black men attacked in many of our cities because they are black, and now a congregation of black people in an historic sanctuary in Charleston shot down by a frightening young man with racist intentions.... The fabric of our country's high moral, egalitarian values is now shredded to bits, as lawmakers in Washington sit in trepidation of the NRA and our supposed right to bear arms. There aren't words to describe this state of helplessness and anger and deep despair. So, I (we) sit with this horrible, sick feeling that our world doesn't work anymore, that we are all lost without anchors because no one seems to have the guts to stand up for victims of terrorism and violence here at home. And it is a dark place we sit in. And it is scarier than any of my nighttime dances with fear.
Where are we going as a country? How are those who are disadvantaged, poor, hurt, sick and dying, invisible ... how are those people going to be cared for? When will the system recover its conscience and courage, and fulfill the vision of this being a government "of the people, by the people, and for the people"?
I worry for my precious grandchildren and the world they are becoming adults in, but then I guess that's the prerogative of all elders. I remember my own grandmother expressing her distress at the way our world was becoming more violent and chaotic and cruel, and that was over thirty years ago. So the wheel of my life is turning, and it is my turn to stand at the edge and look out into the great sprawling, uncertainty that death offers, and feel fear in my heart for the landscape my beloved family have to travel.
The Buddhist teachings tell us fear is just a feeling that comes and then passes, like all sensations, thoughts, and phenomena. Yes, I understand. I saw that when night ended and it became light, and the fear of being dead moved on. My job apparently is to hold this fear as best I can when it appears, and to try to love my fragile self in the process. We are all vulnerable, and we also know there are those who are exceedingly more vulnerable than we are. We humans have a shared frailty and uncertainty and we must feel it and speak about it, and somehow we must endure through the dark times. Gandhi once said of India's relationship to the British something like, "we will not fight, but we will wear them down with our capacity to suffer." I'm thinking that we must suffer through this inexplicable and violent time without giving up, even as we are visited by the dark fears, the sleepless nights, and outburst of rage and tears.
I guess I will continue my practice of making sure there is some light shining in the darkness when I am trying to sleep...
Monday, June 15, 2015
What Matters
I have just returned from a week at Spirit Rock Meditation Center in the dry golden hills of Marin where I sat in silence with 50 fellow meditators, all "elders," as we considered aging, dying and awakening. For some a daunting topic, yes, but for those of us who have slipped past the half century mark, not at all irrelevant. During these days of retreat there were expansive moments of stillness with only the wild turkeys in the distance cheering us on (or so it felt), an ever changing climate from grey and foggy to bright and steamy, the turbulent workings of our hardworking brains, thoughtful inquiry into what is real in our lives now that we're old, and ultimately a lot of love and compassion born out of the community, our shared experience of both diminishing capacities and accumulated wisdom, as well as the need to participate fully in our lives.
What matters to me now? We talked about this together last week quite mindfully of course, closing our eyes occasionally to dig deeper. The road ahead of us is shortening day by day, and we take that to heart. Each day carries weight now because we see more clearly that our journey could end at any moment. So ... what does matter? How will we give ourselves to this life from here on?
Beyond the obvious - which for me is family, my sweet community of human beings that I've seen grow from the beginning and who feel like bedrock for me - there is an array of things that matter, spreading out in front of me like a colorful mosaic. I'm going to let these things tumble out now and see what I want to say about them: Music - the making of it on my grandmother's piano from the age of eight and the listening to it in concert halls, churches, and in the privacy of my living room, Art - the creative expressions I have worked at ever since I was a child making objects out of clay, followed by the years I poured out words on paper in endless journals trying to make sense of my life, and later when I pieced unusual beads together into necklaces in order to tell a story and finally called myself an artist, and finally the return in this final chapter to my first love: words, and the promise of a completed book. Service, working for the benefit of others - now there's something that matters; this attraction took different forms and finally brought me to Zen Hospice Project and the great learning at the bedside of those were were dying... and there is Generosity, driven by my grandmother's words to me as a child about the moral responsibility of the well-to-do in life that always lived in my mind, taught me to give whenever possible to those who were in need ... And of course, there is Speaking the truth, born out of a young life surrounded by those who cloaked reality and buried dark secrets, that speaking of the truth leading me ultimately to landing on the Buddhist path where I could feel at home seeing what is real and true, understanding suffering and freedom from suffering. Animals matter to me: those four legged furry beings and winged creatures who witness us, who display their beauty, humor, and intelligence, and remind us that we are all brothers and sisters. The pages of the Books I have read matter a great deal to me, from the time I was a young girl and escaped into literature to find my place, to understand other worlds and be thrilled by the beauty of language; for an only child who grew up before television and electronics, books fed my mind and heart. Friendship and community come to mind as well... the sharing of our loves and our ideas, telling our stories again and again, laughing when we're on the verge of crying, and crying when we need to, safely ... inhabiting that safe place of like minded human beings. Contemplation and practice ... that spacious landscape where I have been able to find real peace, self love, the truth, and the preciousness of life itself.
These things that "matter" have been with me for a long time, they have helped form my character. I first experienced beauty (art, music) when I was a child of six or seven, which was about the same time I began learning about how we were connected (and responsible) to those around us because I listened carefully to my grandmother. I don't know exactly when I saw that telling the truth was exciting beyond measure ... I was too busy trying to get people to listen most of the time! I do know I always felt related to all the cats that we had, that they were highly intelligent animals with a distinct need to be witnessed. And when I first saw the elephants in Africa I felt in an instant that we had a connection, human to animal... In my seventy years there have been a few friends who have felt like partners in this life adventure (one of them from the age of three!), women who witness, speak the truth, and are capable of holding love in their hearts throughout this perilous ride ... It seems to me that it isn't until we get to be "of a certain age" that we allow ourselves to pause to appreciate the things that matter. Once we affirm it, we can do no less than continue living our lives according to these values, paying careful attention each day to what we love. There is only now, of course - no past and no future. No time to waste.
I love this subject, and invite anyone reading this to join in the conversation with me. It is a way we can remember who we are. What matters to you?
What matters to me now? We talked about this together last week quite mindfully of course, closing our eyes occasionally to dig deeper. The road ahead of us is shortening day by day, and we take that to heart. Each day carries weight now because we see more clearly that our journey could end at any moment. So ... what does matter? How will we give ourselves to this life from here on?
Beyond the obvious - which for me is family, my sweet community of human beings that I've seen grow from the beginning and who feel like bedrock for me - there is an array of things that matter, spreading out in front of me like a colorful mosaic. I'm going to let these things tumble out now and see what I want to say about them: Music - the making of it on my grandmother's piano from the age of eight and the listening to it in concert halls, churches, and in the privacy of my living room, Art - the creative expressions I have worked at ever since I was a child making objects out of clay, followed by the years I poured out words on paper in endless journals trying to make sense of my life, and later when I pieced unusual beads together into necklaces in order to tell a story and finally called myself an artist, and finally the return in this final chapter to my first love: words, and the promise of a completed book. Service, working for the benefit of others - now there's something that matters; this attraction took different forms and finally brought me to Zen Hospice Project and the great learning at the bedside of those were were dying... and there is Generosity, driven by my grandmother's words to me as a child about the moral responsibility of the well-to-do in life that always lived in my mind, taught me to give whenever possible to those who were in need ... And of course, there is Speaking the truth, born out of a young life surrounded by those who cloaked reality and buried dark secrets, that speaking of the truth leading me ultimately to landing on the Buddhist path where I could feel at home seeing what is real and true, understanding suffering and freedom from suffering. Animals matter to me: those four legged furry beings and winged creatures who witness us, who display their beauty, humor, and intelligence, and remind us that we are all brothers and sisters. The pages of the Books I have read matter a great deal to me, from the time I was a young girl and escaped into literature to find my place, to understand other worlds and be thrilled by the beauty of language; for an only child who grew up before television and electronics, books fed my mind and heart. Friendship and community come to mind as well... the sharing of our loves and our ideas, telling our stories again and again, laughing when we're on the verge of crying, and crying when we need to, safely ... inhabiting that safe place of like minded human beings. Contemplation and practice ... that spacious landscape where I have been able to find real peace, self love, the truth, and the preciousness of life itself.
These things that "matter" have been with me for a long time, they have helped form my character. I first experienced beauty (art, music) when I was a child of six or seven, which was about the same time I began learning about how we were connected (and responsible) to those around us because I listened carefully to my grandmother. I don't know exactly when I saw that telling the truth was exciting beyond measure ... I was too busy trying to get people to listen most of the time! I do know I always felt related to all the cats that we had, that they were highly intelligent animals with a distinct need to be witnessed. And when I first saw the elephants in Africa I felt in an instant that we had a connection, human to animal... In my seventy years there have been a few friends who have felt like partners in this life adventure (one of them from the age of three!), women who witness, speak the truth, and are capable of holding love in their hearts throughout this perilous ride ... It seems to me that it isn't until we get to be "of a certain age" that we allow ourselves to pause to appreciate the things that matter. Once we affirm it, we can do no less than continue living our lives according to these values, paying careful attention each day to what we love. There is only now, of course - no past and no future. No time to waste.
I love this subject, and invite anyone reading this to join in the conversation with me. It is a way we can remember who we are. What matters to you?
Sunday, June 7, 2015
A Beautiful Horse Race and some Tears
Yesterday at my granddaughter's birthday party I watched the Belmont Stakes along with every other member of the family eager to be witness to racing history. Oddly enough, no one in our family pays much attention to racing during the "season,' and it is only when the push comes to shove that we all sit there breathlessly waiting to see if this one mortal animal called American Pharaoh could capture the first Triple Crown since 1978. Well, this sleek mellow looking brown horse did the job as he pulled away effortlessly from the pack of contenders in the home stretch. Glasses were raised, there were rounds of cheering, and adrenaline flowed through ... and then tears came to my eyes.
Why the tears? First off, I am a sucker for happy story endings when it comes to animals. My eyes dribbled tears when I watched the movie "Seabiscuit," and back in the olden days when we all watched Lassie, of course we teared up, our hearts warming and settling because once again Lassie was going to be o.k. Many of us turn animals into heroes, it seems, investing them with romantic stories that we make up because of course they can't speak their own experience; these tales show us that overcoming hardship, bad luck, and even cruelty is possible. And when the animals rise up and prevail they carry us with them to a place where the world feels like a kind and good place... We need that, of course. When we have pets, we weave narratives in our heads about what they're thinking, imagining, and feeling, and then we behave accordingly -- or at least I do! Cats are hard to do this with because they are so bloody inscrutable; they don't really wish to be understood. Dogs are pretty transparent and available, but still ... still I don't think we really know what they're feeling.
Horses are a different deal, I think. The horse is a mythical and elegant animal who parades, then streaks across our landscape as if he (or she) was destined for greatness. When we saw American Pharaoh race to the finish yesterday it was as though he was fulfilling his entire purpose in life in that very moment. It was a giant and grand moment, never to be experienced again... even more magnificent than the orgasmic finale of the best Beethoven symphony. And when you find yourself in that split second of vibrating joy, why wouldn't you cry just a little?
I cried also because I thought of my mother yesterday. She would have raised her glass and shrieked with pleasure along with everyone else at the young horse's victory. She loved horse racing, and used to host Kentucky Derby parties in her grand apartment in Pacific Heights. In her inner fantasy world where she became an F. Scott Fitzgerald flapper, a famous bohemian artist, or just an exquisite grand dame sipping her Scotch and telling funny stories, she was also perhaps the well heeled owner of a few stunning thoroughbreds whom she adored. She grew up in Long Island around people who made money from horses and became prideful in the process; she knew that life well and was attracted to it. Was it the excitement of possessing a beautiful animal who performed superhuman feats and made you lots of money? Was it the adoration that could come with glory? I am not sure. It may just have been that it was a world where everyone dressed well, was surrounded by beauty, and always had plenty to drink...
Tomorrow I head off for a silent meditation retreat where the topic for reflection will be aging and death, and my mother is already lodged in my mind in readiness. She seems to show up when I need to learn more about impermanence and compassion, such as the time in Cambodia after a long day of visiting the Killing Fields when I had a dream that brought us together. She died in 1991, but in many ways she still rests in my heart in present time, waiting for the right time to show up again. All those thoughts I used to have about her death "freeing" me from our fractious and painful relationship are like so many stormy bad weather clouds that toss us this way and that and then move on. I'm glad for this impermanence of feeling, because really and truly I don't think I ever wanted to get rid of her... I have this funny feeling that our conversation is far from finished.
Why the tears? First off, I am a sucker for happy story endings when it comes to animals. My eyes dribbled tears when I watched the movie "Seabiscuit," and back in the olden days when we all watched Lassie, of course we teared up, our hearts warming and settling because once again Lassie was going to be o.k. Many of us turn animals into heroes, it seems, investing them with romantic stories that we make up because of course they can't speak their own experience; these tales show us that overcoming hardship, bad luck, and even cruelty is possible. And when the animals rise up and prevail they carry us with them to a place where the world feels like a kind and good place... We need that, of course. When we have pets, we weave narratives in our heads about what they're thinking, imagining, and feeling, and then we behave accordingly -- or at least I do! Cats are hard to do this with because they are so bloody inscrutable; they don't really wish to be understood. Dogs are pretty transparent and available, but still ... still I don't think we really know what they're feeling.
Horses are a different deal, I think. The horse is a mythical and elegant animal who parades, then streaks across our landscape as if he (or she) was destined for greatness. When we saw American Pharaoh race to the finish yesterday it was as though he was fulfilling his entire purpose in life in that very moment. It was a giant and grand moment, never to be experienced again... even more magnificent than the orgasmic finale of the best Beethoven symphony. And when you find yourself in that split second of vibrating joy, why wouldn't you cry just a little?
I cried also because I thought of my mother yesterday. She would have raised her glass and shrieked with pleasure along with everyone else at the young horse's victory. She loved horse racing, and used to host Kentucky Derby parties in her grand apartment in Pacific Heights. In her inner fantasy world where she became an F. Scott Fitzgerald flapper, a famous bohemian artist, or just an exquisite grand dame sipping her Scotch and telling funny stories, she was also perhaps the well heeled owner of a few stunning thoroughbreds whom she adored. She grew up in Long Island around people who made money from horses and became prideful in the process; she knew that life well and was attracted to it. Was it the excitement of possessing a beautiful animal who performed superhuman feats and made you lots of money? Was it the adoration that could come with glory? I am not sure. It may just have been that it was a world where everyone dressed well, was surrounded by beauty, and always had plenty to drink...
Tomorrow I head off for a silent meditation retreat where the topic for reflection will be aging and death, and my mother is already lodged in my mind in readiness. She seems to show up when I need to learn more about impermanence and compassion, such as the time in Cambodia after a long day of visiting the Killing Fields when I had a dream that brought us together. She died in 1991, but in many ways she still rests in my heart in present time, waiting for the right time to show up again. All those thoughts I used to have about her death "freeing" me from our fractious and painful relationship are like so many stormy bad weather clouds that toss us this way and that and then move on. I'm glad for this impermanence of feeling, because really and truly I don't think I ever wanted to get rid of her... I have this funny feeling that our conversation is far from finished.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Conversations about What is Real
My head is filled with a refreshing new sense of Mag, as I remember a rich conversation with a friend yesterday about the choices we make in our lives and how and why we make them. I found myself saying things like, "Even though a voice inside tells me to go out and walk on the beach, I really find I don't want to," which is followed by the voice that says, "but, oh, you know it's good for you, my dear." And there we have it. The fascist train of thought that has been lashing me about all my life, instructing and driving me to do the right thing. As though someone up there was keeping score! So, I said to my friend, "what my body is telling me is that it does NOT want to walk the beach today … too many aches in the hips and knees … and let's face it, walking on soft sand is a real challenge even if you aren't facing deteriorating knees at age 70." And we laughed together, thank God, that we can finally get to the truth of things, and not be so hardwired to perform. We can just be. The truth of things yesterday was that I preferred sitting in my living room gazing at the ocean, listening to Bach, reading, and talking with a true old friend. No harm done, right?
The roots of this strange habit are deep indeed. As my mother pursued a career as a painter, and my father put on his gray flannel suit and went into the city to work, I tried like crazy to figure out the right path to get people, MY people, to recognize me, to see me as good and smart and worthy. I was about six or seven at the time. Shored up by my grandmother, I studied hard in school, took piano lessons earnestly, and figured out my table manners. This became my career. Develop my brain that lived inside a head that my mother had pronounced "too big for your body." When I became an adolescent and then more acceptable in my mother's society of hard drinking intellectuals, I remember feeling grown up and proud. I felt I had worth and that I was seen through the haze of cigarette smoke. I think by then I had given up on being hugged and kissed and cherished. And when I met a similarly brainy young man in college whose brown eyes reached out and who loved getting lost in conversation with me, I thought I was in love. My innocent shipboard romance five years before was now a dim memory, and I plunged recklessly into loving and being loved by this man. I had no clue. All I knew was that I needed someone to listen to me, to see me.
Many years have passed since that time, years in which I have continued to drive myself to improve my mind, and my life in general. Relationships did come and go, and it appears I wasn't very good at them, and only with a great deal of patience and determination was I able to find closeness with my two beautiful daughters, as I kept reminding them that I came by my maternal deficiencies honestly, raised by a woman with no clue how to give love. Deficient -- such a cruel word, really. And I held that close for a very long time…. My brain was always just fine, and I fine-tuned it by reading James Joyce and Tolstoy, and training to be an English teacher, but my heart didn't seem to know how to navigate the complicated relationships I had entered into. The Buddha teaches us that we are all complete and good just the way we are -- that we are NOT deficient. But I didn't learn that until I passed the half century mark in my life, and even then it proved to be a tough lesson for me.
Last night at my local tavern in the Old Valley Ford Hotel I was drinking a margarita and reading Being Mortal on my Kindle as people around me noisily delighted in each other's company. A man sitting next to me at the bar with a worn and friendly face commented that he thought I was reading grim stuff. "That's kind of a downer, it seems to me, " he said. "Oh, no, not dark and grim … really inspiring," I said as I read about muscle and bone deterioration, and the shrinking of the brain, and withering of eye muscle in the aging human. "I work with dying people," I told him, "and I find this interesting… we need to see what is going on, not pretend that we're not aging and falling apart. And besides, this guy who is a doctor is advocating for honest realistic care of the old, sick, and dying." And my rancher friend with the leathery face drank his rum and coke and nodded, his face softening. He got it. He then went on to tell me about the passion of his life: raising cattle. He talked with pride about how well he cared for his cows, and when pressed by me, he admitted that yes, he raised them not just for the milk. And as he began to speak the truth about his work, he also became more interested in learning about why I gave my time to work in hospice. And even though I could never imagine killing animals to make a living, in that moment I saw his respect for the cows he was tending, and I trusted him. We were telling each other real stories about ourselves. We were people "of a certain age" sitting around on a Saturday night drinking and doing something else we both seemed to enjoy: telling what was real for us and being witnessed.
I went to bear witness to a dead whale on a nearby beach the night before last. This was the eighth whale to be washed ashore since April. I got close to the 27 foot creature in the early evening light to take some pictures, and my heart went out to this young wild animal who had died before her time and lay there decaying before me as the sea gulls started to do their job. And I thought about the seven others who had mysteriously shown up on our shores in recent months, and I wanted to know WHY. Of course I did. That was my brain trying to do its job. All sentient beings -- human or animal -- are born, grow up, age and die, we know this to be true. But some, like this poor beast, don't get to grow up all the way… My rancher friend and I had done some growing up, we were around the same age it seemed, and I'm sure we both felt the age in our bodies as we talked last night, and I wanted to imagine each of us offering gratitude now and then for our physical selves that have carried us this far.
When I left the beach and the dead whale, I walked slowly up a steep hill of shifting sand, and my knees hurt and my ankles hurt, and yet that felt secondary; I had been a part of something magnificent. Life's enormity, and its darkness. And it was all good. That was one walk on the beach that I would take again.
The roots of this strange habit are deep indeed. As my mother pursued a career as a painter, and my father put on his gray flannel suit and went into the city to work, I tried like crazy to figure out the right path to get people, MY people, to recognize me, to see me as good and smart and worthy. I was about six or seven at the time. Shored up by my grandmother, I studied hard in school, took piano lessons earnestly, and figured out my table manners. This became my career. Develop my brain that lived inside a head that my mother had pronounced "too big for your body." When I became an adolescent and then more acceptable in my mother's society of hard drinking intellectuals, I remember feeling grown up and proud. I felt I had worth and that I was seen through the haze of cigarette smoke. I think by then I had given up on being hugged and kissed and cherished. And when I met a similarly brainy young man in college whose brown eyes reached out and who loved getting lost in conversation with me, I thought I was in love. My innocent shipboard romance five years before was now a dim memory, and I plunged recklessly into loving and being loved by this man. I had no clue. All I knew was that I needed someone to listen to me, to see me.
Many years have passed since that time, years in which I have continued to drive myself to improve my mind, and my life in general. Relationships did come and go, and it appears I wasn't very good at them, and only with a great deal of patience and determination was I able to find closeness with my two beautiful daughters, as I kept reminding them that I came by my maternal deficiencies honestly, raised by a woman with no clue how to give love. Deficient -- such a cruel word, really. And I held that close for a very long time…. My brain was always just fine, and I fine-tuned it by reading James Joyce and Tolstoy, and training to be an English teacher, but my heart didn't seem to know how to navigate the complicated relationships I had entered into. The Buddha teaches us that we are all complete and good just the way we are -- that we are NOT deficient. But I didn't learn that until I passed the half century mark in my life, and even then it proved to be a tough lesson for me.
Last night at my local tavern in the Old Valley Ford Hotel I was drinking a margarita and reading Being Mortal on my Kindle as people around me noisily delighted in each other's company. A man sitting next to me at the bar with a worn and friendly face commented that he thought I was reading grim stuff. "That's kind of a downer, it seems to me, " he said. "Oh, no, not dark and grim … really inspiring," I said as I read about muscle and bone deterioration, and the shrinking of the brain, and withering of eye muscle in the aging human. "I work with dying people," I told him, "and I find this interesting… we need to see what is going on, not pretend that we're not aging and falling apart. And besides, this guy who is a doctor is advocating for honest realistic care of the old, sick, and dying." And my rancher friend with the leathery face drank his rum and coke and nodded, his face softening. He got it. He then went on to tell me about the passion of his life: raising cattle. He talked with pride about how well he cared for his cows, and when pressed by me, he admitted that yes, he raised them not just for the milk. And as he began to speak the truth about his work, he also became more interested in learning about why I gave my time to work in hospice. And even though I could never imagine killing animals to make a living, in that moment I saw his respect for the cows he was tending, and I trusted him. We were telling each other real stories about ourselves. We were people "of a certain age" sitting around on a Saturday night drinking and doing something else we both seemed to enjoy: telling what was real for us and being witnessed.
I went to bear witness to a dead whale on a nearby beach the night before last. This was the eighth whale to be washed ashore since April. I got close to the 27 foot creature in the early evening light to take some pictures, and my heart went out to this young wild animal who had died before her time and lay there decaying before me as the sea gulls started to do their job. And I thought about the seven others who had mysteriously shown up on our shores in recent months, and I wanted to know WHY. Of course I did. That was my brain trying to do its job. All sentient beings -- human or animal -- are born, grow up, age and die, we know this to be true. But some, like this poor beast, don't get to grow up all the way… My rancher friend and I had done some growing up, we were around the same age it seemed, and I'm sure we both felt the age in our bodies as we talked last night, and I wanted to imagine each of us offering gratitude now and then for our physical selves that have carried us this far.
When I left the beach and the dead whale, I walked slowly up a steep hill of shifting sand, and my knees hurt and my ankles hurt, and yet that felt secondary; I had been a part of something magnificent. Life's enormity, and its darkness. And it was all good. That was one walk on the beach that I would take again.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Conjuring Love
The writer Helen Macdonald said in an interview today that animals are "conjures" in the lives of humans, beings who help them hold and live through times of grief. That word "conjure" is a beautiful one, I think; it's about transformation and change. When we are lost, hurt and confused, we can't see how to go forward, and so we simply muddle along. In a lot of suffering… This woman's eloquent and poetic book explores her experience of grief as she trains and learns to live with a goshawk, one of the wildest and most savage of feral birds. She describes letting go of human-ness and becoming as wild as the hawk in the course of this relationship, and I am reminded that our connection to animals, either tamed or wild, can allow us to leave behind our linear mental ways and join them in the mysterious animal realm. We can touch the animal in ourselves and come to balance.
I had a fifteen year relationship with a dog who changed my life at a time when I sorely needed it. She was a Golden Retriever and her name was Francesca. I was living in Northern New Mexico in a brand new relationship with a person who called himself "an emotional cripple," and I was convinced I could transform him by offering my love. Years unfolded … a house was built, a teaching job was found, and a honey colored dog with wavy hair came to live with me ... and she became my best friend. She knew a needy person when she saw one! As my new affair went from good to bad, Francesca and I became bonded. She went everywhere with me, and watched me incessantly. He called her a "wimp" and "neurotic," for reasons that eluded me, and I in turn felt accused. No matter, she was my witness: when I was cooking dinner, walking in the woods, or crying into my pillow. We were in a car crash together one night where I miraculously escaped grave injury, and my great companion disappeared into the high mesa in terror. Some loving friends helped me in my search the following day, and she was discovered as she searched the hills for my now defunct car.
Later, when I finally said goodbye to my painful 12 year relationship, she learned to live in a city dwelling after years of exploring the southwestern landscape, and she went to work with me in my jewelry gallery, and at the bedside of the dying at Laguna Honda Hospital in San Francisco. She became a hospice dog. She was in her element as she leaned into the frail bodies of patients who were grateful for her golden warm body. When I took her for walks on the beach, she always stayed by my side, declining the possibility of play with her fellow "four leggeds" racing through wet sand all joyful and smelly. I always said she saw herself as person in a dog suit, not really a dog. And she had a job to do: take care of me.
Her companionship took me through deep grief, as I first tried to forge a life of love and dedication, and then later summon the courage to live alone for the first time in my life. The baggage I carried was heavy, from the guilt of abandoning a twenty-five year old marriage, to turning my back on kids and home, and trying desperately to believe in the possibility of new love with a person clearly not up for the challenge. It was as though I was following in my mother's footsteps, with her continuous parade of husbands, and the notion that I could be her haunted me and added to the weight of the baggage. Like her, I was living an illusion, and sadly it took many years to give it all up. But when I looked into Francesca's dark brown eyes I saw unadulterated love and confidence, and this shored me up much of the time. Love was present right there. And looking back now, I feel as though she and I met each other half way; as time passed she became more and more human, always knowing what to do or how to be without ever being told, and I grew closer and closer what I call the essence of dog: devotion and presence.
She lived a very long life, the last year of it with cancer, and when I finally let her go, my broken left arm wrapped around her emaciated old body, I thought that for sure there would never be a love like that again in my future. You can't conjure that kind of magic. I tried and failed with another dog. I resigned myself to the quiet, easy, exquisite companionship of cats… And then love came through a doorway unannounced. On a bright sunny morning recently, I held the phone to my ears and heard a warm, young sounding male voice from across the country conjure our shared young love during a far distant time when life was so much simpler.
We tell ourselves stories in order to live, writes Joan Didion. We also tell ourselves stories in order to remember love's gifts. More tales of conjuring to come, I promise...
I had a fifteen year relationship with a dog who changed my life at a time when I sorely needed it. She was a Golden Retriever and her name was Francesca. I was living in Northern New Mexico in a brand new relationship with a person who called himself "an emotional cripple," and I was convinced I could transform him by offering my love. Years unfolded … a house was built, a teaching job was found, and a honey colored dog with wavy hair came to live with me ... and she became my best friend. She knew a needy person when she saw one! As my new affair went from good to bad, Francesca and I became bonded. She went everywhere with me, and watched me incessantly. He called her a "wimp" and "neurotic," for reasons that eluded me, and I in turn felt accused. No matter, she was my witness: when I was cooking dinner, walking in the woods, or crying into my pillow. We were in a car crash together one night where I miraculously escaped grave injury, and my great companion disappeared into the high mesa in terror. Some loving friends helped me in my search the following day, and she was discovered as she searched the hills for my now defunct car.
Later, when I finally said goodbye to my painful 12 year relationship, she learned to live in a city dwelling after years of exploring the southwestern landscape, and she went to work with me in my jewelry gallery, and at the bedside of the dying at Laguna Honda Hospital in San Francisco. She became a hospice dog. She was in her element as she leaned into the frail bodies of patients who were grateful for her golden warm body. When I took her for walks on the beach, she always stayed by my side, declining the possibility of play with her fellow "four leggeds" racing through wet sand all joyful and smelly. I always said she saw herself as person in a dog suit, not really a dog. And she had a job to do: take care of me.
Her companionship took me through deep grief, as I first tried to forge a life of love and dedication, and then later summon the courage to live alone for the first time in my life. The baggage I carried was heavy, from the guilt of abandoning a twenty-five year old marriage, to turning my back on kids and home, and trying desperately to believe in the possibility of new love with a person clearly not up for the challenge. It was as though I was following in my mother's footsteps, with her continuous parade of husbands, and the notion that I could be her haunted me and added to the weight of the baggage. Like her, I was living an illusion, and sadly it took many years to give it all up. But when I looked into Francesca's dark brown eyes I saw unadulterated love and confidence, and this shored me up much of the time. Love was present right there. And looking back now, I feel as though she and I met each other half way; as time passed she became more and more human, always knowing what to do or how to be without ever being told, and I grew closer and closer what I call the essence of dog: devotion and presence.
She lived a very long life, the last year of it with cancer, and when I finally let her go, my broken left arm wrapped around her emaciated old body, I thought that for sure there would never be a love like that again in my future. You can't conjure that kind of magic. I tried and failed with another dog. I resigned myself to the quiet, easy, exquisite companionship of cats… And then love came through a doorway unannounced. On a bright sunny morning recently, I held the phone to my ears and heard a warm, young sounding male voice from across the country conjure our shared young love during a far distant time when life was so much simpler.
We tell ourselves stories in order to live, writes Joan Didion. We also tell ourselves stories in order to remember love's gifts. More tales of conjuring to come, I promise...
Sunday, May 17, 2015
A State of Wondering
This week we heard that a jury in Boston handed down the death penalty to a young extremist called Tsarnaev for his part in the horrific bombing two years ago. And once again I sighed with deep sadness at our misguided notion that we somehow right wrongs by executing people. For as long as I can remember I have thought about this issue, going back to the Caryl Chessman case in the 50's. And that was before I began practicing the Buddha's way of deliberate non-harming... If we're to look at it all objectively, we'd have to say that taking one life in exchange for a life or lives does not really heal the wounds or erase the crime, and it does not set us on a course of becoming more humane. It is just barbaric mathematics in my view. An eye for an eye. It never made any sense to me... And it doesn't even seem to prevent further violence and cruelty. There are a lot of human beings walking around out there in deep suffering, abused and tortured themselves, who are sadly on a course of destruction, their own and that of others. And executing the wrong-doers, even in the incontrovertible cases such as the one in Boston (little doubt about responsibility here), does not change things for those who are lost and out of control.
What does, one might ask? All that rises in the mind now is that witnessing and supporting those who are sick in mind in all the ways they must be supported. The Buddha said: "hatred doesn't end with hatred, but with love alone." And compassion. A heartbreaking challenge in the face of the pathological violence we're surrounded by.
What else do I wonder about on this grey Sunday? I wonder why many of us cry at sentimental movies, why people retreat from the world when unhappy, why we can't see the chaos that is caused by passionate love, why people have a hard time looking at homeless people and offering a smile, why we feel the need for excitement even when we know it changes little in our life, why purging the "stuff" of our lives immediately makes us feel lighter and happier, why beautiful scrambled eggs all golden and buttery is some of the best comfort food on the planet, and so on, and so on.
Last night I cried up a storm while watching (for the umpteenth time) "An Affair to Remember," despite not totally believing in Deborah Kerr. Cary Grant yes, but Deborah, not so sure... There is something so undeniable and "feel good" about this romance -- it reminds us of a time in our lives when we felt such a complete welling of love for another that nothing else in the world seemed real. I have been looking back at such a time in my life, and it has been both delightful to recall the unfolding of love, and poignant as I notice the quick blurring of the love in the complicated territory of relationship and the passage of time. But, to remember a fleeting moment when the universe belonged only to you, ah yes, that does give you a bit of zing!
My revered grandmother believed that passion was messy business, and she turned away from it when it was offered to her. She settled on a safe marriage to a chilly patriarchal fellow. I never turned away from passion, and through my young adulthood, my life was frequently in disarray on the outside and the inside. I didn't know how to balance my affections very well, and frequently mistook restlessness and doubt for the call of affection and romance. And now that I have comfortably (?) become an elder. reading one great life story after the other, I find myself applauding Penelope Lively's sensible observations in her recent memoir: "I don't need or want excitement..... that restless feeling that you must having something happen, you must look ahead, anticipate, you need a rush of adrenaline -- that is gone." Except, except ... I had the opportunity to hear the voice of an old love over the phone recently, largely because I had stuck my neck out to discover this mysterious gentleman, and I have to say that it made my mind and body go all weird, as in heightened pulse and accelerated energy, and a feeling that almost anything on earth was possible. All in the space of about 20 minutes. After over fifty years of separation! If that isn't chaos showing up, I'm not sure what is. There is certainly nowhere for us to go, the paths have been forged in dramatically different ways, "we" don't have a future. Only the present trembling moment where you imagine what it would feel like to actually see this person face to face just once. You imagine a long distance friendship, just maybe ... and you imagine some more.
Thrills and excitement are like the pepper and garlic and red chili sauce in our cooking. They add some jazz music and for a fleeting moment we feel stimulated and inspired. I envy Penelope's clarity about how she doesn't need these spices any more in her life. For her it is enough to have simple enjoyment and pleasure. When I said I agreed with her, it was probably because I really want to, because I hunger for the peace that this acceptance offers. I don't think I'm quite there yet. I'm still planning adventures to Japan, the Galapagos, another safari in Africa, and Tibet, if I get brave enough. I still seek out the cutting edge eateries in San Francisco, looking for that once in a lifetime dining experience. Last night I went to such a place, or so I thought. I ate a serving of stuffed squash blossoms very artfully presented, and I mindfully noted the fluffy softness of ricotta and the tang of anchovy and appreciated the perfect form of the zucchini flower, and after quite some time of this slow eating, it was all gone -- the form, the flavors, the vibration of pleasure deep inside. And what was left was just memory, which of course pales by comparison. There you have it. The impermanence of joy and delight. Even my exquisite scrambled eggs during Mother's Day brunch last week are a hazy memory now...
Our first love vanishes too, as do the colorful memories of Burma and Venice and Paris, or the perfect plate of little white sand-dabs I cooked up for myself a few nights ago. The tapestry of this life of mine is really beautiful, I must admit, and I feel enormous gratitude for all of it, even all that letting go, the hanging up of the phone, the rolling credits at the end of the film, the inevitable washing of the dishes, and the deep compassion I feel for my society that still chooses an eye for an eye.
What does, one might ask? All that rises in the mind now is that witnessing and supporting those who are sick in mind in all the ways they must be supported. The Buddha said: "hatred doesn't end with hatred, but with love alone." And compassion. A heartbreaking challenge in the face of the pathological violence we're surrounded by.
What else do I wonder about on this grey Sunday? I wonder why many of us cry at sentimental movies, why people retreat from the world when unhappy, why we can't see the chaos that is caused by passionate love, why people have a hard time looking at homeless people and offering a smile, why we feel the need for excitement even when we know it changes little in our life, why purging the "stuff" of our lives immediately makes us feel lighter and happier, why beautiful scrambled eggs all golden and buttery is some of the best comfort food on the planet, and so on, and so on.
Last night I cried up a storm while watching (for the umpteenth time) "An Affair to Remember," despite not totally believing in Deborah Kerr. Cary Grant yes, but Deborah, not so sure... There is something so undeniable and "feel good" about this romance -- it reminds us of a time in our lives when we felt such a complete welling of love for another that nothing else in the world seemed real. I have been looking back at such a time in my life, and it has been both delightful to recall the unfolding of love, and poignant as I notice the quick blurring of the love in the complicated territory of relationship and the passage of time. But, to remember a fleeting moment when the universe belonged only to you, ah yes, that does give you a bit of zing!
My revered grandmother believed that passion was messy business, and she turned away from it when it was offered to her. She settled on a safe marriage to a chilly patriarchal fellow. I never turned away from passion, and through my young adulthood, my life was frequently in disarray on the outside and the inside. I didn't know how to balance my affections very well, and frequently mistook restlessness and doubt for the call of affection and romance. And now that I have comfortably (?) become an elder. reading one great life story after the other, I find myself applauding Penelope Lively's sensible observations in her recent memoir: "I don't need or want excitement..... that restless feeling that you must having something happen, you must look ahead, anticipate, you need a rush of adrenaline -- that is gone." Except, except ... I had the opportunity to hear the voice of an old love over the phone recently, largely because I had stuck my neck out to discover this mysterious gentleman, and I have to say that it made my mind and body go all weird, as in heightened pulse and accelerated energy, and a feeling that almost anything on earth was possible. All in the space of about 20 minutes. After over fifty years of separation! If that isn't chaos showing up, I'm not sure what is. There is certainly nowhere for us to go, the paths have been forged in dramatically different ways, "we" don't have a future. Only the present trembling moment where you imagine what it would feel like to actually see this person face to face just once. You imagine a long distance friendship, just maybe ... and you imagine some more.
Thrills and excitement are like the pepper and garlic and red chili sauce in our cooking. They add some jazz music and for a fleeting moment we feel stimulated and inspired. I envy Penelope's clarity about how she doesn't need these spices any more in her life. For her it is enough to have simple enjoyment and pleasure. When I said I agreed with her, it was probably because I really want to, because I hunger for the peace that this acceptance offers. I don't think I'm quite there yet. I'm still planning adventures to Japan, the Galapagos, another safari in Africa, and Tibet, if I get brave enough. I still seek out the cutting edge eateries in San Francisco, looking for that once in a lifetime dining experience. Last night I went to such a place, or so I thought. I ate a serving of stuffed squash blossoms very artfully presented, and I mindfully noted the fluffy softness of ricotta and the tang of anchovy and appreciated the perfect form of the zucchini flower, and after quite some time of this slow eating, it was all gone -- the form, the flavors, the vibration of pleasure deep inside. And what was left was just memory, which of course pales by comparison. There you have it. The impermanence of joy and delight. Even my exquisite scrambled eggs during Mother's Day brunch last week are a hazy memory now...
Our first love vanishes too, as do the colorful memories of Burma and Venice and Paris, or the perfect plate of little white sand-dabs I cooked up for myself a few nights ago. The tapestry of this life of mine is really beautiful, I must admit, and I feel enormous gratitude for all of it, even all that letting go, the hanging up of the phone, the rolling credits at the end of the film, the inevitable washing of the dishes, and the deep compassion I feel for my society that still chooses an eye for an eye.
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