Buddhist [from] Nebraska

Donate to Dharma Cowgirl

2010-12-31T12:47:00.001-06:00

Attempts to add a PayPal donate button to the WordPress blog have been manifestly unsuccessful at WordPress does not support embedded buttons. So, if you would like to donate to the support of Dharma Cowgirl without creating a PayPal account, please click on the button above. And thank you very, very much!

The End is Nigh ... No Really, This Is The End

2010-12-26T13:15:00.003-06:00

“…respect your ability to communicate, and use it [your mouth] to say only what’s timely, beneficial, and true.” – Thanissaro Bikkhu, “Lessons in Gratitude (Part 1),” Shambhala Sunspace blog, December 22, 2010

Since this summer I have been contemplating a new format for the blog. I am very much in favor of allowing things to simmer, be tasted, new ingredients added, stirred, and waiting for ideas to boil in their own due time. In the meantime, things have drifted along, rudderless, content to follow the fickle winds and somewhat more predictable tides. Well, the pot has boiled, lunch is eaten, and it is time to come up from below deck and put two hands firmly back on the tiller.

Firstly, this blog is retiring. Blogger can no longer support the features I desire. So, with regret, I am putting this venerable steed who has carried me so far out (almost 400,000 words published over four and a half years) out to pasture. What began as Buddhist in Nebraska and recently morphed into Buddhist [from] Nebraska shall remain, but this is her last post. Henceforth, the blogspot address shall be an archive.

Secondly, Dharma Cowgirl will launch on January 1, 2011. As the new year begins, the new blog will start at a new location with a new name and a new focus. It is hosted by Wordpress, a similarly well respected blog machine. The design for the blog is for now utilitarian, but I hope to customize it in the future.

Thirdly, Dharma Cowgirl will have six sections which will be updated regularly – On Dharma, Horse Sense, Riding Lessons, Campfire Stories, Drunk Talk, and Bygone Times. All new posts will appear in chronological order on the main page, but thereafter will be archived under their subsections tabs. The first two will be weekly features. On Dharma will contain the more academic posts referencing current topics of study or research, often in relation to my coursework. There will be a weekly Horse Sense feature relating to a topic currently in the news or blogosphere ala my old opinion column style. The next two sections will be updated on a biweekly or monthly basis. Riding Lessons will deal specifically with lessons learned from and about college – how to write papers, deal with difficult professors, manage time, or work in student government, etc., – with a naturally Buddhist perspective. Campfire Stories is just that, stories from my life or those related to me from others. The final two sections will be updated randomly, as the mood strikes. Drunk Talk is a catchall for wandering thoughts whether composed while drunk or sober (as most no doubt will be). Bygone Times is a place to revisit old ideas and expand on topics explored at the old blog. Overall, I’m shooting for about a dozen posts each month.

Forth, I hope all of you who follow the blog as an RSS feed, via Blogger, or Google Reader will migrate over to the new blog at dharmacowgirl.wordpress.com. I’ll be waiting to meet you there in a few short days. I thank all of you who have honored Buddhist in/from Nebraska with your attention these last years and hope you’ll continue this trail with me.

Fifthly, you may be asking “To what end?” I have certainly been asking myself that these past few months, as I contemplated the Noble Eightfold Path. One may believe that keeping a blog falls under Right Speech, and for the most part, I would agree, but the Noble Eightfold Path is interconnected. Each part both relies on and is found within each other part. Right Speech and Right Action can be very similar and both feed into Right Livelihood. However, each of these three is predicated on Right View and Right Intention, which are both informed by Right Effort, Right Mindfulness, and Right Concentration. Some call the first three (speech, action, and livelihood) ethical conduct, the middle two (view and intention) wisdom, and the last three (effort, mindfulness, and concentration) mental discipline or Samadhi. However, they are all of a whole. We can contemplate them separately or together as one path, a single path. That is the path I hope to tread more firmly in light of this change.

Also, as a side note to Right Livelihood, you will notice for the very first time there will be advertising on the blog. Yes, I hope to make a little money on the side, because if I can do that it will preclude me from finding a part-time job and give me more time to write (this is the theory). You will also be able to make donations to this effort soon, via Paypal. I will not harangue you about it, but the button shall shortly be there and it will remain. Any donations you choose to make to the new blog shall not go to a charity or non-profit or organization; they go to me, Monica, a person in her own right. I will probably use them to buy groceries, or books, or go to a movie. I make no promises not to use donation or ad revenue to buy meat (unlikely, but not impossible given my spotty vegetarianism), alcohol (though I promise it be good alcohol), or other dubious (but always legal) or frivolous (choooocolate) things. And no, you’ll not get a receipt or tax deduction, but you’re likely to receive a hearty thank you and undying gratitude (plus karmic brownie points).

So, finally, there is little more to say that “See y’all next year!”

The Sky

2010-12-24T12:34:00.001-06:00

I drank the sky, the whispers of clouds, the ruler-straight contrails leading to and from Denver International Airport now five minutes behind, but mostly just the brilliant blue of the sky. There really isn’t much sky in Los Angeles. It’s brown and hazy and muted or flat and grey. The San Gabriel Mountains are just a brown smudge to the north, not like the dark, jagged rise of the Rockies here in the east. So I stared out the window of the car of the friend who had provided the means for my escape, stared at nothing and everything and smiled.

We slept in, the golden sun streaming through his south facing window. We slept in anyway and cuddled and found fun things for which words are not needed. I took a blistering hot shower and tracked him downstairs to the smell of cooking eggs and sausages. In the afternoon, I sat on the couch in the living room, occasionally looking up at the sky and watching the honking geese pass. We went to the mall parking lot and he taught me how to drive a stick shift. I only managed to stall half a dozen times (at least) before starting to figure it out.

Today is Christmas Eve and I found an early email from my mother waiting for me. She detailed the normal Christmas Eve goings on, her five-meat chilli in the crock pot, cinnamon rolls rising and ready to bake, family coming over later, her strange little cat acting strange. “I miss you,” she wrote. I miss her too.

But at least I’m not in Los Angeles.

After Action Report - Fall 2010

2010-12-12T22:46:00.003-06:00

Exactly four months ago, I arrived in California on a Southwest jet with my mother, father, and swiftly detoxing cat as carry-on luggage. Mom and Dad went home five days later, but the cat stayed. Together we settled into a small house with an easy-going and often-absent roommate in a sketchy neighborhood in the San Gabriel Valley east of Los Angeles. I started coursework in the Master of Divinity program for Buddhist chaplaincy at University of the West, a three-mile bike ride to the southeast. The cat stayed home, sniffed curiously at the smoggy air and feral kittens just beyond the screen door, and napped on my new Ikea furniture.

On August 23rd, I began four classes: Interfaith Chaplaincy, Spiritual Formation, Buddhist Meditation (which involved no actual meditation), and Religion, Science, and Society as an independent study. I also joined the Kung Fu Club, the Buddhist Students Club, the newly formed Chaplaincy Club, and got myself appointed and then elected Treasurer of the Student Association so I could carry out my ongoing mission of boldly making trouble for the administration as no one has made trouble before. I also joined an online dating site and began contemplating (or re-contemplating) my future career plans. I made a clean break with my old life and now the decision before me is whether or not I ever want to return to the design world, or if I might choose another path.

Now the semester is over. My term papers are written, fifty-four pages in total. I wrote a spiritual autobiography I am most proud to say I managed to condense into sixteen pages; by far the hardest task was brevity. My shortest paper was also my most academic, regarding the role of renunciation before and during Buddhist meditation practice. I double-dipped on the research for the last two, one an “idiot’s guide” to talking about God for non-Christians and the other in response to the question of why God matters to Christians. Though their source material had much overlap, each thesis/purpose is unique. I am satisfied with my grades outlook.

Despite a constant low-intensity search, I have yet to find a job. Nor do I have any hope in that respect. Unemployment is three times higher here in the Los Angeles area than in Lincoln, and the campus I attend is not conveniently situated next to a large technical and professional employment base as UNL was. I can live on my financial aid alone, a welcome surprise and difference, but the timing of the aid disbursements from the school is problematic, to say the least. Which means I have a target for my trouble making.

I’ve met three guys through the dating service, but with no real sparks. I’ve put things on hold until my financial situation improves. It’s hard to invite guys out to coffee when I can’t really afford to be buying even coffee every week. I’m too stubbornly egalitarian to let them pay (plus it would just be rude to expect it). I have realized some important things through these adventures. I’ve reached a place in my life where not only do I want to date and be in a relationship – I want some romance, some dressing up, putting on makeup, going nice places, being surprised type romance. I want to be excited. I want him to be excited. I’ve never particularly wanted that before, but, as the Buddha said, impermanence.

Some other things I’ve learned: Ninety percent of all traffic accidents in this city could be prevented through the consistent application of courtesy. I can now ride my bicycle without using my hands (after how many years of practicing?). I like being unemployed. I want romance. I like riding in tanks with men. Theories of spiritual formation are like horseshoes, hand grenades, and tactical nuclear weapons (apparently, close is good enough). The world needs to move past mere tolerance of differences. Everyone should be in a weekly support group. Everyone, but especially college students. Religion and secularism is a false dichotomy. Hulu has a bunch of new Japanese anime to watch. Though I love books, the Kindle is awesome. And no one ever died of an unrequited crush. C’est lavie.

Now as the five unoccupied weeks of winter break loom before me, I have some thinking to do. Am I going to join the Navy? Am I going to give up on reforming design education pedagogy in favor of a more chaplaincy oriented future? What am I looking for from these dating experiences or in a relationship? What direction do we want to take the student government in next semester and where could we do the most good? Am I going to find a sangha? Am I ever going to start meditating regularly? What book should I read next on my new toy? What do I have to do to get my doctorate from the Irish School of Ecumenics in Dublin? How is this novel I’m writing going to end?

As I said in my spiritual autobiography: Willing not to be right, but to be wrong. Willing not to find, but to seek. Willing not to succeed, but to try. Willing not to dream, but to wake up. I can spend this time learning, just as I’ve spent my entire life learning. Maybe next semester will be better (though this one wasn’t too shabby) and maybe not, but I’ll find out soon enough. This dry summary doesn’t cover a tenth of the last four months, because I don't fully understand everything that has happened myself, but that too will come in time.

One down, five more to go.

Riding the Horse (MDIV 555)

2010-12-04T11:43:00.003-06:00

This is the last journal for MDIV 555 Spiritual Formation, posted late (sorry). For the last few weeks, we have been reading Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior and Journey Without Goal both by Chogyam Trungpa. As you may have noted, I have not written in response to these materials as I did for the previous books by Fowler, Brazier, and Kornfield. There is a reason for this.

Journal for November 30, 2010

I have not explored the vajrayana materials in these journals. By temperament, I don’t think I’m suited for them, at least at this time in my life. I have a predilection to want to figure things out on my own, but I believe the warnings that say when it comes to tantra, this is a bad idea. I certainly haven’t mastered the preliminaries anyway.

However, in addition to the warnings, tantra has always seemed a bridge too far. My people are very practical and pragmatic. Complexity is acceptable as long as it’s orderly. Learning through direct experience is emphasized, but only where the initial instructions are fairly simple. Everything else operates under the KISS principle, not because it’s easier, but because it’s less wasteful.

It takes years to learn how to ride a horse. But where I come from, if you get an hour-long lecture before being tossed into the saddle, that was too much talk. You’ll never learn how to ride with your boots on the ground. No matter how skilled your teacher, she can’t ride the horse for you. You can’t wait to trot until after you learn to post.

Every horse is different. They all have their own personalities and they are very intuitive. You have to be able to listen to them, with your body and your mind, the same way they are listening to you. Mastering a horse is a matter of will. My mother is not a woman who goes gooey over her children. The only time I ever heard her brag about my riding to a relative, she wasn’t praising my form or technique. She was proud that I was not afraid. To her, this was the most important thing a person could learn about horses.

The average horse weighs close to a thousand pounds. You can’t master a horse through strength of arm. The saddle and the bridle help, but in the end they’re just tools, like the cushion and the bell. Sitting on the cushion and ringing the bell doesn’t mean you’re meditating (as an expert at not meditating, I ought to know). However, unlike the gomden, if you’re not paying attention, the horse is likely to toss you in the dirt.

Everyone gets thrown. You know that the moment you climb into the saddle, but you do it anyway. The best advice for getting thrown anyone can give you is to not let go of the reins. If you let go of the reins, you’re going to have a long painful walk home. But if that happens, there’s no use sitting there grumbling, you might as well pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start walking.

You might get hurt. In fact, at some point, it’s likely you will. When I was ten, Aunt Donalee broke her upper arm coming off a horse. They put a rod in it. She borrowed my Mom’s English saddle. It was a little small for her but it was also light enough to fling up on a horse with one hand. Work doesn’t wait to be done until bones have knit. She got back up on the very horse that had thrown her.

Four years ago, cousin Jim came off a horse. No one saw it happen. They just found his horse wandering with grass in its saddle and Jim on the ground nearby. He was in a comma for several weeks and when he woke, he exhibited the symptoms of a stroke. He had to learn how to speak, walk, eat, and dress all over again. He got back up on the horse and is still ranching cattle in southern Colorado.

What got them back on the horse wasn’t bravado or stupidity. Courage is not ignoring the consequences, but knowing them and doing anyway. No amount of teaching can prevent those consequences, though experience helps. The number of commands any horse knows is limited, but their moods are infinite. There are all kinds of techniques you can apply, but in the end, horses are actually simple. All you have to do is pay attention.

I often think the dharma is like that. Tantra just seems like a bunch of different techniques to learn how to pay attention. In that way, it’s valuable, but until (unless) I learn those techniques, I can’t comment on them. It’s like trying to learn to ride without the horse. You’ll never understand how the instruction to push your heels down is going to help keep your ass in the saddle while you trot until you actually do it. It doesn’t make much sense and that makes it easy to criticize.

For now, I think I’ll learn to ride the horse before I teach it to fly.

Be Grateful For Our Suffering

2010-12-03T20:40:00.003-06:00

As individuals, we are deeply, deeply flawed. Which means, collectively, as institutions we are deeply, deeply flawed. Which means, further, as society we are deeply, deeply flawed. In Christianity, they would call this sin. The grievousness of one’s sin is measured by one’s distance from God, from perfection. Many have asked if God were perfect, why would he create us, suffering, flawed, imperfect beings? Maybe he didn’t. For Buddhism teaches that although, yes, we are flawed, we are also perfect, each one of us endowed with indestructible, eternal, buddhanature.

I often wonder if God didn’t actually create us perfect (if God created us). If God wanted us to love one another and care for one another and understand the consequences of our actions and the nature of reality, then what better lesson than suffering? What better lesson than change? What better lesson than impermanence? What better lesson than self and nonself?

How can we love without compassion? Compassion means to suffer with. I have been told that suffering breeds kindness. I have seen this to be true. For though all who came to speak and listen were filled with disappointment, dissatisfaction, anger, worry, frustration, and suffering, all showed kindness. ALL showed kindness. The issue was personal and distressing, as we who had come to celebrate, suddenly found ourselves mourning. So we sat in a circle and talked. All listened. All spoke with care and with heart. All gave thanks.

Someone told us to pray. Pray for wisdom, for guidance, for compassion. I will not pray. I have no one to pray to. God is an idea I like to play with, like dark matter or quarks. Buddha is dead. So I will not pray. But I will hope, and I will aspire, and I will be grateful. The spirit is much alike. But I will not pray because I do not believe what we seek is out there. What we seek to cure our flaws, our sinfulness, our suffering, is within.

We are all perfect, or have the capacity to be so. Which means, collectively, as institutions we are all perfect. Which means, further, as society we are all perfect. We are perfect not because we do not suffer, but because we have the capacity to learn from our suffering. No one ever learned to ride without saddle sores. The Buddha did not become the Buddha without first suffering. He became the Buddha because he suffered. They say to be grateful to our enemies for they are our greatest teachers.

Be grateful for our suffering, too, because it just might wake you up.

Happy Turkey Day

2010-11-26T12:30:00.002-06:00

People swirled in an out of the kitchen like leaves riding eddies in a gurgling stream, always moving, never colliding. I sat on the bank, safely out of the way, watching and listening to happy chatter, and wanting to be elsewhere. The stream flowed out onto the large deck, following the food and drink and socializing. People stood eating, balancing cups and plates on the wood railing. Between the mountains in the distance and the international gathering on the deck, green palm trees and arbor vitae jumped above the rolling landscape of concrete driveways and tile roofs. Chinese and Indian food predominated. I sat in a corner and wished in vain that my spiced cider was spiked cider and tried to limit my urge to make inappropriate comments. It was an odd mood that urged me to turn everything into innuendo, a game I’ve often missed (Buddhists are sometimes too ‘nice,’ I think).

I had fun despite myself and due mostly to the infectious cheer of my fellow classmates. I danced the square, four-step dance we all learn in junior high school with Jun and was impressed that Mike managed the twirl and dip without dropping me, not once, but twice! The motley crew of graduate students, young professors, and monks even managed not to fall into obscure religious dialogue. Venerable Kit closed the vertical blinds and set up the projector in order to play Super Mario Brothers, no doubt made more interesting by people still coming in and out through the patio doors.

I rode home as the sun was setting and dove back into the distraction that had captured my attention since rising that morning – Chapter Fifteen. Instead of reminiscing, I chose creating, and managed to rescue one of the main characters from torture and escape in sixty-five hundred words before calling it a night. I called my parents and told them I miss them and love them and Happy Turkey Day, gobble gobble gobble. And I spent Thanksgiving evening watching classic anime on Hulu, teasing my cat, and practicing being thankful for all my good friends here.

I left the whiskey in the cupboard.

Riding In Tanks With Men

2010-11-23T16:28:00.003-06:00

The world looks different when you’re staring at it down the barrel of an M1A1 Abrams tank. Relative to you, the turret and barrel of the tank is a stationary, solid thing, while the landscape flows by like waves on the ocean. The tank is safe, while everything beyond is potential danger.

The ride is smooth, even over dips and ruts, but when slowing down or speeding up, the gear change kicks like a mule and you’re glad to have that heavy helmet on. Inside the turret is all metal and hard angles. The tank doesn’t roar or growl. From the outside, there is only a low hum and the clicking of the treads on their wheels. Inside is a loud, high-pitched whine and the constant rattle of metal against metal, drowned out by noise cancelling headphones attached to the helmet. Despite that, hearing loss is common among tankers. The tank exhaust is invisible, just a heat shimmer and strong blast, but the dust it kicks up can be seen for miles depending on the terrain.

The gunner’s seat is narrow, with a dizzying assortment of dials, knobs, and buttons closer to your face than most people keep their computer screens. The only way to see the world outside is with one eye either pressed to the digital scope (with range finder and night vision) or the backup optical scope. Every function has a manual backup, so if hydraulics go out, you can still adjust the attitude of the barrel with that control, or if the electronic trigger fails, you can still fire manually with this knob here.

Behind the gunner is the tank commander and to his left, the loader. Each can stand on their seats and be half out of the two top hatches, but the gunner is stuck in the metal cocoon of the turret. Somewhere forward, in the main body of the tank, is the driver, physically and visually separate, connected only by the thin thread of a helmet radio, despite being only a few feet away.

Standing on the loader’s seat, I watched the desert flow by, all dust, scrub brush, and dramatic mountain ranges in the distance. My left shoulder pressed against the mount for the M50 machine gun, now empty. To my right, LT Guerra, the tank commander stood, talking with the driver over his helmet radio and occasionally giving me a thumbs up to ask if I was okay. I was just watching the scenery, enjoying the motion of the solid tank under my boots, and crunching dust between my teeth.

But this isn’t how it would be if they were in the field. There’d be no lazy interest, no idle curiosity. Instead, they’d be scanning the landscape, constantly on watch for insurgents and improvised explosive devices. Kind of like LT Guerra was doing now, for all his relaxed shoulders and innocuous chatter with the driver. His head was still turning slow and steady and I had the impression his eyes behind those tinted glasses were sharp. My own attention suddenly sharpened and I found myself scanning the area ahead and to the left of the tank.

The lookout isn’t just responsible for their own life, maybe even hardly concerned with it at all, but his buddies in the tank crew depend on his vigilance. Maybe they’re part of a convoy, and the tankers and truckers behind them are depending on him too. That brings everything into very sharp focus, or so I could imagine. Spend a day in the field like that, or even half a day, and then try to just turn that kind of hyper-awareness off. I can’t believe it’s easy. I’m just a silly little girl who’s hardly seen a lick of danger in her life, but I am grateful if I gained even ounce of understanding from that twenty-minute joyride.

The soldiers of the 1-185th Armor Battalion of the California National Guard were good to me during my time at Fort Irwin. Delta Company let me tag along during driver training. Headquarters Company welcomed me in as a fly on the wall to their staff meetings. No one seemed to mind as I stood shadow to their chaplain candidate, learning a little bit about what a military chaplain does. They were all real happy to hear I was considering military chaplaincy. Some of them tried to talk me out of it when I mentioned Navy, but others were encouraging. There were enough old sailors in the unit with wisdom to share.

“I used to be Navy. With the Navy you get to be out doing stuff, putting your training to use,” Sergeant Scott told me. “The Army is like Nascar. It’s like you’re a mechanic and you’ve spent thousands of hours working on this car and making it fast and perfect, but then you never, ever get to drive it.”

The 1-185th has deployed overseas twice during the most recent conflicts. “When a tank shows up, the action just stops,” one soldier told me. The insurgents know they can’t tangle with an Abrams, but who knows how many they’ve wounded or killed before the tank arrives. The last time the 1-185th deployed, they left their tanks at home.

I followed Chris around as he went from company to company, from one small group of soldiers to another. “Ministry presence,” he called it, just being available to the troops if anyone should have an issue. A few times a soldier would pull him aside for a personal issue or he’d just shoot the breeze and get a feel for overall morale.

“I’ve lost four since we got back,” the Command Sergeant Major said around his cigar. He shook his head as he ticked them off on his fingers. “Two motorcycle accidents, one car crash, and one suicide.” He didn’t say it, but his tone made it the regret clear. Here they were supposed to be safe. Then he made a crusty old joke and the guys laughed.

There was a Lieutenant in Fox Company who reminded me so much of the cadets I’d worked with at the ROTC, a handsome young man with beautiful cheekbones and a square jaw, hair trimmed short. He looked like LT Wellensiek, who got himself blown up and put back together with bolts and rods. Or LT Gaspers, who died.

By the end of the first morning, my green boots were caked with the tan desert dust. In the afternoon it rained. The wind was always there and I was glad I’d brought my stocking cap and gloves. The guys kept asking me if it was too cold, or too wet, or the food was too bad, or the work too daunting, or the sleep too little. The truth is, it wasn’t that bad. It’d be hard to do everyday, but I think if I were in proper military trim, I could manage it. Though I can see why the Army runs on coffee. Saturday night I still had enough energy to sit up and write postcards to my family. The guys teased me about that, but they approved of my choice (it had a tank on it). On Sunday morning, I woke up hungry. That has literally never happened before and I took it as an encouraging sign.

I can never convey enough thanks to the soldiers of the 1-185th AR, especially to LTC Murphy for allowing me to tag along, LT Guerra for the ride, and, of course, chaplain candidate 2LT Chris Mohr for setting the whole thing up and taking such good care of me while we were out there. I highly recommend this kind of experience to everyone going into the chaplaincy field, whether they are contemplating military chaplaincy or not (and whether they get to ride in a tank or not). Watching Chris work showed me a highly fulfilling career in which the dharma is being put to immediate use for the benefit of many people.

To the men and women of the 1-185th, I can only say “Hooah!”

Not Home for the Holidays (MDIV 555)

2010-11-23T11:21:00.001-06:00

Journal for November 23, 2010

I’ve never missed Christmas. I missed Thanksgiving once. I saw my whole family together the day before, but on Thanksgiving itself, I hopped on a plane to Boston to attend Shambhala Training Levels IV and V at Karmê Chöling. But I’ve never missed Christmas with my family, even though I haven’t been a Christian for longer than I was.

Our family traditions are simple. On holidays, we get together for a big dinner either at my folk’s house or Granny’s house. We sit, we eat, we visit. Later, there will be football and usually we’ll go out to a movie in the afternoon. Then we all come back and take a nap. The biggest change in the last few years has been the addition of April, my sister-in-law. Sometimes she and Brandon don’t stay as long because her family is also getting together, but they always still manage to come over.

Sometimes Aunts and Uncles and cousins will come to spend the holiday with Granny or Granny will go out to spend the holiday with them, but my family usually stays home. Traveling in winter in the Midwest is always an iffy proposition and likely to change the day of. Granny can leave days in advance, but those of us who must work don’t always make it out ahead of the snow. Last year, we had intended to go out to my mother’s sister’s ranch in central Nebraska for Christmas, but we ended up snowed in for five days in Omaha.

I am very lucky in my family. We all get along. We comfortable, like old shoes. Sure, we disagree and we argue. But we don’t yell or shout (too often) or slam doors. Mostly we just hang out. Visiting is a family sport. When other families get together, they have activities, card games, charades, Pictionary. We just sit around and visit, often for hours. People break off into groups. Someone will go take a nap or read a book. The sports fans will watch the game. The moms will sit around and talk about Melinda’s new baby. Eventually, I’ll go out for a walk by myself, even in knee-high snow, just because I like to be outdoors every day.

We almost always go to a movie on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day, whatever the big new blockbuster is that week. We might stop for ice cream on the way home. No one leaves the house on Black Friday. None of us like crowds or shopping that much. On Christmas, we’ll come home and watch more movies, because someone always got a DVD (or two or three) in their stocking. Christmas morning, I always handed out the presents, probably because I was the youngest and least patient. We wait until everyone has a present in their hands and then all unwrap and ooh and aah. Mom takes pictures and Dad makes goofy faces.

I’ll miss all that this year and I’m not sure how that will affect me. On Thanksgiving, I’m going to Shakya’s house for a dinner Mike has organized with about fifteen other family-less students. It sounds like a lot of fun and I’m looking forward to it. I’m not sure how Christmas will go. Like the rest of my family, I’m pretty pragmatic, so no wailing and weeping. But still…

One of the great teachings of Buddhism is that we will eventually lose everyone and everything that we love. The three marks of existence are suffering (or nirvana if you read Thay), impermanence, and non-self. It sounds like a very dreary teaching, but it can also be incredibly empowering. It points right at the Second Noble Truth, which in turn brings up the Third Noble Truth. Suffering is caused by desire and suffering can end.

For the most part, I don’t think it’s fundamentally a problem that I want to be with my family on Christmas. I think that’s healthy and good. It’s up to me to decide if that desire is going to make me miserable because I didn’t get what I want, or make me happy because it reminds me of all the love we share.

I don’t know if I’ll quite manage the later, but we’ll see.

Religion & Relationships (MDIV 555)

2010-11-22T00:20:00.002-06:00

Journal November 18, 2010

Where in my spiritual formation does another person fit? I’ve been dating recently. This is a new experience. I’ve never really dated or had a serious, exclusive relationship, but a few months ago, I signed up with an online dating site. I’ve met three people and exchanged emails with a dozen more. None of them are Buddhists. The only one with whom I’ve discussed religion was a mildly hostile (to theism, not me) atheist.

Women look to the future. It sounds cliché, but when we meet a guy we size him up for deal-breakers. “Oh, he’ll be bald someday. Can I live with that?” You eye his hairline over your coffee cup. I find it ironic, considering I’m not really the settling down type, but the programming must be genetic. And now I’m wondering, what if he’s not Buddhist? Can I live with that? What if he’s Mormon? Muslim? Mennonite? Could I live with that?

I’ve seen some great Buddhist couples and some not so great. I guess, living in Nebraska, where Buddhists were so thin on the ground, I just got used to the idea that if I wanted to date, it would naturally be across religious lines. The idea of finding a Buddhist partner was about as likely as winning the lottery.

But I’m not in Nebraska anymore. So I have to wonder, why am I going out for coffee with these non-Buddhist guys? Surely, if I can find a Buddhist partner anywhere, it would be here.

And yet, does it matter? Some of my best religious friends aren’t Buddhist. If I wrapped their brains and their theology up in a single, mildly-attractive, age-appropriate male package, could I live with that person? Sometimes I think I could.

Then I think of the two years I worked for the Military Science Department. I was surrounded by handsome, young Army cadets whom I respected, but I never once considered dating. To serve in the military was to accept the premise that sometimes violence is the solution. That was a deal breaker.

Kornfield mentioned relationships in passing, usually noting how someone who isn’t a well rounded individual and hasn’t dealt with their own psychological problems is unlikely to form a healthy relationship. Assume that isn’t the case, assuming one can form a healthy relationship, how precisely does that contribute to each partner’s spiritual development? What role does relationship play? And what happens when your partner’s spirituality is quite different from your own?

Is it enough if that person is as critical with, thoughtful about, and committed to their spirituality as you are about yours? Do you need to share certain fundamental doctrines like compassion or charity? Is more needed, like compatibility of belief on specific subjects such as God or enlightenment? Can a diversity of opinion enrich both partner’s lives? Or are the differences likely to push you apart? Or is it utterly a matter of the two individuals involved and completely different for each couple?

I attended three weddings during the summer of 2008 and they could not have been more different. The Lutheran minister stood before the alter talked about how the happy couple was now “one person” in a triumvirate marriage of husband, wife, and Jesus Christ. The Buddhist teacher sat in the stupa and talked about how we are all fundamentally alone even in (especially in) marriage, where we think we’re supposed to have someone who understands us completely when no one ever really can. The third marriage was just a whispered exchange of secret vows between the couple in a flower garden. Each of those couples were in fundamental agreement on matters of religion. But what if the Lutheran had tried to marry the Buddhist or the non-religious, or any other combination?

Is religion always important in relationships?

Trust & Doubt (MDIV 555)

2010-11-17T21:40:00.001-06:00

Journal for November 16, 2010

There has been a long debate throughout the history of Christianity as to the nature of God and how he can be understood. Some theologians and traditions maintain that God is a mystery, a paradox, and cannot be described using words or concepts. That He is beyond concepts and both outside and other than but also permeating the physical world. Others assert that understanding of God can be achieve by human reasoning, thought, and logic. He is both knowable and describable.

I wasn’t really surprised at these two interpretations. They sound a lot like Buddhism. There are some forms that are esoteric, hidden, designed to open the mind like a flash of lighting. Then there are forms that are systematic, categorical, logical, designed to cultivate virtues and mental qualities over decades, if not lifetimes. We could only discover whether one is better than the other by following both paths over the course of many years, which is practically impossible. The only way to really evaluate them is to look at their more immediate effects, look at the people walking ahead and behind. Are they good people?

So that leaves us with the question of what makes most sense for us personally. Of course, where I use ‘sense’ other people will use ‘heart.’ They’ll follow the tradition that speaks most strongly to their heart, the one that feels right. This is, most likely, why I cannot follow Trungpa’s teachings.

On page 114, he writes about the moment you experience secret drala. “It does not contain doubt or disbelief at all,” he says. But I cannot trust what I cannot doubt. The idea that “you experience a state of mind that is … free from hesitation and disbelief” seems very dangerous to me. After all, history is full of dictators who were certain they were creating a better world while slaughtering thousands, millions of people.

Reasoned doubt is what keeps us balanced, on the right path. If a blind person steps forward with certainty that the path will be there, they may fall right off the cliff, whereas, with a little doubt, they will question first, moving forward slowly and catch themselves before pitching into open air. If someone tells me not to question, I immediately distrust them. If a teaching cannot stand up to questioning, what good is it? If someone tells me I will feel complete trust (i.e. as an experience of secret drala), I am skeptical. How do they know what I will feel?

But let’s go back to that earlier statement: I cannot trust what I cannot doubt. Think about that. I cannot trust what I cannot doubt. That whole statement seems to preclude any possibility of enlightenment, doesn’t it? Seems to me there is a place, a state of mind, of existence, that is beyond trust and doubt, beyond ‘I,’ where one sees truly because one is no longer invested in what is to be seen.

“We can only tell the truth when we cease to identify with the part of ourselves we think we have to protect. ... I can never be straight with you if I need something from you,” Ram Dass wrote in Paths to God: Living the Bhagavad Gita.

I think we can only go beyond trust and doubt when we no longer have anything left to lose. I don’t mean that in the cynical, hit bottom sense, but in the powerful, self-less sense. When we have gone beyond ego, beyond conceptions of ‘I’ and ‘other,’ then there is nothing left to lose and nothing left to gain. We have nothing and have everything.

This started with a discussion of means. One path is mystery. One path is reason. It’s not that mystery requires trust and reason requires doubt. In order to walk the path of reason, we must trust our own mind is up to the task. In order to walk the path of mystery, we must be comfortable accepting doubt, accepting what our heart doesn’t know. I can make no claims that one path is better than the other or that they are equal.

I just don’t know.

A Dharma Cowgirl is Willing (MDIV 555)

2010-11-09T10:56:00.002-06:00

Journal for November 9, 2010

For four months in 2007 I lived in the Colorado mountains, most of that time in a spacious green Army tent on the side of a steep hill amidst the ponderosas. I was working at Shambhala Mountain Center. I had a little office in the maintenance shop, near the sewage lagoon. It was stuffed full of files, maps, and plans, almost eaten up by a large drafting table, but it had an east facing window from which I could see the ducks and a bold chipmunk who would come in to visit me. I was usually on in it half of any given day. The other half, I could be anywhere in the valley, marking down the location of utility poles, transformers, tent platforms, water valves, and new buildings.

When I first arrived, there was snow on the ground, even though it was already May. It snowed the night we were to move into our tents. They had to be collapsed and re-raised the next day. My hair was long and the wind would often howl through the valley, so I wore it stuffed up beneath a tan wool newsboy-cap, but as the summer moved in to stay and I became accustomed to the warm high-altitude sun, that wouldn’t do. I bought two hats, one nice to wear to teachings and events, another for everyday to keep the sun out of my eyes.

The second hat turned out to be more important than I could have guessed. It was a simple straw cowboy hat, made in Mexico, one size fits all. I wore it with a kind of familial pride, pulled low over my eyes. I dressed in jeans and sandals, my feet soon acquiring a brown layer of permadirt. I was never without my rosewood mala and often also wore a denim, cowgirl-cut jacket, complete with rhinestones and silver snaps. So they called me dharma cowgirl.

It wasn’t a title I’d earned, of course, but I didn’t discourage the nickname. I didn’t identify with it precisely, but something about it pricked at me. I didn’t know much about the dharma and I never was a cowgirl, not like other women in my family were and had been. But it was an idea, like ‘warrior’ or ‘bodhisattva’ or ‘stream-enterer,’ that just wouldn’t go away. It was different though, somehow the wisdom of the East conflated with the West. Here, by West, I don’t mean the Western hemisphere, the United States and Europe. I mean the Western half of North America, the rugged country settled by pioneers and outlaws around a hundred-fifty years ago. That kind of West is a horse of an entirely different color, but it has a wisdom of its own.

I wrote about it, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, but I stumbled on what I was looking for by accident. Seems rather poetic, when you think about it. This idea, this ‘dharma cowgirl,’ isn’t about courage or compassion or wisdom, though those are in there too. It’s about will, about being willing, and about comprehending one crucial thing – it’s up to you. No one else can do it for you.

This should not be confused with the classic fantasy of solitude or ultimate independence. Even in the middle of a crowd, surrounded by family, friends, and teachers, this truth remains. It does not violate emptiness or interdependence or inter-being. But as much as those things are true, so is this. There’s even an appropriately cliché Western saying, something about a horse and water. We need others to help lead us to the water, but only we can drink. To do that, we must be willing.

It’s not a new idea, of course. It’s all over Buddhist teaching, Western (i.e. Greek) philosophy, Abrahamic religion, and common wisdom. The idea of dharma cowgirl (or cowboy) simply reframes it in light of new myths.

For a little while, in the mountains of Colorado, I lived those myths. I wandered the valleys and ridge lines, listening to the wind, soaking up the sun. I rode a strong black horse through the trees and beneath the full moon, searching for empty country. It was no rugged tale of survival, but a quiet journey that took place within the mind and perhaps the soul, if such a thing exists. I did a lot of thinking that summer and a lot of simply paying attention.

But the time I valued most was not sitting in meditation with the others, vision curtailed by the white walls of the shrine tent, facing the image of the Rigden King. No, I much preferred the bench in the courtyard, beneath the ponderosa trees, near the rock garden, where I could watch the changing sky, the chipmunks and the magpies. Or the stone in the aspen grove along the trail, where I could hear the water. Or high on the bouldered peaks where I could see the snowy mountains to the south. It took me a long time and a lot of attention to realize I was seeking exactly what those sitters in the shrine tent were seeking three times a day.

We are all willing to seek it knowing we might never find it because no one else can ever show it to us – that’s a dharma cowgirl (that, and a hat).

The Cat Is

2010-11-07T22:14:00.004-06:00

I have this cat. Her name is Isis. She is very unremarkable in most respects, a little black and brown tabby, except for the manner of her sheer presence. When she occupies a space, she makes herself the center of it, no matter where she is sitting. Not a moment goes by when she is not directly in one's field of vision or one's hearing, if not in actual physical contact. It is not what she does. It is just what she is - she is here.

So naturally, when she is not here for longer than a few moments at a time the absence becomes very glaring. It may sound silly to say that if I do not see her for five minutes, I go looking, but it is simply such a rare occurrence that it naturally causes concern. It's like suddenly noticing that you've stopped breathing or that your foot has fallen asleep. You immediately feel the need to do something about it. So when she is not here, and doesn't respond when called, nor is she in the bathroom (where her litter box is), nor the dining room (where if food dish is), nor the living room where Harry and his buddies are watching basketball, something is certainly wrong. She is not a cat who hides. If she is in a room, any occupant of that room will immediately know it.

The house is not that big, so it leave only once place she could be. That place, unfortunately, is very big. Since moving here, she has had the habit of sitting in front of the screen doors, smelling, listening, and watching. Frequently, I hear her complain and turn to see her at the door, tail all puffed up, hissing and cussing. There is a big black cat that comes around, to silently look in from the darkness. She does not like him one bit. Despite that, she has recently decided she to be a brave creature.

Tonight was the third time she has escaped the house. She has never gone farther than the driveway between the two houses and has always deigned to be slowly herded back inside. Tonight I had to play the slow, wandering game round and round until I could reach down and grab her front leg where she sat under the bumper of Tek's giant truck. She protested loudly as I swung her up and tucked her under my arm like a football, one hand gripping the nap of her neck. She hates that. It pressed on her kitty off-switch and makes her legs all rubbery, but she didn't struggle as I carried her back inside, where she immediately announced her return to the guys gathered around the giant flat screen in the living room.

I try not to worry about her, not to let fear get the best of me. Truth is, if she gets out, she gets out, and there's really very little I can do about it, especially if it should happen when I'm not home. She's small for a cat, under eight pounds. She has no front claws, so it's unlikely she'll get herself stuck up a tree. She hates other animals, so she'll probably try to stay clear of the other stray cats, but that doesn't mean they'll stay clear of her. I worry most that they'll drive her off and she'll be unable to find her way back, or she'll get in a fight or struck by a car.

For now, she's safely home, lying on my desk to the left of my computer monitor, complaining when I reach out to pinch her ears. Harry knows to keep and eye out for her and shoo her away from the door. My worry makes me sad more than fearful. She's such a little bundle of personhood, a very powerful and reassuring presence. I miss her when she's gone.

If she gets out, she gets out, and there's no much I can do.

Those Left Behind Ghosts

2010-11-06T01:08:00.002-05:00

I often think of the ones the stories left behind. What would it be like standing beside them watching what I’m watching? James and Lilly Potter. John and Mary Winchester. Gilraen. If they could see their children as I have seen their children, would they want to, knowing the trials and troubles they would go through? They’re fictional, of course, just like the stories are fictional. I think about them anyway.

If I were ever tempted to write fan fiction, that is what I would write. Not about the heroes themselves, interesting though they might be, but about the people they left behind. About those people somehow still watching and participating in the lives of the ones they loved so deeply. Maybe this thought is where the idea of heaven comes from? I feel so strongly that those people died with questions unanswered, that they would truly want to know what became of their children.

But the stories always move on. Obi-wan falls and the story moves on, though his voice stays with us. Lilly Potter’s dying grace protected her infant son and destroyed the darkest wizard the world had ever known. John Winchester traded his life and his soul to the demon who killed his wife in order to preserve the life of his son. Wouldn’t they want to know? Not that it was worth it, precisely, but what all parents want to know about their children. Would they cry for them, be proud, scold them?

I also often wonder what figures of the past would think about this world. What would Martin Luther King Jr. have to say about Barrack Obama? Don’t you think he’d want to know? Would Miyamoto Musashi even recognize Japan today? Would he hate it or love it?

I don’t know why I wonder such things. I only know that I always have. Ever since I was a small child, I have imagined a person of the past walking beside me, seeing what I see, reacting in their own unique way. I explained the layout of the solar system and rotation of the moon to Galileo. I discussed atomic physics with Newton. I told Emperor Meiji about the second World War. They say teaching is the best way to learn something, so I taught ghosts in order to understand things myself. Often, the ghost and I wouldn't interact at all, but I would still imagine them there, flaberghasted by automobiles and miniskirts.

And when I watch films, television shows, and read books, I feel their ghosts looking over my shoulder, the unwritten characters who died too soon. I don’t mind. It is an old habit. I often wonder if it comes from a desire for attention myself, but usually I am the one who is fascinated by imagining observing them, watching the watcher. They are less imaginary friends than imaginary bystanders.

When I was very young, I would pretend that everything humans could imagine actually existed somewhere out there in the wider universe. We were all just looking through windows at each other, or, even more fantastic, that the imagination itself had the power to create whole worlds. Of course, my imagination never managed to create a world where I didn’t have to go to school or got to stay up an hour later.

Some stories lend themselves more to pondering the left behind than others. Harry Potter is one of those. The images of James and Lilly come to me forcefully every time a new trailer comes out. As much as I am looking forward to seeing the movie myself, I am fascinated by what they would think of it. We’ll never know, of course, not unless J.K. writes a companion to the novels. I doubt others are as interested in such questions as I.

And I don’t know why, but I’ve never told this to anyone before, at least, not anyone who was real.

Friends We Need (MDIV 555)

2010-11-04T11:59:00.001-05:00

Journal for November 4, 2010

I met Jake at the Daily Nebraskan. The DN is the independent student newspaper of University of Nebraska – Lincoln. Jake is a young man with a wide, cheerful face, unruly brown hair just a bit too long, and the air of a young history professor, complete with glasses and questionable fashion sense. We were both became opinion columnists the same year, but we never encountered each other until Jake became an assistant section editor. Later, Jake would become opinion section editor and I his assistant editor. We edited each other’s columns for a year and a half.

Jake always wrote as a Christian about Christianity. He might also talk about politics, lifestyle choices, or environmentalism, but it was always from that viewpoint. He wasn’t above printing scripture in the otherwise staunchly liberal and slightly irreverent newspaper. It was our policy to give our columnists their head and recruit a diversity of viewpoints, so Jake and I were no exception. I wrote from the standpoint of a cultural critic, and if there was Dharma in my columns, it was only ever subversive.

It was our duty, as an editor, to make our writer’s columns the best they could be. Jake and I spent hours critiquing his argument against premarital sex so that it didn’t come across as sanctimonious or religiously repressive.

“So God wants people to refrain from sex until marriage?” I typed into Google chat. Jake and I had conflicting schedules, so we couldn’t edit in person.

“Right,” he typed back.

“So what’s God’s motivation? Why does he want that?”

“God’s motivation? Well, I suppose…”

Our conversations, both in person and via chat, could last for hours. Jake was a student of religion, philosophy, history, journalism, and literature, but knew nothing about Eastern philosophy. It wasn’t taught at UNL at that time. My viewpoint was much narrower by comparison, so there was a lot to learn.

“So Buddhists are existentialists,” Jake typed once.

“I don’t know. What’s an existentialist?”

Jake sent me a link to an essay by Sarte. Together with the dead philosopher, he set about explaining existentialism.

“I suppose you could say Buddhists are existentialist, to a certain degree, at least in regard to mental concepts. But Sarte seems to have a nihilism Buddhists don’t agree with,” I replied.

“Why not?”

“Well, because…”

Now Jake and I are even more separated, but our friendship has survived, partially because it already had a strong online presence. He’s in Minneapolis, working in a wine shop, attending a wonderful church where his close friend is pastor, and contemplating his ThD application to Duke. I knew it was only a matter of time until he went back for an advanced degree, despite his own misgivings about graduate schools.

We both blog and Jake has a set of loyal commentors, mostly personal friends from within his Christian circles – and one Buddhist who delights in tossing philosophic grenades in from left field.

“I enjoy your comments at the blog. You mess with the theists and the atheists. It's awesome,” he told me via Facebook today. He once told me he thought I was a good Christian, which made me laugh. I often tell him he’s a better Buddhist than I am, which makes him smile. We don’t always agree with each other, but we find joy in the disagreements.

These are the kinds of friends we all need.

Siddhartha & Samsara (MDIV 555)

2010-11-04T11:27:00.002-05:00

Journal for November 2, 2010

Years ago a friend gave me a copy of Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. It even made the trip to California with me, when many other books did not, despite being just a possibility on my shelf. After reading the quotation of Siddhartha’s final realization in Kornfield’s book, I was curious enough to finally pick it up. I skipped lunch and felt my tummy grumble pleasantly through the last few chapters, but I managed to finish it in an afternoon.

It’s frickin’ brilliant.

No doubt is has been critiqued and criticized sufficiently since 1922, some of it deserved, some not. That’s beside the point. Here in a short 152 pages is a succinct description of the main Buddhist teachings presented in the guise of a story, told from the mind of a character about whom the reader can truly care. It is pared down, with lavish description of context and landscape spared and spent instead on mental states, philosophy, emotion, and realization. It is a novel of the mind.

On page 75, the chapter called Samsara begins, in which Siddhartha spends twenty years as a merchant. He becomes accustomed to luxury, acquisitiveness, and gambling. I believe this, of all the chapters, is one to which people can relate most strongly.

A friend recently said that he didn’t want to have much in way of possessions. He liked to live in a simple home, take public transit, not have a lot of things to be responsible for. To some people this sounds like cowardice, fear of life, fear of “growing up.” It may be partially so, but to me it sounds very wise.

The summer after I graduated high school, my parents moved out of our house. My brother, two years older than I, and a group of his friends moved back in. Our folks bought a townhome nearby, something smaller than the five-bedroom ranch, where they didn’t have to mow the yard or shovel the snow. A year later, my brother and I bought the house. We continued to rent out three of the bedrooms.

I remember how proud I was of being “independent,” being a homeowner, even in a home I couldn’t really afford unless it was shared with strangers. I was always trying to “improve” my home, because that’s what homeowners do. I wanted a new rug for the dining room, new curtains for the living room, a larger television, flowers for the yard, to repaint my bedroom, remodel the bathroom, remove the dying tree. Beyond just the necessary maintenance, I wanted more than I had. I put a lot of money into these tasks, probably more than I could afford. There was an entire list, and by the time I had completed everything, I would have undoubtedly added a dozen more things I wanted.

Looking back now, I remember that mindset was permeated with a kind of misery. Outwardly, I had everything I was supposed to – a house in the suburbs, yard with the dogs, a car, a good, white-collar, nine-to-five job at the bank, financial independence, and an ongoing college education that kept me in class until ten o’clock four nights a week. When I was home on Friday and weekends, I cleaned, mowed the massive yard (which I came to hate), did repairs, watched too much television, read novels, and did laundry. I wasn’t really unhappy, but life was permeated by dissatisfaction.

Brandon moved out to live with his girlfriend, now wife. I rented his room. My close friend, Melissa, moved in. We remodeled her bedroom and bathroom. I went part-time at the bank and returned to the University full-time to study architecture. I worked two or three jobs on the side. We took out a second mortgage to pay for my first year back in college. My mother took out a parent’s student loan to pay for my second year. I ran up my credit cards to fill in the gaps. One of my dogs died. And I did the budget and did the budget and did the budget, until I realized I just couldn’t afford this massive, five-bedroom, mortgage in the suburbs.

I was never so happy as when I lived in Lincoln. We sold the house at a loss of three-hundred dollars, but it was finally gone. I gave my furniture to Melissa, who rented an apartment with two of our former housemates. I found a little, one-bedroom condo in an old building next to the State Capital on foreclosure sale in Lincoln. My parents bought it outright using the equity on their townhome. I paid my mortgage to them.

It took a while to get out of the mindset of samsara. I wanted to endlessly improve even my little condo. But the credit card payments drained my extra income and eventually I learned to be happy with what I had. I honestly got over the need for new curtains and rugs and televisions. I was delighted when I found a set of shelves left out by the dumpster. I stopped shopping in retail stores and bought my clothes second hand. Eventually, my closet shrank to a third its original size, and I didn’t mind. I didn’t drive my car everyday and I didn’t buy gas more than once a month. I learned to enjoy walking and riding my bicycle everywhere, being in the world rather than travelling through it wrapped in glass and metal. Eventually, I let the credit cards default and then declared bankruptcy, finally letting go of the last pretense of financial “independence” and “responsibility.”

Siddhartha walked away from his wealthy life as a pampered merchant and went to live as a ferryman in a small hut on the edge of the forest, growing crops, tending the orchard, weaving baskets, and listening to the river. Such a dramatic transformation is unlikely these days and I am no Siddhartha.

But I get it, and I think other people can get it, too, if they’re looking.

Meaning of Worlds & Words

2010-10-31T22:43:00.004-05:00

The universe is meaningless. This is good news. Many existentialists have followed this train of thought to a depressed, nihilistic conclusion without realizing the liberation it actually entails. A universe without inherent meaning is one in which meaning is only ever assigned. Something is either good or bad because we say it is. Therefore the bedrock of moral absolutes on which we stand suddenly turns to the sand of relativism, or so they claim. However, I believe that morality is not founded on inherent meaning, but rather shared humanity. Because we are capable of assigning meaning, we are capable of understanding one another and sharing meaning, including a common moral code. It may not always been in perfect concordance, but a close study of many traditions from around the world will reveal much striking and profound agreement.

Meaning, of course, is never objective. It is not quantifiable. It cannot be measured or recorded. Rather, the most common way meaning is communicated is through words, which are imperfect representations of sometimes ungraspable concepts, feelings, perceptions, and ideas. Because meaning is by its nature subjective, ephemeral, and changeable, some people say that it doesn’t exist.

However, this claim falls afoul of common sense. We can't even agree or disagree with it without refuting it. To even label it true or false is to apply meaning, because true and false are words laden with connotations. Truth is good, or so we are told, and falseness is bad. Synonyms for falseness include dishonesty, deceit, disloyalty, and treachery. Meaning is everywhere, even when we do not intend it to be.

“You latest writings have a deep sadness to them. Almost a cloud on your soul,” a friend commented. It is very poetic and made me smile. I may have to use that again. It is just that good. Yet I wondered, "Is it a cloud, or the shade of a willow tree on a hot day?"

It may be true that my writing has not been overly cheerful of late, but it is also true that I am not unhappy. This may be because when writing, we tend to write what comes easy, and sadness for the poet flowed ever so much stronger than contentment. I have mentioned before how bad moods make for better writers. But remember, meaning is changeable. It is changeable because we are changeable.

My life has changed rather dramatically in the last few months. I may have dwelled on the disappointments. I have done some deep thinking about my path. Sometimes reflection is upsetting, and sometimes profound, but more often than not it is merely puzzling. And we live in a culture in which everyone must always smile. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” One who doesn’t smile must have failed at the later, given that the first two are more or less provided free of charge. The third we must construct from our own effort.

Oddly enough, I think the Buddha would agree.

Every week on NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour, the guests are asked what is making them happy this week. We Buddhists know nothing can ever ‘make’ us happy, or sad, or angry. We choose based on the meaning we assign to the things that happen in our lives.

The Third Noble Truth says that suffering can end. Pain does not, nor old age, sickness, and death, but the suffering part we can choose. If we view these things as so sorrowful and frightening we must fight against them, then we will suffer. Of course, it is not easy to chose the other way. Sometimes we feel trapped by our karma, by our habitual patterns that choose for us, but we recognize them for what they are. We are on the path.

It is hard to choose not to suffer. Often we will be sad or lonely or confused, but we can chose to give a meaning beyond suffering to those emotions. Sadness upon the death of family can be good. It means we loved. Loneliness can help us seek out others, understand their loneliness, and start to heal together. Confusion can send us in search of wisdom. All these clouds on our souls can be a path to the end of suffering, to happiness. That path starts with little things.

My family sent me a care package. In it was a heavy brown Jedi robe, white tunic, and light brown belt. There were also two feel-good novels, the local design awards insert from the Omaha World Herald, a paper mache pumpkin, and a bag of Legos. I am happy because my family cares and knows me well enough to understand what would make me happy. I’m thirty years old and my mother still makes my Halloween costumes. How delightful is that? She does a damned good job, too. My mom is so cool.

Once we know what the little things are, it’s easier to find the big things. The IMPORTANT things that help us find satisfaction in life.

Star Wars was probably my earliest introduction to ideas of morality, philosophy, and wisdom. It might have just been a story, but stories are important mediums for conveying meaning. One of the greatest things I learned from Star Wars was about redemption. In the end, Darth Vader, the bad guy, saved everyone. What meaning I assign to that is a belief that good can be found in even the darkest heart, that believing people are good is a worthwhile endeavor. That’s not quantifiable datum. It’s not objective or measurable. But it is important, because if I had assigned some other meaning, I might not be where I am today. It would be that much easier to give up on people, to not even try to help them, because they’re just evil and don’t deserve help, or worse, can’t be helped.

I used to worry that my family’s relative lack of dysfunction meant I was fundamentally incapable of understanding traumatized people and, as a result, I wouldn’t be able to help them. However, what I’ve also realized is that my family has provided me with a good model of what a healthy family relationship looks like. They know how much I love Star Wars and what it means to me, so they don’t belittle or demean my geekdom. When the design awards insert comes, they save it for weeks in order to send it to me because they hold me in their thoughts. I get more than what I ask for, so I try to give the same back, keeping my eyes open for little things my Mom would like or would make my Dad laugh or my sister-in-law ooh and ahh. Of course, we’re not perfect, but we’re fundamentally workable so that even the familiar fights come with a possibility for growth.

These things are more important than Jedi robes or Legos, but one is indicative of the other. They have meaning. Learning to find one’s happiness is essentially a search for meaning. But meaning isn’t something that starts outside and we are on a grand quest to find. Meaning is something we give the world. And to this, I give the word “good.”

A meaningless universe is one in which we all have the power to create our own happiness with something as simple as a word.

Shambhala to Here (MDIV 555)

2010-10-28T11:30:00.001-05:00

Journal for October 28, 2010

The first time I met other Buddhist was in August of 2004. Until them, my knowledge of the religion came entirely from books and the internet. The Heart of Buddha’s Teaching by Thich Nhat Hanh had the greatest impact on me. There was a Soto Zen temple in Omaha, but somehow I had never talked myself into going. It was far from my home and Zen didn’t really sound like my cup of tea anyway. I had come to the point where if I wanted to know more, I would have to do it in the company of other Buddhists. So, without discussing it with anyone, I did some searching and shortly ended up buying a train ticket to Denver.

I told my parents about a week before I left, by way of asking for a lift to the train station in Downtown Omaha and for them to look after my cat for the weekend. I was going to someplace in northern Colorado called Shambhala Mountain Center. I had only moved into my apartment in Lincoln the weekend before and was preparing to begin classes and a new job at UNL in two short weeks. But before my free time evaporated I was going to attend a program called Shambhala Training Level I: The Art of Being Human.

They typically withheld their opinions and agreed to my request. The train across Nebraska left at eleven o’clock at night and arrived in Denver around seven in the morning. The path from there to the mountain center involved an expensive taxi, large bus, and then ride in a beat up old hatchback driven by one of the center’s summer staff. Off and on during that journey, I read snippets from the book I had picked up ahead of time, Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior.

“The clouds were so big and close overhead, as though I could reach my hand and run my fingers through their soft undersides. I could hear the wind roaring and rushing, but rarely felt it in the protected valley. Otherwise it was quiet and I counted only two birds on the mile or so hike back to Red Feather,” I wrote two years later.

“The lovely Farradee introduced the woman in the teacher’s chair as Cynthia Kneen. She was about my mother’s age and smartly dressed in a business suite with her brown hair artfully styled and makeup done. She was someone I expected in a board room, not a tent in the middle of the mountains, but she had something about her that seemed to make her perfectly at home and perfectly suited to this time and this place. She had a softness I had never seen before in another human being.

“That evening, she explained with a soft voice and a gentle laugh about basic goodness and how wonderful it is to be a human being. I confess I didn’t understand it all, but most of it made sense, and something in her manner told me I would come to understand it in short order, even if I didn’t tonight…

“After a couple of hours and a very sore back from sitting on the meditation cushions, called a gomden and a zabuton, my head felt full and soft. I was still slightly skeptical, but happy. We adjourned for the night and the large group left almost as quietly as we had come. Some stopped at the entrance to bow to the shrine. I did not.”

I returned to Shambhala Mountain Center in 2005 to work on the set up crew for two weeks. In 2006, I make another pilgrimage for spring break in March, when the snow was thick on the ground. I was there again in May, but this time I was stolen from set up to do some mapping and drafting. The Director of Expansion and Planning, Richard Swaback, had discovered my skills in AutoCAD. It was after that visit, on June 22, 2006, that I began the blog.

“I needed a sense of belonging badly by the time I was able to return to the mountain center. ... I have so few to share it with you truly understand. …It is hard being a Buddhist in Nebraska,” I wrote in that very first post. Since then, I have returned to the mountain center several times, including the entire summer of 2007, mostly to work for Richard or to take student groups from the College of Architecture to conduct site visits for design projects. There have been ups and downs, but the good generally outweighed the bad. Despite this, I never felt Shambhala was the right tradition for me, nor was I inclined to study at Naropa, having met many of the students from there.

I think that is for the best, as it seems to have led me here.

Dog? (MDIV 555)

2010-10-28T11:27:00.001-05:00

We have moved from Jack Kornfield's book to Chogyam Trungpa's Shambhala: Sacred Path of the Warrior.

Journal for October 26, 2010

I have always struggled with Trungpa. Quite aside from the wild tales of the man himself or the odd results sometimes observed among his followers, I find more than enough to quibble with in his books. Shambhala: The Sacred Path of the Warrior was the first I read, and one of my earliest dharma books. I remember thinking to myself as I read it, “Well, that sounds good,” but somehow it never really sunk in and I have remained skeptical. (Big surprise.)

For this reason, I’m not going to discuss this book in these journals. I know myself well enough to realize I can be very critical, sometimes to an unwarranted degree. It is an aspect of my personality enhanced by formal education. Architecture is a very critical profession. Often enough, that comes in handy in other areas of life, but in some places it is simply habit.

Instead, I’m going to try a new tack entirely and write about a decision I’m contemplating. I’m thinking of getting a dog. It may sound frivolous, but it is a large decision given the uncertainty of my future. Animals are very important to me. They are some of my best teachers and have facilitated my growth as a human being, morally and spiritually. Though my intellect tells me it is unlikely, experience often seems to indicate they are little buddhas in fur coats.

As a young child, we had a shaggy white mutt named Andy and a sour calico cat called Joker. When my parents’ business failed and we moved back to Nebraska from South Dakota, they couldn’t come with us. We moved from a big old house in a small town to a small apartment in a big city just before I began kindergarten. I missed them. In many years we had only guinea pigs. Mine was named Frizzle, because she had curly hair. Sometimes we had baby pigs to give away. Sometimes they died.

Just before sixth grade we finally got dogs again. Because my brother and I fought over everything, we each got a dog. Mine was a shaggy grey mutt named Jordon. Brandon got a small white miniature poodle called Benjamin. Our mother was a rancher’s daughter who grew up training horses and working with cattle dogs. She took us immediately to 4-H for obedience classes. Turned out Brandon wasn’t a dog person, but I was. In the end, I had Jordon and Jordon had Benjamin. They both slept in my bed. In our home we didn’t have pets, we had fur-people.

Two years later, my close friend Christine brought my mother a small black kitten as a Mother’s Day present. Dad hadn’t wanted a cat, but couldn’t get out of it when Mom insisted it was a gift. (Prearranged, but a gift nonetheless.) Dad sulked for two weeks, but in the end, even he enjoyed having Spook around. Benjamin and Spook were about the same size and used to play together. They were great friends. Since I was eleven years old, those critters were my best friends and my greatest responsibility. I still relate better to dogs than people. When I visit peoples’ homes, their kids remind me of things my dogs would do, but I’ve learned the parents don’t usually appreciate the characterization.

Benjamin died unexpectedly of kidney failure at the age of fourteen. I held Jordon in my arms and felt his heart stop beating as the overdose of anesthesia was injected when he was fifteen and a half, mostly deaf, mostly blind, entirely senile, and suffering from horrible arthritis. But he was still my dog and I cried. That was five years ago.

I have a cat, Isis. She is very small and very noisy and a constant source of amusement, but I miss dogs. They were probably the first animal to be domesticated and have a better understanding of human communication, words, gestures, and tone, than even our closest primate cousins. Now I need to decide if it is time to get a dog. I have a house here with a small yard, but it will complicate things when I inevitably move elsewhere. Giving them away is not an option. I take such commitments and responsibilities seriously.

I have wanted a dog for five years, but I’ve managed not to listen to that urge. I’m in college. I figured one day that would change, but as I’ve decided to pursue a PhD track, that one day seems much further away and far too long to wait. However, now that I’m here, that desire has grown stronger, but I have to wonder if it isn’t taking the place of something else. I don’t like it here. I miss Nebraska. Heck, I miss where I lived in Boulder as compared to here. I miss the tent I had during the summer I worked at Shambhala Mountain Center. I felt more comfortable there. I don’t feel at home here and I wonder if I’m thinking of getting a dog as a consolation prize, to try to make this place home. I’m not convinced that’s a bad thing. And I recognize the commitment required.

I’m just wondering, would it work?

The Wind & The World

2010-10-25T20:37:00.001-05:00

El Monte is a city of ten square miles smack dab in the middle of the San Gabriel Valley, the eastern suburb of greater Los Angeles. One-hundred and twenty thousand people are squeezed into those ten square miles in one or two story houses, apartments, and trailer parks. Next door, just to the west, is the city of Rosemead, is five square miles of slightly nicer homes and retail businesses. There are more lawns and flowers, and the city is bordered to the south by the large green expanse of the Whittier Narrows Recreation Area and Golf Course, ringed round by a tall, impenetrable fence. In both cities, the businesses along Garvey have tall fences and close their gates at night. The guard dogs watch silently as people pass.

Water is flowing in the Rio Hondo, which separates the two otherwise indistinguishable cities. A hundred years ago, life would have come with the water, but now the river is no more than a concrete gutter. It was more cheerful when it was dry. With the water comes a reminder of all the possibilities lost, all the birds, plants, and animals who otherwise might have had a home.

Sunday morning I escaped to Pasadena. A short bicycle ride to the utilitarian concrete expanse of the El Monte Bus Station and thirty minutes later found me on the corner of Lake and Del Mar. The shops on Lake are nice in the commercial sense of that word, chain stores for soccer moms and football dads. The outdoor seating area is larger than the indoor one at the Corner Bakery next to Macy’s. I sat with a cup of chai, not my usual fare, chatting with a nice guy to whom I felt no connection, and watching the numerous dogs come and go. It was my second date with a second person set up through an online dating site. Honestly, I was more interested in the dogs. There was even a shaggy grey mutt so like my Jordan. I miss him.

Afterward, we said a lackluster farewell and I headed off to wander down Lake. There was a small arcade trying very hard to look British, complete with red telephone booth. I peered in the windows of a little kimono shop, smiling at the Hello Kitties with wagging tails. It was a short walk through a nice residential neighborhood to Caltech. Right on schedule there came three geeks walking side by side as I crossed onto campus. They were actually rather handsome young men, in wire-rimmed glasses, gesturing with animation, one holding a sheaf of papers.

I spotted two green domes to the south and wandered down to discover a quad between buff stone buildings with arched colonnades, each capped by the green end-dome. On the far end the quad, a tall, modern, cruciform tower rose between the older long, low buildings on either side. The contrast was striking, between decades, ornamentation, shape, size, and color. No doubt that was the point, as only a Modernist architect can make it. On the far side of the tower was a reflecting pond, a low bridge crossing it in a gentile arc. Three guys dangled their feet just above the water, watching as the clockwork fountain spun in response to water hitting unevenly on its many disks and leafs.

On the far edge of the reflecting pool was the first of a series of several small ponds, connected by a winding stream, bordered by a winding trail, all under the dappled shade of tall, old trees. I found the turtle garden. There were two tortoises sunning themselves on the rough concrete edge of the pool, each the size of a salad plate. I knelt down next to them and watched closely as the nearest one tilted its head ever so slowly to fix its beady black eye on me.

“Are they real?” one of the guys called out as I rose to head down the path.

“Yeah, they’re real. One of them moved, just vee-rry slooowly.”

At the bottom pool a family with children were gathered around the largest pool, where dozens of tortoises had gathered. A large, fluffy dog romped beside an older couple, alternatively sniffing the silent reptiles and giving happy barks.

“Labradoodle?” I asked.

“No, English Golden Doodle,” the lady answered.

“English?”

“Yeah, her mom was an English Golden Retriever.”

“Oh. Does she speak with an English accent?”

“No, a Canadian one,” the man replied with a smile. The canine in question gave an affirmative bark. It had a distinctly “ay” sound to it.

I passed the outdoor seating area for a large café, only a few tables occupied, and made my way north back towards Del Mar. I realized here on campus was the first place I felt truly comfortable and at home since moving to this state. I liked it here. I liked the evenly spaced buildings, trees and gardens, the event and room for rent flyers posted on the bulletin boards, the studious look of people reading at the café, the crowd of patrons gathered in front of the museum. I wanted to stay, but I headed back to the bus stop at Chester and Del Mar anyway. Half an hour later, I was back in El Monte.

I hit a curb wrong half a block from the bus stop and tipped myself onto the sidewalk, landing hard on my left arm. Today it’s a bit sore, but typically I’ve nothing to show for it. I peeled off some skin, but didn’t even manage to bloody myself. Despite my good fortune, I grumbled my way home, feeling quite sorry for myself.

Today, as I sat reading in the courtyard after class, my head came up to a familiar sound. Wind. There’s no wind here, just the occasional breeze. I looked up to see the tops of the arborvitae swaying together. I could feel the wind tangling my hair, hear the rustle of the trees and the skirl of dried leaves across pavement. I breathed that sound in deep into my chest. I have missed that. It made me sad.

Of all the places I have been, fens, forests, fields, moors, mountains, flat rivers and narrow canyons, skyscrapers and suburbs, dark earth and clean sand, windy hills and silent sea, only in one place have I ever failed to hear the heartbeat of the world, and that is the desert. I am reminded this is a desert. It’s covered over in concrete and cut, green lawns and strange trees, but where the ground is torn what it reveals is dust, not soil. I am surrounded by noise, children screaming, traffic rumbling, machines humming, music playing, choppers passing, dogs barking, and I am constantly oppressed by the silence. There is no wind here.

I am confronted once again with the knowledge that I do not like this place. I like what I am doing, who I am sharing it with, why I am doing it. I even enjoy that I am able to do it at this point in my life. But I do not like where I am.

This was made all the more clear by my recent walkabout at Caltech. Somewhere like that I think I could be okay. I could trade my lost wind for some turtles and fountains. I could forget the desert for a while and hide in the safety of the well manicured campus. I know it’s fake. But it was also vital in a way that El Monte is not, yet in a way Lincoln was, and Boulder, Ithaca, Philadelphia, Denver, and Toronto were. I tell myself I should be okay here. It really isn’t that different from the other places I’ve been. It’s safe enough, full of kids and families. But there are no bookstores, no cafes, no neighborhood parks, no hills, no trees to climb so I can feel the wind on my face, and no wind, only the downdraft of low flying choppers.

I miss hearing the heartbeat of the world; here it’s all muffled in concrete and stifled by dust.

Hunting Yoda (MDIV 555)

2010-10-21T11:00:00.000-05:00

Journal Entry October 19, 2010

“[Some people] find it hard to let themselves be taught by anyone. …Often this attitude stems from unfinished problems with authority figures…” Kornfield describes in Chapter 16, You Can’t Do it Alone: Finding and Working With a Teacher (page 232). He’s partially right, but also partially wrong, which is not surprising given that he is obviously not one of these people. His dedication to Achaan Chaa and other teachers over the years, his glowing illustrations of the miraculous powers of gurus, and his descriptions of interactions with his own students demonstrate his orientation towards the teacher-student relationship.

“In working with a guru, we undergo a process of surrender, a stripping away of our own self-centered ways, as a vehicle to develop an openness and selflessness infused with the guru’s spirit,” he explains on page 234. This kind of surrender may indeed be useful for the letting go of self, however it has always struck me as an inherently dangerous abdication of one’s own spiritual and moral responsibility as well as simply misleading. Kornfield even describes this danger earlier, on page 231, found in the attitude of students who believe “The master will enlighten me in due time.”

“…it is more important to realize one basic fact: No one can enlighten us; no one can mature for us; no one can ever do it for us,” Kornfield reminds us on page 241. This is always the way I have approached my practice and my life.

I am not a person motivated by external factors. From a very young age, neither bribery nor punishment was sufficient to get me to do anything unless I understood the reasons for it and agreed with them. Naturally, I was grounded a lot and in detention a lot, but that never really bothered me. Nor could anyone convince me my own judgment was insufficient to making decisions. Upon reflection, this was perhaps a bit ridiculous for an eight-year-old to believe, but there it was nonetheless.

This put me into conflict with “authority figures” quite often. That conflict was not characterized by any form of genuine exchange, but rather a “because I said so” attitude, which was NEVER a sufficient reason. Quickly, those who employed such tactics, who invested their own self-worth in the authority they could wield against a physically and mentally inferior opponent, who failed to even engage in a battle of wits (must be because they don’t have wits), immediately lost the argument and any respect I might have had for them. Therefore, whatever they had wanted from me was obviously without merit.

A few individuals were able to recognize that I was not an inherently unreasonable child (in fact, I was rather too obsessed with reasons). As a result, they treated me more or less as an adult capable of making my own decisions. If that decision was between a ridiculous homework assignment that would teach me nothing and half an hour in detention, I usually chose detention, but those adults respected that choice and so earned my respect. Which was the first step in making me start to believe they might actually have a point of their own.

I recognize this history has tainted any relationship I might now have with a spiritual teacher or guru. However, it is not for the reasons Kornfield cites. He believes those who cannot accept a teacher do so because they cannot respect anyone above themselves, cannot believe anyone else might be right, know more than us, or be trustworthy. We might also be insecure on how to act in the presence of a spiritual teacher. In some cases, he might be correct, but I tend to believe he is greatly oversimplifying the matter.

I have looked for a teacher for the last several years, but it’s really only led me to believe that perhaps my experience and personality (which came first?) are simply unsuitable to having a teacher. I can and do learn from many different sources, but I have never been able to make a connection with a single lineage, sangha, or teacher. In the meantime, I’ve built a custom path designed for one person, which will make it even more difficult to change if and when I do encounter my teacher, should he or she exist.

There are many, many people out there who are wiser than I am, know more, and deserve my respect. I recognize that, but it’s all moot if I myself am too screwed up to recognize it when I see it. It’s like telling a blind person to find the blue marble. Others will put faith in a true master to be able to make themselves seen by determining the best method to reach that student. Perhaps that’s so, but I haven’t met that person yet.

I’m hunting for my Yoda, but I don’t know the way to Dagobah.

The Weight (MDIV 555)

2010-10-21T10:57:00.003-05:00

Journal for October 21, 2010

“We can understand the workings of karma in our lives most clearly by looking at this process of cause and effect in our ordinary activities and by observing how repetitive patterns of our mind affect our behavior. For instance, being born in a certain culture at a certain time, we learn certain habit patterns.” A Path with Heart, by Jack Kornfield, page 275-6.

The idea of karma is very interesting to me for two reasons. I simply try to understand why people do the things they do, myself more than most simply because I have more knowledge to work with. Understanding why other people do the things they do is at least as puzzling, especially as I don’t know what they are thinking. The role culture plays in one’s karma, I feel, is often far larger than we give it credit for. We are all products of our culture and we act in the manner to which we have been culturally habituated. Even counter-cultures suffer from this influence.

That is not to say we have no free will. It is only to say that so long as something goes unrecognized, it goes unaddressed. Culture is usually either entirely unrecognized or misrecognized. For example, my friend Jake once posed the playful question “If you could live at any time and place in history, when and where would you choose?” My other friend and I looked at each other, then at him. “Are you kidding?” she asked. “This one, of course.” Jake was surprised to hear that answer from a fellow history major, but we explained, “Jake, if we lived at any other time or place in history, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t be studying at the university, wearing pants, or even talking to you without supervision.” It had never occurred to Jake that for a woman to go back in time would involve her submission to cultural dictates which did not apply to him as an educated, white, Christian, male. That was his karma. Shortly after that, he began an exploration of women’s issues.

I know I come with a lot of karma, from my DNA to my culture to all the choices I’ve made in my life. Often the weight of it feels almost overwhelming, as though it is a great burden I’ll never get out from under. I feel like whatever successes I have had in changing my karma have been so very small. For example, as a teenager, I stopped chewing my fingernails, a lifelong habit. But really, how important is that? Some days I feel it’s a great victory and at other times entirely superficial.

Oddly, I often feel that cultivating good qualities, like generosity and equanimity, is almost easy compared to how difficult it is to let go of bad qualities, like obstinacy and laziness. The minute a bit of unkind gossip comes out of my mouth, I can recognize it as unskillful, but I can’t call it back. Getting to that beginning spot of unskillful action is so very hard. On the other hand, creating a beginning spot of skillful action seems much easier. Sometimes the intention behind the skillful action hasn’t been exactly pure, in fact, at times it’s been quite grudging, but it feels like I can actually make progress towards purifying that intention. Whereas on the other hand, I can’t even find the intention behind unskillful actions until it’s too late.

Perhaps it’s uncharitable, but I don’t feel like whatever good I do when I cultivate skillful qualities balances out the harm of my unskillful thoughts, words, and deeds. Things are so much easier to break than to build. One catty remark can taint someone’s opinion forever and then they close their minds to a thousand compliments. I feel like the only place bad karma can be undone is at the very beginning, at that intention. It can’t be balanced or redeemed or purified through a million good deeds.

That is a very heavy weight. Yet bearing guilt for all one’s past misdeeds is also karma, and not very helpful karma at that. I don’t think guilt is a good motivator of skillful actions, it’s not a pure intention. When one acts out of guilt, one generally acts to make the guilt go away, to make oneself feel better. I try to let go of guilt, but the responsibility for finding the roots of my future unskillful actions, no doubt numerous, still weighs on me.

What kind of intention does that breed?

Problems of Exclusivism, Inclusivism, and Pluralism

2010-10-19T18:46:00.003-05:00

There are three standard attitudes of religions towards one another: exclusive, inclusive, or pluralist. The exclusivist states their religion and only their religion is true and offers a path to salvation, or in the Buddhist sense, the end of suffering. The inclusivist privileges their own religion, while recognizing and valuing similar traits of other religions and, in some cases, even recognizing their stereological efficacy. The pluralist places all religions on equal footing, equally capable of salvation, and equally valid as life choices. However, each of these attitudes is problematic.

Buddhism cannot be exclusive because it makes no claims to ontological truth. Indeed it can make no claims to ontological truth given the nature of sunyata, or emptiness. In fact, no religion, philosophy, or any claim whatsoever can be said to be ontologically true due to the inability of language to exactly describe existence. (I reserve judgment on the realm of mathematics and, by extension, physics, but only by assuming an “evil genius” or “Matrix” like situation does not pertain.) Buddhism, as compared to other religions, merely emphasizes this recognition.

Buddhism is and has been broadly characterized as inclusive. Historically, Buddhism adapted to and, in some cases, even merged with indigenous Asian religions in countries to which it spread. In many cases, Buddhists practicing in one country might not even recognize the practices of another country as Buddhism upon cursory examination.

Here in the West, it is continuing to adapt. Recent scholars have even asserted it is not a religion at all, but rather a philosophy, perhaps in part due to the lack of ontological truth claims discussed above. As a philosophy, they hold, it is entirely accommodating of all world religions. Any religion can include Buddhist ideas or be included within Buddhist practice either in whole or in part.

However, I believe these claims to be misleading, altering the face of Buddhism to suit one’s personal preferences (i.e. anti-religious bias), superficial (i.e. misunderstanding the Dharma), or simply wrong (i.e. causation being antithetical to a supra-causational divinity). In addition, inclusive attitudes run the risk of damaging both Buddhism and other religions by removing the “agreeable” aspects from their larger framework and reinterpreting them in a new and, perhaps, wildly incorrect manner.

Yet at the same time, Buddhism cannot be entirely pluralist. The Buddha stressed that different practices and teachings are more suited for certain individuals at certain times (he even discouraged conversion from one's native theology to Buddhism), but this should not be interpreted as relativism. To say Christianity or Hinduism is just as good as Buddhism is to devalue not only Buddhism, but the other religions as well. It entirely ignores the merits of each religion in question and closes off opportunities to exercise discriminating awareness. If any path is just as good as any other, then no path is just as good as any path, so we might as well sit on the couch all day eating potato chips and watching soap operas. In addition, Buddhism has been characterized as a stereological phenomenology, that is, concerned with the effects and efficacy of various practices leading towards the end of suffering, not their underlying claims of truth. Therefore, a Buddhist cannot help but evaluate other religions by their effects and efficacy, which neither over the long course of history nor between modern-day individuals can be described as equal.

In some ways, Buddhism must be a little bit pluralist, a little bit inclusive, and, yes, even a little bit exclusive. In so doing, however, it is really none of the three, but rather an as-of-yet unnamed fourth position. Of course, this a really brief and very dirty characterization of the three recognized positions and the trouble of each. A Buddhist view of other religions may, in the end, fall so close to one of the three as to be practically indistinguishable. Yet, my intuition tells me there is a fourth way.

We could call it the Middle-of-the-Triangle Way, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.

To Write Like Music

2010-10-17T21:55:00.004-05:00

Would that I could write like music. A single piano to stir our hearts and make the most bitter cry tears of joy. The aria of the electric guitar to boil our blood and make the tired crowds scream with excitement. The endless reverberation of taiko drums to shake our bones and make the deepest sleepers dream of supernovas. I wish I could write lines like that.

I have only humble letters on pages. With them I search for the star heart of feeling, of longing, love, and sadness, of joy, rage, pain, and bliss. I paint pictures of a hundred-thousand words, always knowing them incomplete, trusting the mind to fill in the missing. I seek the depths of a human soul and know it to be bottomless. And I dream of writing words like music.

I would capture the strike of every raindrop, the brush of every leaf against leaf, the voice of the wind and the tone of sunlight. I would know the sound of heartbeats and breath coming fast and the silence of palms pressed together in prayer. I would tell it to you, if I but knew how. It is a dream ever undone, never unworthy.

There is a hollow place inside my chest I seek to fill. I want to gather a thunderstorm and compress it into my hands, a whirling, stirring, striking, calling cage of lightning. I want to swallow it down and let it light me up so that I might finally be. I want to hear it all roaring in my ears and passing away into calm. I want to feel so that I might know peace. I want the crescendo and what comes after, like in the songs. I want to have it and to know it and to share it and to give it away and to lose it and to remember it.

But I could never play. I could never read the music. I can only listen and wonder and seek other ways to know the aching call of love and sorrow and fear. I press my palms in prayer for what I know does not come. Fold my fingers over and together and hang on, hang on, hang on to this nothingness, this everything.

There is color in the music, light and smell and taste and touch, like in the wind or wave. In it are all the sounds of the breeze in the grass, the meadowlark, the oak, and the ocean. From this we call ourselves human. Oh, we may think and reason, walk upright and speak, too much usually. But it is in the music we feel and share that feeling. We break our own hearts, scatter the pieces, and put them back together again with the shards of other people's hopes and dreams. We make beauty out of thin air for no other reason than it is beauty.

Would that I could write like that.

Write to Explore (MDIV 555)

2010-10-14T18:36:00.000-05:00

Journal for October 14, 2010

I’ve noticed something appearing in the tenor of these journals. They’ve become very presentational, and from that sense also very egoic and possibly self righteous. They haven’t been as exploratory or engaging as I’m used to. I think that’s in large part due to their topical nature, meaning, I am writing in response to a topic presented in the reading and discussed in class that week. A lot of these feel like topics I’ve already explored, at least in part. Further exploration would involve starting in the middle, which isn’t fair to the reader. On the blog, I don’t worry about that so much. I can just reference an earlier post and leave it to the reader to decide if they want to spend time on the back story. Things are different when presenting work to a teacher.

In starting from the beginning, I seem to be presenting a “this is how it is” story. I’m Monica. I’m a white chick from Nebraska. I’m stubborn. I like cheesecake. I don’t meditate. So there. Oh, and I’m mildly bored because I feel like I’m repeating myself and that’s just not very engaging as a writer, so I’m not going to spend a lot of time on this.

This attitude is not helpful. Journal writing should be and has been, for me at least, an exploration. It’s not about what you want to present to a reader, but what you want to understand about yourself as a writer and a person. Often, the best journal entries start from the basis of a question, sometimes an unspoken wondering. They explore things nobody knows, including me.

The other day I wrote about an incident with my grandfather. It happened many years ago. My entire family was present at the time. But I don’t think anyone ever knew precisely how impactful that incident was, including myself. Through writing about it, I was able to reflect on it, explore that moment and how it has shaped my life, and come to understand something new about myself.

The single most frequently read post on my blog is about inherent existence. I wrote it because I was trying to understand this strange new concept of emptiness. I wrote that post in October 2006, mere months after the blog began. In July 2010, Google started tracking and providing statistics on the blog. That old post has received over twice as many page views as any other single post (the main site address doesn’t count). The search keywords ‘inherent existence’ bring more traffic to my site than any others. Yet I didn’t write the post because I wanted to tell others what I though inherent existence was. I wanted to figure it out for myself.

The main difference (besides length) between these journals and my normal blog posts is topic choice. For the blog, topics of exploration come up naturally. In these journals, they are assigned. Certainly, I still have options. Many topics are covered in the weekly readings. And perhaps I’ve been a bit lazy. I write the journal for each class when I find I have something to say, and not necessarily something new. I end up quoting myself, recycling old material, and summarizing old topics in a shortened format.

This is not a good thing. In the future I will try to do better. Writing is my main form of practice. Sometimes people talk about their practice becoming stale, routine, and thereby loosing meaning or power to make positive change. Writing is no exception. I need to be more vigilant in my approach, apply effort and diligence a little more mindfully.

After all, there’s still a lot I haven’t figured out yet.

Sans Cushion (MDIV 555)

2010-10-14T18:35:00.000-05:00

Journal for October 12, 2010

I don’t meditate. Not really. I learned how, of course. I took the Shambhala Levels up through number five, which are the basics of samatha. I’ve never done vipassana. I’ve sat in some guided meditations in various workshops and learned a smidgen of tonglen and loving-kindness meditation. I’ve read numerous instructions for meditation, both basic and specific, and listened to plenty of podcasts. Everyone agrees on its importance. Even I agree on its importance, at an intellectual level. I’ve even recommended it to others from time to time. I just don’t do it.

For four and a half years I’ve tried to set up a daily meditation practice. Morning, midday, afternoon, or evening, none seemed to stick. Going to a weekly group practice didn’t last long either. I lived at Shambhala Mountain Center for a summer and thought surely here of all places, surrounded by a sangha that practices three times a day, I’ll be able to build good habits. But, nope.

I ask people about it and they all tell me the same things over and over. “Just sit. You just have to sit. You’ll see. You can’t get there if you don’t sit.” It all just bounces off and nothing really convinces me to change my slacker ways. No one’s ever managed to slap me down hard enough.

It’s not that I don’t believe them or think I’m somehow special so I don’t need to sit. Quite the contrary. When I do sit, my experiences are very typical. I usually have very little to report to my meditation teachers. When the subject of motivation comes up, we just go back to the same admonishments and instructions I’ve heard before.

However, I have found that while my experiences during meditation are typical of what teachers describe as occurring on the cushion, many of my experiences outside of formal meditation are also typical of what teachers describe as occurring on the cushion. A lot of bells rang for me while reading chapters five through nine in Jack Kornfield’s book, yet at the same time I got a little bit tired of his constant references to meditation. It just didn’t reflect my experience. (There’s no reason why it should, of course.) All of Kornfield’s anecdotes center around realizations that have occurred as part of a person’s ongoing practice of meditation.

So the question comes up: if I’ve had similar experience that weren’t part of meditation practice, where they genuine or am I just deluding myself? Teachers don’t deal with this question because, in their experience, these realizations and experiences always happen within the context of an ongoing formal meditation practice.

When I reflect on my past, I see a number of practices that are sorta, kinda, maybe like meditation. These go way back, to my earliest memories when I was very small. When I describe these practices though, I am always told, “That’s not real meditation. That’s just daydreaming or spacing out or sleeping or judgment or self indulgence or identity building. You need to do real meditation.” Then they go on to tout the benefits of “real” meditation and I think, well, I already have a system for doing that. This is how I keep myself calm and balanced, how I deal with anger, how I identify hidden problems and analyze their causes, how I allow insight to arise in difficult situations. I know they work because I remember the destructive and unhappy person I was years ago.

I’m still cognizant of a lot of stumbling blocks. I’m stubborn and contentious, but now that manifests in much more constructive ways than when I was, say, thirteen or even twenty-three. When I was eighteen, I was so frustrated and impatient I couldn’t survive five weeks at the university. By the time I was twenty-two I returned with a new mindset and made it all the way through. I did it by changing myself because sure as anything, the university didn’t change.

I’m still deluded. The question is just how deluded and about what? Am I deluded about meditation? Probably. Am I deluded about what I can attain without it? Highly likely. But am I deluded about the experiences and realizations I’ve had in my life sans cushion?

I doubt it, but I’ve been wrong before.

Unexpected Flow

2010-10-08T18:38:00.002-05:00

I’ve been surprised lately at how well my writing is flowing. The blog goes on as it generally does, but some larger projects have been making more progress these past few weeks than is typical. In terms of words on paper, the number remains few, but in terms of sorting out critical pivot points in the plot, laying out scenes, and understanding narrative, things have been coming together in my mind.

Earlier this week I wrote a piece about my Grandfather. That essay will now serve as the cornerstone of the ongoing project of Dharma Cowgirl, a memoir I have been struggling with for a few years now. Around that piece I can organize several earlier pieces of writing that get to the heart of what I want to say in the project. I am going to spend some extra time on it this semester as part of the “spiritual autobiography” we have been assigned as a final project in our Spiritual Formation class. I’ve been struggling with how to start this project for almost as long as I’ve had the blog. I’ve even published many drafts here, only to ultimately discard them, but now I have something which I finally feel some kind of lasting satisfaction with.

The other project which has been in the forefront of my mind lately is an as of yet unnamed series of science fiction novels. I’ve had the critical final scene in mind for years and it wasn’t until three weeks ago that I figured out why, not how, but more importantly why the characters need to go from here to there. Last night I had a major breakthrough in understanding and laying out the scene that will articulate the main character’s motivation. This is critical, heady stuff, which allows me to actually sit down and write the body of the work with some kind of integrity.

Of course, I still don’t have all that much time to write. I’m reading a lot for class. One thing I’m not doing is creating. I’m not designing. I don’t have any projects. Sayonara, studio! In moments of discursiveness my mind tends to rearrange my mental surroundings, shuffling furniture, moving walls, reorganizing function, layout, and landscaping. But I get the impression that’s just habit, the way an ex-smoker chews gum or gnaws on pencils.

What really seems to absorb my mind in moments between appointments is my writing, and mostly these two projects. I want to be writing and I have a hard time avoiding it when in proximity to a computer. I’ve taken to doing my reading assignments in the living room, away from my keyboard. I’ve even started jotting down hand written notes when ideas come to me while I’m waiting for class to start, or during breaks, or, Buddha forbid, in class itself.

I have daydreams of actually being able to finish one or the other of these projects. I tell myself I’m at a point in my life where I could take the time. I don’t need to get a job. For once I’m getting by on being a student, if only just barely. I could invest the time in myself. I could actually take a bet on myself.

But what a bet it would be! Even if a book is written, it’s hard to get published! It involves editors and agents and someone else has to be willing to take a bet that the book will sell. And in the end, let’s face it, I’m not a trained writer. I didn’t study English or literature or journalism. No, I studied architecture. Now I study Buddhism. I have no objectivity by which to judge the market value of my work. I’ve never received a professional opinion on either of these projects.

For now, I’ll keep going with the flow, but as a hobby. I enjoy writing. I’ll keep chipping away at these projects, but slowly, steadily, the way one eats an elephant (if one isn’t vegetarian). I love the story I’m weaving in the one projects and the things I’m discovering about myself through the other (even the ugly things). Someone once said "It is better to write for yourself and have no public, than write for the public and have no self." (Assuming one does not quibble with the quote on Buddhist grounds.) I think I'll keep doing that and let my rearranged creative energies sort themselves out as they wish.

Without the shade of skyscrapers, trees can grow.

Joy of Struggle (MDIV 555)

2010-10-08T10:54:00.003-05:00

We have moved on from Buddhist Psychology by Brazier to A Path With Heart by Jack Kornfield, which has a much more narrative and flowing style. This post makes reference to several earlier posts from this blog.

Journal for October 7, 2010

The meditation at the end of Chapter 2: Stopping the War in Jack Kornfield’s book A Path With Heart is probably the most daunting meditation I have ever heard.

“Continue to sit quietly. Then cast your attention over all the battles that still exist in your life. Sense them inside yourself. … Be aware of all that you have fought within yourself, of how long you have perpetuated the conflict.

“Gently, with openness, allow each of these experiences to be present. …Let it be present just as it is. Let go of the battle. Breathe quietly and let yourself be at rest.”

The last instruction isn’t so daunting, really. It’s fairly simple, if not easy. The trouble is just getting there. If I need to learn all my battles, all my struggles, I’m going to be sitting there for a very, very, very long time. Maybe that’s no different than anyone else, but see, I sort of like the struggle.

Kornfield talks about all the negative aspects of the “war within,” the ways we struggle with and repress powerful emotions. He also talks about the violence we do to each other and the way our modern society perpetuates struggling and striving. He describes our struggling as ways of getting things we want, pushing away things we don’t want, and hiding behind delusions of how we think the world ought to be. Struggle is an outcome of our attachment, aversion, and delusion.

What he doesn’t talk about is when we are attached to the struggle itself. What he doesn’t seem to recognize is the joy of struggle. I know. It’s neurotic. It’s mildly self-destructive. It’s certainly a hindrance to renunciation and awakening. And I’ve found when I try to escape it, I just end of struggling against my struggling. I once wrote:

“When stubborn rises up, I feel very little desire to be right, but simply a desire to be stubborn, to hold fast, to push and be pushed. I view it in the same way a sportsman may view a worthy opponent or a connoisseur a very good bottle of wine.

“This is, perhaps, a mistake - more than a mistake, a perverse irony of my nature, for I have often also written of the suffering of obstinacy. That I sometimes feel that I am being stubborn not out of spite, but rather in spite of myself and my own higher reasoning. Yet I make a virtue out of what is sometimes a flaw in character. Why? Because I’m damned good at it. This, then, is also pride, and pride is ego. In order to believe that ‘I’ am ‘good’ at something, there must first be an ‘I’ to be good, or bad, or any other adjective.

“…I have no desire for it [self] to be right, no desire to be vindicated in this mockery of a belief. In the end, what I desire [non-self] and what I cling to [self] are completely separate from and often in contradiction of one another. It’s the great irony of suffering. It’s wanting the person you are arguing with to be right, but more, to be able to prove they are right in a way that somehow pries open our minds and cuts the strings of our attachment. We are all seeking that ‘Eureka!’ moment, on the cushion or anywhere else. Some of us are waiting for the bell to ring, while others of us are demanding it like a slap in the face. I’ll settle for nothing less - nothing less than being completely and utterly wrong.

“That is what stubborn is.”

Being stubborn brings with it all sorts of opportunities for struggling. It’s part of a contentious nature I’ve never been able to escape. My Google Chat status reads “Willing to argue at the drop of a hat.” I like combative sports. I fenced (yes, with a sword) for five years. “I wanted to feel like I was doing the best I could, even if I was losing. I loved the challenge of fencing someone who was just a little bit better than I was. I loved how damned hard it was.” Now I’m learning kung fu. I would be lying to myself if I said I just wanted the exercise. Almost every dream I have is about struggle.

When my Grandmother died, I wrote: “Time heals. Time untangles the knots. Tears tie them tighter. Tears I fight and in the struggle tie the tangles tighter. Should I stop fighting? I don’t know. Not in my nature to stop fighting. Not in my nature to be who I am.”

Maybe it’s in my nature to be who I am not?

My Cowboy Myth

2010-10-05T17:11:00.003-05:00

I do not recall ever seeing Grandpa Dale on a horse, except in photographs. By the time I was born he was more carpenter than cowboy. I remember him as a wiry man, not particularly tall, with a hooked nose and bald head always hidden beneath a simple farmer’s cap. He wore blue jeans, work boots, a belt, and long-sleeved, button-down shirts no mater the weather. On Sundays he wore pressed slacks, usually brown, and good boots to church.

Grandpa Dale built things. He built the first house I remember from a small barn when he and Granny Delmira were living on the outskirts of Ainsworth, Nebraska, a town which lays official claim to being “the middle of nowhere.” He and Granny Del made all six of their grandkids child-sized teepees when we were little. I used to drag mine out into the yard on nice days and stay there for hours. He built the table, bench, and shelves in our kitchen in the house in Westmont. He built bookshelves into the walls of our basement in the house in Gretna.

After they sold the red barn house in Ainsworth, he and Granny moved to Omaha and Grandpa Dale built things for Habitat for Humanity. We worked as a project foreman for them since I was little. My older brother, Brandon, would go work with him in the summers when he was a teenager, roofing or painting or hanging drywall. I went along a few times, but I was too small to be useful and easily bored.

Grandpa Dale was a gentleman, but not in a lofty way, but in the manner of a truly gentle man. He was raised a cowboy when cowboys still took their hats off indoors, answered questions with “Yes, Ma’am,” and “No, Ma’am,” worked hard, and looked after the all beings in their care. He was always willing to lend a hand to those who needed it. He knew horses and dogs and cattle. Mom told stories that made them seem to do his will unbidden. Even our neurotic little miniature poodle, who hated all men, loved Grandpa Dale.

He raised his children on the ranch. My mother and aunt worked alongside their brother in the pastures and the hay fields. When Granny got a job in town, she sewed her own suits. Mom and Aunt Donalee were expected to have dinner on the table when she got home in addition to the outdoor work. All of them participated in 4-H training horses. Mom told me that even after she married and was living forty miles up the highway on the outskirts of Valentine, Grandpa Dale still brought her a newly broken horse to train.

That was all over by the time I came along. The closest I have come to seeing the cowboy my grandfather was, is in his brothers and his descendants. My great-uncle Vernon still raises, trains, and sells horses. He and great-uncle Bob still wear their jeans, cowboy boots, shiny belt buckles, long-sleeved shirts, and dove-grey cowboy hats. Uncle Dean, my mother’s brother, and his two boys do likewise. Even my littlest cousins had cowboy hats and boots of their own almost before they were old enough to sit a horse, something that comes very early. Little cousin Cole earned his first rodeo belt buckle at the age of five. He roped a dummy steer in a competition. Aunt Donalee is also a rancher, though her two boys favor farmer’s caps and baseball hats over the cowboy look.

My mother married a city boy and settled down first in the sprawling metropolis of Valentine, Nebraska, population twenty-six hundred. After a short stint in South Dakota, where I was born, they returned to Nebraska and have lived on the outskirts of Omaha since Reagan was president. I grew up dreaming of horses and every time we moved I begged my Mom to move to a ranch. I didn’t connect the idea of a ranch as a business with a ranch as a place to live. Unlike her brother and sister, Mom didn’t study agriculture in college and she had not married a rancher. She studied pre-medicine and anthropology before finishing a degree in accounting when I was in elementary school. Dad studied business and has worked in the same industry his entire life, the one he was raised to work in by his father, coin machines. Going to work with Dad was always fun because it meant being around video games, pinballs, pool tables, dart boards, and juke boxes. But no horses.

It’s been twenty years since I gave up my dreams of being a cowgirl, but I still dream of horses. It’s hard to find them. One can’t just borrow a horse like one borrows a car. I still have hopes that someday I’ll be in a position to have horses of my own. I have saved my mother’s saddles in anticipation of that day.

Part of this is tied up in the myth of my Grandfather, who died when I was nineteen, and in the myth of my mother as she once was, that cowgirl I never met. Part of the myth is written in the land our ancestors settled a hundred years before I was born, countryside good for cattle, not crops. The anticipation is kept alive by the myth of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. I’ll never be a cowgirl or a rancher. I’ll never work as hard as they or know as much about cattle or corn or markets, but I still have hopes about horses.

I did not realize until after Grandpa Dale died quite what I had missed. He was seventy-six, with at least seventy years of hard work behind him. I would have loved to learn carpentry or cabinet making, but as a teenager I had more of an eye towards work that paid and things I could buy. I don’t value money so highly now and sometimes wish I had valued it less back then. Maybe had we known each other better I could have learned other things, like how he came to be so gentle, so sure, and so generous.

He yelled at me only once that I recall. It was the year Lena lived with us, a spoiled, vain girl from a wealthy Ukrainian family. I was fourteen and she fifteen. We fought a lot and I freely commented that I hated her, right there with the entire family and Lena present at the dinner table in my Grandfather’s house. I don’t remember what he said to me, but I do remember he was angry. No person should hate another and certainly no one should be so flippant about it. I recall I was ashamed and shrunk down in my chair, but I learned something important. It changed me.

At his funeral, Reverend Bill told the story of how the church built the education wing. The members met to discuss the need, but the consensus was that they could not afford to hire a contractor. Dale Oatman stood up and said “We’ll do it ourselves.” So they did. Reverend Bill fell off a joist and slipped a disk in his back, but under Grandpa Dale’s guidance and a lot of hard work from everyone, the education wing was built and is still being put to good use.

Grandpa Dale is buried in the Ainsworth cemetery, a spot beside him waiting for Granny Del. After he died I asked my parents where they wanted to be buried, in Valentine or Ainsworth. They said those towns weren’t their home anymore. They are very practical about such things, my parents, and perfectly happy to be cremated and spread to the wild winds if my brother and I want it that way. I think it appropriate that Grandpa Dale is buried in the earth, though. In so many ways he lived a life so much closer to that sandy soil for so much longer. The time I knew him, when they lived in Omaha, was really just a small fraction of his life.

Granny Del still lives there, just a few miles from my parents, but lately she has been talking about moving back west, to Ainsworth or Bassett where she went to high school or Broken Bow to be closer to Donalee. She still has friends out there, and a myriad of relatives I’ve never met, all just as long-lived as she. She’s never really liked the closeness of the city (or more accurately, the suburbs), with people crowded together cheek to jowl and no space to breath.

There are still tools in my mother’s garage that say “Oatman” on them, both power and old fashioned hand tools. Dean’s boys, my cousins, are the spitting image of their grandfather, Jim especially. Between Jim and Jeff there are now three more little Oatmans to carry on the name. There’s also Donalee’s two boys. All of them carry on the work.

Brandon, my brother, looks a lot like Grandpa Dale, with that same nose and thin build, but he’s a product of city life. I am too, I suppose. I got the build, but not the nose or the name or even the personality. In the last respect, I’m far closer to my Dad’s cantankerous uncles than my Mom’s family. But I think I got other things from my Grandpa Dale, quiet things, unspoken things. I love animals and sometimes I feel I know them in a deeper way than I know people. I like to build things. I like to help people. I listen for the sound of the wind in the grass and the coming of storms. And I try not to hate.

I hope Grandpa Dale would like that.

Double Dipping (MDIV 555)

2010-10-05T10:46:00.002-05:00

The spiritual formation journal entry for today is the previous post, Seeking, slightly edited for length. I liked the longer version, so I will not post what I handed in here, but our professor has requested assignments be a page in length. Sometimes this means I fudge the margins, but I generally try to follow the guidelines.

New work on Thursday!

Seeking

2010-10-04T14:56:00.005-05:00

I dreamt I was stalked by an unknown danger, real, named, but unseen. My family came to be with me, but they did not know how to protect me. I lived in a home with many tall rooms in a strange city with snow laying white upon the darkened streets. And there was something I had to do, an important errand to find another I had lost. I left my family in the bright rooms and ventured into the white ways, where the danger might find me, but I might also find what I sought. I encountered many people and animals. I saw violence, blood, and death, but always I kept seeking, among tall, stone buildings, in deep snow on empty streets. Someone called to me and I turned back, but I would not stop. I turned to go, took a step forward, and woke with the gentle light filtered through the avocado trees beyond the window.

I was at Metta Forest Monastery and it was seven o’clock in the morning. I lay for a moment looking at the shapes of leaves and the lightening sky beyond the curtain, feeling the solidity of the floor beneath me barely cushioned by the sleeping bag I lay on, smelling the chill breeze coming through the window above me. I took my ear plugs out and heard the sound of voices and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables just outside my door. I shimmied into my jeans and went out to find them, leaving behind danger, violence, cold, and darkness. But I think I took my seeking with me.

That afternoon someone asked Ajahn Geoff about longing. Often we hear that we must let go of our desires and attachments and yet also cultivate the longing to be free. It is the raft to which we cling until we reach the other shore. When we are there, we will no longer need it, but until then it is a skillful means we should not let go.

Ajahn Geoff if formally called Thanissaro Bikkhu. He was unknown to me until very recently, when his essays were assigned class reading. He is a monk in the Thai forest tradition of the Theravada, the abbot of Metta Forest, and also a very hairy man. He is an American, the stubble on his shaven head long gone white and the fluff on the shoulder bared by his simple brown robe following suit. Otherwise, I could not tell you his age, except that it seems in all things he is old enough to know better. He wears gold rimmed glasses and speaks with a calm, strong voice.

He rides heard on a group of seven younger monks, mostly tall, thin, bald, white guys and one Thai. The Thai families who drove up for the Sunday alms giving, chanting, and Dharma talk bowed to the elaborate golden Buddha statute in the simple wooden hall and then turned to bow to the eight monks on their platform, touching forehead to floor three times in succession. I followed along, as is customary, but though I felt reverence for the giant metal statue, I felt nothing but courtesy for the anonymous monks in their brown bed sheets.

I understand in an intellectual sense the reverence many Buddhists show to monks and nuns, yet I cannot bring myself to share it. It was not the culture in which I was raised. I show courtesy to all, respect to some, including clergy, but reverence to very few. There are many who deserve my respect, more than perhaps I sometimes show, and a greater number than I can fathom whom I might do well to revere, but, to put it simply, I do not know them. I have not met them, and if I have, it has been on such short acquaintance that I have been unable to discern such things.

Ajahn Geoff seems close to such a person. It may be disrespectful to include notes on his back hair in describing him, but I mean to paint a thorough picture – a picture of an American man totally at ease and entirely unselfconscious regarding what in many from our culture would be cause for vanity or embarrassment. He was patient in answering our barrage of questions, though they seemed unending. His responses were clear and precise. He did not pretend to knowledge when asked about other systems of Buddhism with which he was not familiar, but still attempted to offer some guidance. And he was most generous, turning a group of Buddhist grad students loose in the monastery’s book sheds with the guidance to take whatever we like. (In some cases, it was more than one could carry.)

I learned many things on this trip. I learned that a malfunctioning camera responds well to a happy monk. Nuns can juggle. Monks arm wrestle. Politely accepting ginger candy may endear you to a stranger more than the candy will endear itself to you. The coolest place in the afternoon is the shade in the avocado groves with the hum of the sprinklers giving life to the trees in what is otherwise desolate hill country. And that I am still seeking.

I did not ask Ajahn Geoff any questions, but I listened to many answers. Sometime I wonder if I am depriving myself of a great opportunity for the sake of pride, but no honest queries came to mind. I often feel as though I know so little, I do not even know what to ask. I wait and I listen and when I start to think I know a little bit, then I have many questions. Likely whatever I think I know is, by that point, wrong. Perhaps that is the unknown danger that stalks us all, when we think we know what it is without see it, and we go out alone into the darkness seeking anyway.

My cat was glad to see me home and bit my feet until I removed my socks. I lay one on my desk in front of me and she rubbed and rubbed against it, then went to rub and rub against my shoes.

I do not know why, but I was happy to see it.

World On Fire (MDIV 555)

2010-09-30T10:47:00.003-05:00

Journal for September 30, 2010

In the beginning of Chapter 6: Beyond the Skandhas, Brazier reminds us that “Buddhism is not a matter of just going with the flow. It is about changing course.” I think sometimes this point becomes lost among admonishments to see the world “as it is,” to “let go” of expectations and attachments, and to “just sit.” People anesthetize themselves with reassurances that the world is already perfect, we just don’t see it that way or that giving up attachments to outcomes means forgoing action altogether. But that’s just another way of abdicating one’s moral responsibility.

This week Danny chimed in on the subject of Islamaphobia via a post at Shambhala Sunspace. The second comment responding to Danny’s call that Buddhists should not stand silent in the face of another religious minority’s persecution quoted Kyle at Progressive Buddhism blog: “I don't want this to come across as yet another rant against politics or social justice, as these are all fine undertakings…But when we attempt to justify these endeavors as the purpose or goal of Buddhist teachings, then the practice becomes something other than Buddhism. They are at best, distractions from our practice and are just more squirrel mind running ramped. And at worst, they are delusional additions to Buddhist teachings in order to create an artificial goal of happiness, or social change or whatever the extra desires may be.”

Just to be certain I wasn’t taking the author out of context, I found the original post, “What is the Essential Meaning of Buddhism?” from September 20, 2010. The very first paragraph (following the cartoon) states: “One of the greatest dangers I see as an emerging trend regarding Buddhist practice is this notion that Buddhism is the means to obtain an end beyond that of overcoming dukkha [suffering]. Whether it be a pursuit of happiness, or metaphysical attainments, or political goals, or social justice or even racial parity, these kinds of expansions on Buddhist teachings are misguided and very much beside the point.”

What I wonder, is why Kyle believes we can overcome dukka without the pursuit of political goals, social justice, or racial parity (leaving aside the rest of the list for a moment)? Everything is interconnected, right? The very word compassion means “to suffer with.” Therefore, if the least of my brothers or sisters is suffering, whether from disenfranchisement, injustice, or inequality, am I not also suffering?

Now, I should say, I do understand Kyle’s point to some extent. These things may not be the goal of Buddhist teachings. Dukkha begins and ends with the mind. The Buddha was said to have transcended dukkha. Surely, throughout the years of his life between his enlightenment and his death he encountered situations of great suffering, many of which no doubt had one or more of the relative causes listed above, but in reacting to that situation without grasping, aversion, or delusion, he was able dwell within it free of dukkha, so I’m given to understand.

A simple truth is that we are incapable of offering the Dharma to everyone who is suffering and not everyone who is suffering is capable of understanding the Dharma. However, in that political goals, social justice, or racial parity have the ability to cause or relieve suffering and in that the Dharma is about suffering and its alleviation, to my mind, concern for these things is never “misguided” or “beside the point.” They may not be in the service of ultimate ends, but they are beyond doubt skillful means.

They also carry with them the risk of gross misuse, but so do meditation, monasticism, Dharma studies, ritual, and most any other activity more commonly ascribed to Buddhist practice. The difference is that the dangers of these practices have been deeply studied, understood, and accounted for, while the dangers of political involvement and social activism have not. How could they be? Let’s face it, none of the countries in which Buddhism developed over the last two and a half thousand years had a political system or culture like modern America.

The alleviation of suffering starts from within, which I believe is Kyle’s essential point. Change, both inner and outer, is also inevitable, but that does not mean we should not attempt to guide the process (both inner and outer) to create a physical and social world more hospitable to the Buddha’s teaching. The Buddha instructs us to practice as if our hair is on fire, but under such circumstances, how many people would realistically be able to achieve enlightenment? The Dhammapada says “First establish yourself in the way, Then teach,” but can you teach in a classroom that’s on fire?

Well, guess what, the world is on fire.

This Missing Feeling (MDIV 555)

2010-09-28T11:11:00.001-05:00

Journal for September 28, 2010

I am enjoying the unmistakable sound of Creedence Clearwater Revival spill from my speakers as I sit staring, once again, at this blank page. I opened the Word document over two hours ago and got as far as the heading. I pulled out Brazier’s book, flipping through the pages in hopes of inspiration. I put the book down. I stared at the page as CCR gave way to The Beatles. Then I got up and began rearranging my bookshelves. I unpacked the last six boxes I had shipped from Nebraska, which had been sitting in a corner of my bedroom waiting until I hung two more shelves over the weekend.

All my Dharma books are on one shelf above my desk, the top shelf. With a little creative arranging, they fit into a space roughly three and a half feet long. They make for a colorful collection, mostly paperbacks, most with the marks for Shambhala, North Atlantic Books, and Wisdom Publications on their spines. I’ve probably read half of the words written in them. Several are anthologies, from which I’ve read select articles. A few are gifts I haven’t gotten around to yet. And two or three are just plain boring, but I keep them anyway, thinking I’ll get back to them someday.

The way I arrange my books is very important to me. I suppose it says something about my personality, or I want it to say something about my personality. They are grouped by category, then by size. Only the novels are grouped by author. My office takes up a corner of my bedroom, with a large bookshelf making the long leg of the L and my desk making up the short leg. The bookshelf is the longest, tallest, and deepest available from Ikea, divided into twenty-five squares fifteen inches deep.

In the upper right-most square, on a direct eye line from the door to my room, my undergraduate diploma from the University of Nebraska sits framed by its red folio. Behind it are some of my larger architecture books. Architecture books dominate the right side of the bookcase, giving way to general topic books in the center, including philosophy, poetry, memoirs, reference books, and coffee table books. The left side of the bookcase is dominated by office supplies and my school folders. The top of the shelf includes all my magazines, fiction novels, and the stuffed animals of my childhood I could not bear to part with.

The matching Ikea desk sprouts directly from the bookshelf, hiding four of the cubes beneath the knee space, a good place for loose papers, files, and the uglier binders. Above the desk are the two newly hung wall shelves, the first with my printer and office organizer full of pens, pencils, and paper pads. The one above that with the neat line of Dharma books, tallest on the right, smallest on the left, with a stack organized horizontally on the end. The only other thing on that shelf are two tattered old collars, each with a single snap-closed pouch filled with fourteen years’ worth of vaccination and license tags.

Other odd spots, nooks, crannies, and corners are filled with knickknacks. A statue of a sleeping griffon, a small gold unicorn music box, an empty vodka bottle with Cyrillic letters, a paper crane, a framed photograph of a Kuan Yin statue reflected in a pond all stand out among the colorful rows of books. An old typewriter sits on the top in the corner. My laptop on the desk rests on a large piece of granite left over from the Great Stupa of Dharmakaya in Colorado. My cat sleeps next to the keyboard I type on, every once in a while stretching and forcing me to scoot over just a bit.

I know this long description might not make a lot of sense. What is important is that every one of the things in these bookshelves is somehow important to me, important enough that I paid over a thousand dollars to have them shipped to California. I sold my car, my television, my furniture, and my home, but these things I kept. They seem like small things, physically speaking, but they are each dear to me, even the intangible things, like the music that still pours out of my speakers (America singing A Horse With No Name). It would bring me pain to part with any of them.

That leads me to wonder about the physical detritus of identity. I am very invested in that place I call ‘home,’ that physical representation of my self, that place where I feel most at ease. I gave up much of that when I came here. Logistically speaking, I have a home, but really it still feels like Harry’s home more than my home. My roommate, Harry, has been very welcoming, but what remains of my home is relegated to a single bedroom with its attached bath and closet. It’s very comfortable, and, truth is, I could live with less, much less. But I still miss what I had, not the stuff so much as the feeling I had in that place. I try to get it back by arranging and rearranging and by contemplating the contents of those shelves. I speculate on what it all says about my current level of ego-attachment.

But mostly I just wonder how much longer this missing feeling is going to last.

Benediction

2010-09-27T17:35:00.003-05:00

A belated posting of the benediction for the service in remembrance of the Pakistan flood victims. This was a formal Buddhist service held on September 21 by the chaplaincy students at University of the West. Venerable Tommy Nyugen opened the service with a Mahayana invocation. Our first chaplaincy graduate, Lt. Somya Malasri, returned to offer a beautiful Pali chanting of the Metta Sutta, with English translation read by Betty Chan. Holly Hisamoto led the group in the Tibetan practice of tonglen.

Each of the seven students (and Somya) participated in their own way, but I single these few out as an interesting example of how an interdenominational Buddhist service may be conducted. We briefly considered whether an interfaith service might be more appropriate, but we decided we wanted to send a strong message that members of specific faith traditions can reach out in their own ways toward members of other traditions. Just because the victims of the floods our Muslim does not mean we should not pray (if you'll permit the word) for them in a Buddhist sense.

I closed the service with the following benediction. Then Irem, our student body president and a practicing Muslim, came forth to tell students how they could help and collect donations for a local mosque whom she is in touch with that is helping directly with humanitarian relief.

Buddhist Benediction for Pakistan, September 21, 2010

We close, once again, with words from the Metta Sutra, the Buddha’s instruction on loving-kindness, and ask that you hold all the suffering victims of the Pakistan floods and other natural disasters in your hearts.

“In gladness and in safety,

May all beings be at ease.

Whatever living beings there may be;

Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,

The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,

The seen and the unseen,

Those living near and far away,

Those born and to-be-born —

May all beings be at ease!”

May all beings be at ease and may we, as Buddhists, support our brothers and sisters in whatever way we can, wherever they may be, whatever tragedy may befall them, irregardless of color, nation, gender, or religious creed.

Musings On The Nature of Phenomena ... And Cheese

2010-09-24T19:21:00.002-05:00

For whatever reason, people seem to have a problem with the idea that the material world is all there is. This is it. There is no God, no substrate consciousness, no soul, no reincarnation, no metaphysical karma, no magic, and no inherent meaning in the universe at large. Or, as Huston Smith put it in Why Religion Matters, “Hopes and fears, pleasures and pains, successes and disappointment – the sum total of the lives that we experience directly – are for science epiphenomenal only, the foam on the beer, which requires beer (matter) to exist but not vice versa.” People have a problem with this.

I have recently had my definition of metaphysics expanded. I have previously used it here in the blog to describe things of a supernatural or magical nature. However, a professor has correctly pointed out that almost all aspects of language, philosophy, thought, emotion, value, and meaning belong to the real of metaphysics. Physics involves only two things (which are really the same thing): matter and energy and is observed and quantified by science using mathematics. Well, there is no mathematical formula for “good.” Nor does this quality have either mass or energy. Whether a physical thing like say, a television, is good or bad does not depend on how many atoms it has and in what order. It depends on the subject judgments of subjective creatures – namely us. Therefore any discussion of good or bad is by necessity a metaphysical discussion.

When confronted by this idea, that all things metaphysical are subjective and all that exists in the universe is the phenomenal (matter and energy) and the epiphenomenal (thoughts, emotions, values, and meaning generated as byproducts of the interaction of matter and energy in the brain), people tend to freak out. Either they reject the conclusion entirely, often pointing to a power that is either higher (God) or deeper (consciousness) that exists objectively and independently, but beyond the realm of the physical. Or they accept the conclusion, fall into nihilistic despair, and declare the world meaningless, hopeless, purposelessness.

My question is – IF, and this is a big if, the universe is only phenomenal and epiphenomenal, so what? Is there something that fundamentally alters upon one’s conception of the universe being one way as opposed to another?

I stumble over the logic. One side asserts that if epiphenomena is all there is, then the world is meaningless because it is epiphenomenal. While on the other hand, if epiphenomena is all there is, then the world is meaningful because it is epiphenomenal. Both are circular arguments. This first argument privileges inherent meaning over assigned meaning and objective value over subjective value. While the second argument declares it good news that meaning and value exist by virtue of the epiphenomena which cannot be disproven.

Now, I am not prepared to declare that all things metaphysical are merely epiphenomenal, though I have already stated my disbelief for things of a supernatural or magical nature. I have also stated that I am perfectly prepared to be wrong on such accounts. I am only prepared to state, that should the universe prove to be only the interaction of matter and energy and all thoughts, emotions, concepts, meanings, and values dependent on that interaction – I see no fundamental problem in this.

That the little packets of energy that make up the binary code that carries these words out into the universe or the tiny atomic distortions on the servers of some unknown data center that record them for posterity (that sucker) have no meaning in and of themselves, cannot serve to robs the words of meaning. That this meaning is subjective cannot serve to lessen it, despite the nihilists claims. That this meaning has no divine origin does not alter it (though I am prepared to argue the point). That my brain as I’m typing is merely the interaction of neurons and chemicals does not make it stop working.

There is only one place where this entire system of the phenomenal and epiphenomenal breaks down, that I can see – free will. If all that exists is the physical interaction of matter and energy, atoms hitting atoms hitting atoms, then the destiny of the universe for predetermined. The moment the Big Bang happened, or even before that, the wheels were set in motion along an already laid down track from which they will never deviate. Which mean fate dictated this words over thirteen billion years ago.

And while I might be willing to chalk up love to the action of oxytocin on the brain without diminishing either its power or grandeur one iota, I simply cannot bend my mind around the idea that free will, that choice itself, is nothing but an illusion. To say that I have no freewill is to say that I do not exist. (Leaving aside for a moment the Buddhist idea of non-self, which is slightly different than saying people do not exist or have no free will at all.) Deleting choice from the equation is to render us all machines merely (merely!) carrying out our biologic programming.

But what room is there in the materialistic world for free will? Perhaps enough.

Quantum physics can only discuss the materialistic world in terms of probabilities, leaving room for the possibility that the universe is not deterministic. However, this is far from affirming free will exists. Rather it is more akin to affirming that randomness exists. If it is equally likely for an electron to be in one position or another then where the electron ends up is a random chance between those possibilities. Whether if a conscious agent wants that electron to be in one place rather than another has any effect is debatable. But at least it is debatable!

In some sense my actions are predetermined. After all, I am a product of my biology and genetics. I walk upright on two feet. I'm right handed. Other aspects of my personality may likewise be hidden in my genes and I am limited by the capacity of my brain to store and access information. But in broad strokes, I still like to believe I have enough free will to choose whether I shall be a doctor or a lawyer or whether I shall eat Cheerios or Frosted Flakes.

Now here’s the thing, whether I have a problem with the idea of a deterministic universe (if not a materialistic universe) is no more or less likely to change the truth of the matter. Either the universe is utterly deterministic or it is not (in which case it may still have aspects of determinism without being wholly determined). But if the universe were to prove deterministic would that alter my behavior?

That’s always what it comes down to for me. Will the proof or disproof of any idea (to one’s own satisfaction, if not others) alter one’s behavior? If it would not, then there is no problem with that idea. If yes, then there is a problem with that idea and when people have a problem with an idea they will go to almost any lengths to either prove or disprove their side of it, irregardless of facts. I may muse over the materialistic nature of the universe because I find it interesting, but I have no problem with whatever the final answer may be, either yea or nay. I may muse over the deterministic nature of the universe because I find it rather more vexing, but I cannot say for certain what the outcome of that puzzle may cause.

On the one hand, if determinism proves true and free will is an illusion, can anyone, myself included, truly be held responsible for their actions? On the other hand, if it is true then it was true all along, so really what has changed? If nothing has changed, then why should my behavior change at this late date? I might as well go about my business under the assumption of free will, whether it is true or not. After all, on a moment to moment basis, we can only operate with the knowledge on hand. My emotions and ideas and goals are no less real for having been determined thirteen billion years ago than if they were outcomes of random chance or if they were chosen by me personally this morning when I got out of bed.

I guess that’s where my answer lies – in what is real. My reality is subjective and delusional and likely incorrect, but that is a far cry from being nonexistent. So I act on what exists because no one, no thing even, can operate in any other manner.

It’s like those commercials that ask “Don’t you like ‘real’ cheese on your macaroni?” Who ever replied “No. I like imaginary cheese. I like nonexistent cheese.”

We’d all prefer real cheese to fake cheese, but no one can eat nonexistent cheese.

Process

2010-09-23T18:53:00.003-05:00

What happens in process, stays in process. This is the law, laid down very early. That being said, I’m going to talk a little bit about process, if in an abstract way.

First of all, I never expected process or anything like it to be part of the curriculum. However, I am very glad that it is, most days. I say “most days” because process can be emotionally draining and there have been a few weeks I schlub through the remainder of Wednesday afternoon in recovery mode. Process, I’m learning, is a process of barring one’s soul. (If we forget for a moment we are all Buddhists and don’t properly believe in any such thing as a soul.) And even when occasionally draining, especially for an introvert like me, it is still beyond doubt a positive experience. It is an exercise in compassion.

Process is where we bring the things that are going on in our lives and talk about them in a circle of our fellow chaplaincy students and our teacher, Danny. Relationships, family, work, money, sleep, class, stress, joy, frustration, grief, fear, anger, and hope are all given shape in words and expressions and gestures. It’s where I broke down crying two weeks ago when I learned I wouldn’t be receiving my financial aid on time. It’s where Corey talked about breaking up with his girlfriend. It’s where we hash out conflicts with one another. Basically, process is where we “chaplain and are chaplained to,” in Danny’s words.

We are learning and practicing reflective listening, conflict mediation, and myriad other skills. Sometimes we are more successful than other times. We are also supporting each other, building deep friendships, and drawing together into a cohesive unit that will very likely survive beyond graduation.

If you have found yourself here, you have no doubt learned that I hold very little back. I count very little in my life as private, sacred, or taboo. However, I am concerned to safeguard the privacy of others. For that reason, most of the friends and acquaintances I mention here on the blog are those who have some kind of web presence of their own, such as Danny and Corey. By creating their own blogs they have chosen to open a part of their lives (though by no means all) to public consumption. The bravery of this choice should never be underestimated (except in my case where I’m just too stupid to know better). But for the rest, though they are dear to me and hugely influential, I shall likely make very little mention of them, except as an abstract collective - my classmates or the chaplaincy students. Yet know that very quickly we are all coming to have a somewhat closer relationship to one another than I, at least, would ever have expected, even among such a small cohort at such a small university.

This is, I believe, a very good thing and due,in large part, to what we call “process.”

Addiction II (MDIV 555)

2010-09-23T10:20:00.003-05:00

I have attempted to write about the issue several times over the years, but have only succeeded in hinting at it now and again. Previous drafts always took the form of a confessional, but in the end I deleted them all. If you have read the blog for any length of time, you'll know this is a rarity. I barely edit my posts, let alone censor them, but for reasons described below, this issue was just a bit more sensitive to me than it might seem at first glance. This treatment is by necessity short, factual, and contextual, which is perhaps for the best, though it may lack the scope of how broadly this has and does affect my life. I hope as these studies continue, I might gain some insight, but if it offers the reader a good laugh, that is also worthwhile.

Journal for September 22, 2010

On Tuesday I said a bit about addiction, specifically my own, but when abruptly confronted by the end of the page, always more swiftly realized than expected, I concluded my entry. The story doesn’t end there, of course. Later in class we discussed what we might learn about Caroline Brazier’s viewpoint based on her background. Some suggested that her characterization of “addiction studies” is perhaps out of date or less nuanced than the actual discipline.

However, when I first read her second chapter describing our suffering as a perpetuation of addictive behaviors, the strongest of which is ego addiction, I thought they made perfect sense. That’s because what Brazier was describing, sensory pleasure used to mask suffering becoming itself a source of suffering in a self-perpetuating cycle, matches personal experience.

Shortly after the start of the semester, we had an extra day off for the Labor Day weekend. Stress in my life was low. I was happily moved into my house here in California. I like my roommate. I was caught up on my homework and had a reasonable amount of reading to do for class over the long weekend. But what did I do? I spent over three entire days watching Bleach via the internet.

Bleach is a Japanese anime with (then) two-hundred and eighty five, twenty-four minute episodes. I started from where I had left off over the summer on episode one-forty-two. That’s fifty-seven hours of video in a little over seventy-two hours. Unlike American television, I can’t listen and read homework at the same time because Bleach is subtitled. Even I have to recognize that’s slightly crazy.

This isn’t the first time it has occurred, not by a long shot. I plan these ‘binges’ for breaks in the semester or the school year, but I always tell myself, “I’m just going to watch three episodes, then I’ll do homework/clean the house/work on a project.” But then the last episode is a "to be continued," or I forget my promise to myself, or I tell myself I don’t really have that many chores so a few more is okay. Sometimes it’s a series of novels, sometimes of television shows, sometimes movies, but the major characterization is that once I start I seem to have almost no control over when I stop. I don’t stop until the subject material is exhausted, until I reach episode two-eighty-five.

And yes, there’s shame, compounded by the thought that it seems such a silly thing to get carried away with. For a very long time I couldn’t even bring myself to apply the word addiction. After all, there are people with real problems, real addictions, real suffering out there. For the most part, I’m still a fully functional member of society. When I’m not chained to the couch. And I feel guilty for the things I leave undone, the homework, chores, and projects. Sometimes, I spent more money on iTunes or at the bookstore than I can really afford because, after all, there's another season or three more books in the series. That’s more guilt.

I set strict limits on myself. No new authors and no new television shows during the semester. If a new episode comes out once a week, that’s okay, or a new novel once a year, fine. But no hunting for a new series with twelve books already out or, heaven forbid, two-hundred and eighty-five episodes (I can blame my brother for introducing this one). Yet, somehow, I slip up, and it starts again.

As shame and guilt compounds and my undone work piles up and begins to look daunting, I slip deeper and deeper into escapism. It’s a self perpetuating cycle and I recognized it long before reading Brazier’s psychological characterization. If her's is a mischaracterization of addiction, I would be interested to know in what way and also explicitly how it relates to spiritual formation.

And I'd like to think I can get out, but fear I know better.

Addiction to Fiction

2010-09-21T10:18:00.001-05:00

We have moved on from Stages of Faith by James Fowler to Buddhist Psychology by Caroline Brazier. Journal entries will reflect topics covered in that book.

Journal for September 21, 2010

I have loved the Four Noble Truths since I first heard them. They were simple, clear, and hopeful. Suffering happens. It happens for a reason. It doesn’t have to happen. And I’ve got a plan to stop it. I’m particularly fond of number three. It’s very empowering, this idea that we have the ability to put a stop to our own suffering.

However, as I’ve continued to study the dharma and learned about the habituation of desire, aversion, and delusion, I’ve had to confront many less savory things. Mostly these things come from within my own nature. The dharma helped point them out and once that happened, ignoring them, retreating back into delusion, became much more difficult. Understanding the Four Noble Truths was almost instantaneous. Understanding the nature of my addictions took much longer.

Outwardly I’m not a candidate for what pop culture and Western psychology defines as addiction. I don’t drink alcohol to excess or smoke or indulge in illicit drugs. Gambling has never held any appeal and too much food actually makes me feel sick. I’ve no unhealthy fetishes to disclose. I’m very self contained, level-headed, and easy going. I’m also stubborn, mildly contentious, and often oblivious to sarcasm and the emotions of those around me.

And that’s where my addiction comes from. I want to know what others feel and I want to feel myself. But I don’t always pick up on those things from individuals. I don’t read expressions or body language and sometimes I miss verbal cues entirely. I spend too much time deep inside my own mind, living on a little ego-ride that just goes round and round. People baffle me, but I want to understand.

When I do pick up on their emotions I often don’t know what to do about it. And more often than not that impulse to do something about it is itself not quite correct, but powerful nonetheless. So I sit there uncomfortable, confused, frozen but wanting to move, while someone I care about bawls their eyes out. I’ve learned to deal, to some extent, to sit and hug and ask questions or be silent. But for the most part, I sublimated their and my own powerful emotions. I save them up for a safe, constructive, outlet of expression – stories.

I am addicted to stories, to fiction. (Slightly ridiculous, but no less true.) I used to read obsessively. As a teenager, the only book I carried to and from school every day was the novel I was reading. When I was sixteen, a close friend died and I retreated into funny movies and the comfort of my couch. When I had a migraine, I put Star Wars on the television and fell asleep with it playing, the flickering images so familiar I could still see them behind my closed eyelids. I spent at least six hours every day on the couch with a book. This habitual retreat was well entrenched before I graduated high school.

When I returned to the University at the age of twenty-two, I quickly learned I could not read novels during the semester. I could no longer control my impulses. I would sit down with a book by a favorite novelist and not get up for eight hours, homework and classes be damned. Heaven forbid it was a multi-book series (and most of them were).

But the addiction just mutated. I couldn’t do homework unless there was something on my television, some movie I’d already seen half a dozen times, a television show with ten seasons on DVD, or a documentary about the making of either. Luckily, most of my homework was in the form of projects, not reading or studying. I would draft a new construction documents almost mindlessly while watching the eighth season of Friends or Lord of the Rings.

This addiction persists to this day and I am still struggling with it in the face of a new set of challenges and opportunities.

Church of My Childhood (MDIV 555)

2010-09-20T09:52:00.001-05:00

Journal for September 16, 2010

I never disliked church. We began attending the Elkhorn United Methodist Church when I was six. I hated getting up in the morning, any morning, but my mother insisted on attending the early service. When she stood to sing hymns, I would lay down in the pew behind her. After the opening hymn, remarks, and scripture, the children would gather on the steps of the dias for the children’s service and Reverend Bill, the first pastor I remember clearly, would tell us a little story. Afterward, if we wanted, we could go to the play room with one of the teenage girls, rather than stay for the next forty minutes. As bored as I sometimes was, I rarely went. The other children were loud and babyish. The rest of the service was orderly and soothing, if not terribly exciting.

Afterward, we would gather in the fellowship hall for donuts and coffee, or juice for us little ones. Then it was off to Sunday school. I got an award for memorizing and reciting all the books of the Bible that year. But very soon I was discontent with that as well. My mother (a smart woman) got me to put up with Sunday school by making me a “helper” in a class with younger children. She was able to go to adult Bible study as a result without worrying about me.

When I was in seventh grade and my brother, Brandon, in eighth, we attended confirmation class with Reverend Bill. I liked Bill. He was tall and blonde and outdoorsy with three tall, blonde, outdoorsy children just a little younger than I. One of them always had a cast on some body part. They were as accident prone as they were adventurous; only Bill’s calm, strong wife seemed imune. I saw Reverend Bill preach with his arm in a cast to the shoulder, his elbow at a ninety degree angle and hand stuck up in the air. He preached on crutches and in wheelchairs and attached to an intravenous drip and when he could barely talk. He never seemed an ounce less cheerful or less trusting in God for all the misfortune that befell him and his three rambuncuous kids. (All of whom are still alive and well, so far as I know.)

Most of what I remember from confirmation class were the outings, bicycle rides, camping, and hiking. If we were instilled with good Christian values, beyond just getting along and having fun, I don’t remember them. I was a little young for confirmation, only twelve, but Heaven forbid Brandon got to do anything I couldn’t do. During the confirmation ceremony, in front of the entire church, we stood up in our white robes and promised to be good Christians, whatever that meant. I stood between my tall brother and an even taller boy his age. When it was my turn, Reverand Bill skipped me, and I had to speak up, rather indignantly as I recall. (I grew six inches the next summer.) If I believed in signs, that might have been one of them.

But now that I was an “adult” member of the church, I was at loose ends. I could go to youth group after church, while Mom was in Bible study. (Dad was there, but I really don’t recall where. He didn’t go to Bible study, but he couldn’t leave the church without us. I suspect he found a quiet place to read and listen to sports on the radio.) I really didn’t like teenagers, even though I was a teenager. It gave me time to think. And for a change, I actually started listening to the sermons.

That, all things considered, might have been a mistake.

Mythmaking (MDIV 555)

2010-09-20T09:50:00.001-05:00

Journal for September 14, 2010

Fowler errs in confining (largely, if not wholly) mythmaking to his “Stage 2” of spiritual formation. When, in fact, we are always in the process of retelling the stories of our self, creating and recreating them. New myths blossom daily, and if we do not re-order our lives around each new myth, they all weave together into a singular story tapestry. This tapestry is not a perfect fabric. Other parts are always being unraveled; sections are patched and torn. Yet somehow every new myth is woven both from and for this tapestry. We are constantly reifying ourselves.

The standard definition of reification is the treatment of an abstract thing as if it were real, physical. However, though we do possess physical bodies, I tend to think the thing we most reify is our self. We take this conglomeration of experience, memory, culture, thought, body, relationships, and identity and turn it into a real, solid thing. The way we do this is by over and over telling ourselves the story of this self. Just as fictional character can seem to become real to us, we become real to us.

I know this because I do this. But I do it differently than the average person. I don’t just do it in my head through the repetitive incoherence of inner monologue. I write it down. This has a tendency to do two things. It reinforces the myth, makes it more real, and it deconstructs the myth, makes it less real. They myth is stronger, singular, more coherent, more easily understood, described, and communicated. Yet at the same time, the more I construct my own myth, the more I see it as constructed, to some extent arbitrary, and, most of all, fictional.

The nature of this fiction is independent of the facts. There are facts in my story. I am thirty years old. I have blue eyes. I was raised in Nebraska. I studied architecture. The fiction is the idea that any, all, or some of these facts add up into a self that is inherent and eternal. This is little different from characters in books. That’s another fact – I love books. My family are all bibliophiles.

When I was about twelve, I was bored with the youth novels I had been reading, the Nancy Drew and Black Stallion books. So Mom took me downstairs and gave me the first of the Dragonriders of Pern novels by Anne McCaffrey. That opened a whole new world for me, but the author who really turned that world upside down by Denis L. McKiernan. McKiernan wrote the books Tolkien would have written had Tolkien been an author and not a professor of dead languages. But in all of his books, as his group of heroes were on their journey to save the world and defeat the enemy, they would debate a philosophical question. “What is a nature of evil?” “What is free will?”

As I read those books, so compelling and so mythic, it made me question. Why do people believe the Bible is any more true than the Hobbit? Why would God drown the entire world just because he was pissed off? Why do people claim to feel the presence of the Holy Spirit?

In the end, the myth woven by the Bible and the Christian church just didn’t hang together for me. That piece of my tapestry unraveled and left a large hole where an entire ethos, moral system, and culture had been. That hole has by no means been replaced by Buddhism. Rather, Buddhist thought has woven a new section of story and helped me see my Christian upbringing in a better light, so the hole, if still a hole, is much less ragged than it once was.

And I continue to tell my stories. I’m no longer the angry atheist. I’m not the mellow agnostic I matured into. I’m an engaged Buddhist on my way to becoming a chaplain. I’m still a skeptic. I’m vegetarian and I’m moderately liberal and I want to save the planet and travel everywhere. I contrast this with my conservative, Christian, stable, Nebraskan, beef-eating heritage. And in that contrast I find the story of who I am.

Moreover, I state it very explicitly. The tagline of my blog reads: “The journal of a normal white girl from a conservative Christian family who found herself to be a liberal, vegetarian, tree-hugging, Buddhist in the middle of Nebraska beef country ... and then moved to big, bad Los Angeles to become a Buddhist chaplain much to everyone's consternation, including her own.”

This is what I claim I am presenting to the world is a very public way and so, to a certain extent, I feel compelled to be that person. I also realize that person does not really exist, at least, not as a separate, concrete, and certainly not unchanging self. I made her up.

Which is yet another reason I eschew talk of “faith.” My faith is as made up as the rest of me. It is constructed from ideas, myths, and notions I need to make my world coherent and manageable. Belief has a certain utility to it. Belief and faith should not be conflated, but they are nonetheless intertwined.

A grandmother (in a story by Eric Flint) once explained it this way: If a child believes there is a monster under the bridge, they won’t stray too close to the edge. By the time they are old enough not to believe in monsters, they are also old enough not to fall off the bridge. There was a certain utility to that belief, and because the child had faith in her grandmother who told her there were monsters under the bridge who eat little children, she believed it.

I don’t merely believe people are good because I have witnessed it. This may be true and serve as a very strong foundation of my faith. But I must admit to myself that I believe people are good because this belief serves the purpose of my life at least as much as my life serves the purpose of my faith.

I act a certain way because I believe people are good. That action allows me to get along and move forward in an otherwise ambiguous and inherently meaningless world. Did I believe otherwise, I would act otherwise and the world that I have so painstaking constructed over thirty odd years, the tapestry I have woven, would all come apart. It may yet at some future time, and I may reweave myself into some new story. It has happened before.

When I write these journals, I am practicing storytelling as much as exploring. When I write about trying to see my own face when I was five years old, trying to feel Jesus love when I was six, or the questions I began to ask myself when I was thirteen, I am mythmaking. I weave a story around my angers and triumphs to explain to myself how they came about and, more importantly, where they fit within the larger context of my faith. If I tell a story about my Uncle Vernon stealing Aunt Alberta’s pumpkin pie and weave that into the part of the tapestry that displays my heritage, but it also shows these people, my people, as essentially good (if mischievous). Somehow it all gets added in. No one ever really moves on from this stage. We dwell in it day by day. We hold it in us as we continue on through Fowler’s other stages (if one can suppose we do).

We are always mythmaking.

Home

2010-09-18T23:24:00.002-05:00

I don’t know what I’m doing. I face this fact daily and muddle through somehow. I suppose in most ways this is no different than anyone else. We all do anyway. And we pretend we know, even to ourselves. But I really don’t know what I’m doing and sometimes I look into the face of that and my heart quakes.

This week I stood upon a green hill and looked out towards the San Gabriel Mountains. It was a clear day, or clearer than usual, and I could see each rise and fall of their great shoulders, the weft and warp of their sides, the dominance of their presence usually so hazy. I looked below to the crawling concrete infestation that had failed to tame them. On foot, I could reach those mountains in a day, yet they hid in the clouds of our discontent, all but forgotten. I turned and looked in the direction of the ocean, too far to see or smell or hear. I imagined the sound of the wind in the grass and thunder calling.

And a small voice said “I’ve been here long enough. It’s time to go home.”

But there is no home to return to. It is gone. And this is home. I don’t feel it. I may never feel it. And I don’t know how to make myself okay with that. And I don’t know why I long to be okay with that. Time will pass and I will remain.

So I went to the place I call “home” but don’t feel home. I sat in my small room which looks out onto nothing and faced a blank blue wall and my reflection in a darkened screen. I lit that world up and dove in, trying to build a connection I can neither see nor feel nor taste nor touch.

Ah, touch. To be touched, not by the soft swish of fabric or the cool caress of wind or warm fall of water or solid feel of the dusty earth beneath my feet, but to be touched by those who can feel touch. I miss that. Sometimes I miss it more than I miss home.

So I sit before that flickering screen and enter the facts of my life, all those little things that supposedly make a “me” no words can ever convey. I pay good money to give myself away and hope there is another who seeks the same connection and that my courage will hold long enough to find him. I embark on another journey without knowing where I’m going or who I’ll meet or if it will fill that want I feel or make the hole wider.

My body is nomadic and my heart is haunted and my hands reach out and I don’t know what I’m doing but that I’m searching without knowing what I’m searching for. I dwell in this. It is a place and a time and a person and a feeling and somehow it is also anchorless. And nothing.

And a small voice asks “Haven’t I been here long enough? Can’t I go home?”

Not yet.

Notes on a Homily

2010-09-14T15:49:00.004-05:00

First of all, if you have not read the homily, go do so. It is not long. It being the very first homily I have ever written or delivered (intentionally as such), I have a few thoughts.

I was surprised when Danny approached me at the outdoor café tables just off the courtyard where I was studying. It has become the general meeting place for the chaplaincy students before and just after class. We said our hellos as he sat down.

“I want you to do the sermon for the 9/11 service that’s coming up. I read what you wrote on your blog the other day and thought it was very interesting and appropriate,” Danny said with what I’m coming to think of as a characteristic straight-forwardness.

“Okay. I can do that.” Mind, I did not say it nearly as confidently as it reads, not because I didn’t think I could do that, but merely from surprise (and, yes, I was flattered). I’d only been here two weeks after all. And, I’d never once in my life pictured myself giving anything to anyone that could be remotely described as a “sermon.”

I was also surprised with myself for not thinking the situation would occur. I am going to school to be a chaplain, after all. Buddhist teachers give dharma talks all the time, which are akin to sermons. However, I may graft many labels onto my identity, some more appropriate than others, but “Buddhist teacher” is not one of them.

“A sermon, huh?” I repeated.

“Well, we can call it a dharma talk or a homily or what have you.”

“Oh, can we call it a sermon? That way I can tell my Mom I’m giving a sermon and she’ll be all like ‘What? Do Buddhists do that?’” I always smile at the thought of flustering my relatives. Half the time it doesn’t work, which only makes me try harder.

“Sure. I just liked the take you had in your blog on recent events surrounding the Park 51 project and thought it was relevant to this year’s remembrance.”

It still amazes me that anyone reads my blog. It doubly amazes me that anyone finds value in it. Truth be told, I would write it whether anyone would read it or not, but I can’t say I don’t enjoy a little ego stroking from time to time. I’m still human (I think).

We met the next week to discuss the memorial service and set a program. I took notes regarding what other people said the service should be about and wove those together with what I had written earlier. I wrote the homily that afternoon and sent it off to Danny, checking in with him later for feedback. Holly and I met on the Sunday prior to the service to discuss her dedication and my homily, which would follow, to avoid repetition but still tie things together.

With Danny I discussed the difference between a sermon and a dharma talk. The sermons I had experienced in my United Methodist upbringing had been largely prescriptive, while most of the dharma talks I had attended in recent years have been descriptive. What we should do versus what we do. This is not to say that dharma talks aren’t normative and don’t carry with them advice for living, but the dharma teachers I have had generally spend more time helping us understand how things work, how things are, so that we may see for ourselves ways of dealing with them. Whereas, the sermons of my childhood called us to action dictated by a central authority.

The post I had written was very much a journal entry – a description of the thoughts and feelings I had experienced surrounding the Park 51 controversy. The homily turned out to be very much a sermon, as reflected in the repetitive language of “let us” in the second half. I was concerned this wasn’t the “proper” way of giving a homily in this tradition, whatever this tradition was, not quite Buddhist but certainly not Methodist. However, Danny assured me it was fine.

Holly and I puzzled over the contentious language. Can one advocate nonviolence using the language of “enemy” and “fight?” Can one “fight violence?” The contentious language is powerful and simple, while more nuanced language might be less powerful (or more difficult for an inexperienced speaker to make powerful) and also lengthier. In addition, it is fraught with my own urges as a contentious person. Perhaps one cannot “fight violence,” but damned if I won’t try.

The final point is the struggle of we and I. The post started from a place of I. “I thought this…I think that…” The homily begins from this place as well, and I struggled with where this transition should take place. I am exhorting people to some kind of action for a purpose we all share. Should I begin with we? But I don’t want to assume others experience is like my own. So where does the language change?

If you read the homily, you’ll see where it changed, but if you look at the written speech I printed, you’ll see all kinds of last minute hand written notes. You’ll see where I changed I to we in the last sentence of the first paragraph. You’ll see which sentences are underlined and words starred, where I emphasized “violence” and “fear” and deemphasized “enemy.”

I haven’t taken the homiletics class yet where, apparently, they are going to teach us how to do these things properly. I definitely started in the deep end of the pool, but I really don’t mind. It’s all learning. Next time, memorize more, read less, use hand gestures, consider longer, etc.

But I can’t help wondering (and smiling while I do): what would that angry teenage atheist think of me now?

Homily for Sept 11

2010-09-14T15:12:00.003-05:00

This homily, my first, was given for September 11, 2010, at a service held at University of the West on Monday, September 13, 2010.

We are here to memorialize the events of September 11th, 2001. This day is, for my generation at least, the greatest national tragedy in living memory. Yet, I do not memorialize it merely to honor the innocent dead, though certainly this is their due. I memorialize this day so as to learn from what happened on September 11th, that it may never be repeated. We remember the past to safeguard the future.

There is now much controversy regarding the area around Ground Zero, where the twin towers of the World Trade Center once stood in New York City. This controversy casts a shadow it casts not only on our remembrance of past, but potentially our future as well. The controversy has been mislabeled the “Ground Zero mosque,” but is properly known as Park 51, a planned Islamic Community Center two blocks from the World Trade Center site in an old retail store. The founder’s have called it an “Islamic Y,” in reference to the Christian founded YMCA’s and YWCA’s that dot our country.

However, when I first heard about the so-called “Ground Zero mosque,” I was delighted. I thought they intended to build an actual mosque within the memorial itself, not a meeting place a few blocks away. I thought “What a wonderful way to demonstrate the true spirit of America by embracing the religion that was perverted in order to commit atrocities.” Then, as the newscaster went on about this project, I was terribly discouraged by the fear mongering and intolerance I heard. Many powerful people in influential positions seek to make this “War on Terror” into a war on Islam, not from personal conviction, but for political gain.

They fail to realize that the way to prevent another September 11 is not to shoot all the terrorists, but to ensure no person, be they fundamentally religious or irreligious, can call America an enemy on religious grounds. We must ensure no Muslim, no matter how misguided, can ever view America as an enemy of Islam.

Islam is not at war with America. Islam is not a threat to America. Violent people are a threat to all. And violent people, filled with hate and anger, driven by politics and economics and desperation, will beat religion into a sword. They will use violence and the fear of violence, terror, as their weapons. While others, filled with greed for political power, will take and use that very same fear of violence for their own ends. In their haste, they will point to an obvious enemy, one easily identified if only by their difference.

Let us make violence our enemy. Let us make fear our enemy. Let us fight hate with love, which is what all religions preach. The Dhammapada says in Chapter 1, verse 5: “For hatred does not cease by hatred at any time: hatred ceases by love, this is an old rule.”

So, let us build a mosque at Ground Zero, and a church, and a temple, a gurdwara, a shrine, a synagogue, and place of contemplation of the nonreligious. Let us make peoples of all religions our friends and show the world that the great experiment of America is a success. Let us read each other’s holy books rather than burn them, so we can fight fear with knowledge.

And let us remember September the 11th, 2001, and the people who died in the Twin Towers, at the Pentagon, and on the airplanes, that we might honor their memory by doing our best to ensure such reckless hate does not continue.

Childhood and All That (MDIV 555)

2010-09-09T15:33:00.002-05:00

Journal for September 7, 2010

Last week Tommy asked “How do we know we have buddhanature and what knows?” I’m going to skip that question for now as, firstly, the reading was over how faith develops during child and young adulthood and, secondly, I don’t know quite yet. It is something I will have to let stew a bit longer, but definitely a question I wish to return to.

I always find myself skeptical of researchers’ descriptions, either observatory or normative, of childhood development. I have strong memories from a very early age and often their observations and characterizations run contrary to my experience. When making normative statements as to what adults should or should not do in the raising of children, I often think “That would not/did not work with me.” My mother had a few such books on her shelves I scoffed my way through in elementary school. This being said, I must still give a lot of credit where credit is due for in some cases being spot on and also acknowledge that my memories of childhood are those of a child.

That being said, let’s start at the beginning. It was running through the academic community for some time that children are blank slates ready to be molded (if you’ll pardon the mixing of metaphor) into either good or bad people depending on their environment. This kind of thinking, if not stated outright, seems to underlie Fowler’s text. However, my mother, a source I hold far more reliable than Fowler, tells me that even as a very small baby, only a few months in age and certainly younger than Fowler’s eight or nine month first cognitive transition, I did not want to be held. I would scream and cry not until someone picked me up, but until someone put me down.

“Feed me and put me down! That was Monica,” Mom remembered.

“Even with you?” I asked.

“Even with me,” she confirmed. “Made your grandmothers very unhappy because they wanted to cuddle their first granddaughter, but you didn’t want any of that.”

Now scientists and researchers are beginning to believe children are born more formed or perhaps predisposed than previously thought. From a scientific perspective we might conclude that more seeds of the personality lay within the genes than previously believed. From an Eastern perspective we might blame infantile predispositions on the accumulated habituation of past lives. I’m inclined to give more credence to the former, but not to entirely dismiss the latter.

As a very young child I remember believing everyone knew everything I knew. Therefore, I became very frustrated when people didn’t understand me or what I was doing. I recall learning it was necessary to verbally explain my wants, needs, thoughts, and actions to others and being very annoyed by this necessity. This seems to have something in common with the egocentrism of children Fowler describes.

At the age of four or five I was absolutely certain everyone could see their own face at all times (because I could see their faces, I suppose) but that I could not see mine no matter how hard I tried. I remember very vividly trying to overcome this problem while riding in the cab of my Grandpa Dale’s pickup truck with my brother. Imagine trying to explain to them that you’re crying because you can’t see your own face while everyone else can. Hoo, boy.

As a child I was told that if I loved Jesus and asked him to come into my heart I would feel his love. So I lay in bed praying for Jesus’ love and I felt … nothing. I cried myself to sleep several nights at the age of six believing the deficiency was mine and resolving to be a good Christian until God felt I was worthy of his love. But even that young, the seeds of doubt were sown.

They were in full flower by the age of thirteen, well developed by fourteen, and in open rebellion at fifteen when I told my mother I would no longer be going to church. There was yelling and the slamming of doors. Despite the prodding of my family, I’ve not been back since. I do not regret it, though I sometimes wonder about it now. But I’ve reached my one page limit, and that is a longer story.

All I’ll say in closing is I also think I either skipped Fowler’s Stage 3 entirely, or paused their briefly when I was twelve. Conformity and authority never played much role in my life, unless you count them in terms of opposition.

Hallelujah

2010-09-08T23:41:00.002-05:00

By all objective standards it had not been a good day.

My cat sat on the other side of bars admonishing me for my absence though I was but a few feet away. Sometimes I would speak to her.

“Hello. Oh? What? Are you sure? Really? No, I can’t come in. I know. Yes.”

Between each response she would retort in her characteristically harsh voice, yellow eyes glaring at me through the metal screen, ears twitching at the sound of my voice. She sat prim and proper, with her tail curled about her feet, whiskers forward, head angled down. Every now and then she would wander off, but shortly return and our conversation would continue.

The sky was overcast and I turned my tall collar up against the chill breeze. I was glad I was wearing my blue bomber jacket instead of my lighter corduroy. I had run out of coffee that morning and now it was afternoon. I was tired in that emotionally wrought way which surpasses physical exhaustion, but my warm bed was squarely on the other side of that locked door.

I knew it as soon as I did it, of course. I stood with my hand on the silver door handle and cursed. Not only was I locked out, but my keys were locked in, leaving my bicycle securely chained to the front gate. Did I have enough time to make it to class? I didn’t know, as I left my helmet on the table behind me and walked down the drive, avoiding the tree full of bees at the end.

I missed my bus. It was on one side of the busy intersection and I on the other, with no hope that the light would change before it pulled away. I sat at the bus stop for half an hour, reading my assigned text and trying in vain to stop the story running through my head, worry that long predated the mornings events. Woe is me, woe is me, woe is poor, poor little me. How can I feel sorry for myself sitting here reading about the Holocaust? But the mind is a fickle bitch who preys upon herself.

As I fed my very last dollar into the till, the bus driver lectured me on proper etiquette for hailing a bus, as if it were a foregone conclusion that busses the world over must be hailed. Apparently it is. I thanking him and found a seat near the rear exit, watching the time scroll by on the automated display. I had ten minutes left to get to class. I would be late. I hate being late, but there was another stop I must make, driven by that long-standing worry.

I pressed the palms of my hands together firmly as I begged the young man behind the counter if there was anything he could do.

“Not this Friday? Next Friday? The … 17th? Is there anything at all you can do to get my disbursement quicker?”

“Well, I can get the checks, but they need two signatures. Sometimes it’s hard to get those people. You could try again in a few days, but I can’t say I’ll have it until next Friday. I’m sorry you’re inconvenienced,” he explained in the baffled tone men tend to fall into when they’re confronted with a woman just barely failing not to cry.

“By next Friday I won’t be inconvenienced. I’ll be hungry. This is already weeks later than I expected. Is there anything at all that can be done?” But I was bound to be disappointed. I left with my head down, trusting the brim of my hat to hide my eyes and responding curtly to greetings in the courtyard.

I walked straight past the open classroom door and headed for the women’s room to blow my nose and dry my eyes. Then I went to process. Our weekly process meeting is a place in which the candidates in my program can “check in” with each other about what’s going on in our lives. I tried to make it into a joke and managed to get through the bit about no coffee and locking myself out and missing the bus, but could barely choke out the news regarding financial aid before hiding my face in my hands and falling silent.

I respond very badly to a small number of things in my life. In situations of danger, I keep my cool. In the face of other people’s suffering, I am outwardly calm even when inwardly suffering. When injured or in physical pain, I am silent and controlled. During times of relative deprivation, I can find humor in lack. But in the face of anger directed at me, when my competency is called into question, or when my financial stability, a precarious enough thing already, is threatened I – do – no – respond – well.

Nor did I have time following the delivery of the bad news to employ my most common coping mechanism – isolation. I could not go find a nice empty corner in which to silently rage and cry and collect myself before calmly explaining my most recent setback with a flippant tone and a Gallic shrug. I couldn’t be Monica, the one who always has it together, who can handle any situation life throws her way, who doesn't burden other people with her negative emotions. Not today, anyway.

But people are good. And thanks to those good people, I’ll last until my aid comes.

“Thanks.” It seems like such a feeble word in the light of good people’s grace. This is my hallelujah. This is my God – that people are good. Just good. That’s all. That’s everything. It doesn’t even matter why people are good, or how they got that way, or that sometimes they forget they are. People are good. Hallelujah.

Even on this day, this objectively bad day, there was laughter and smiling, good talks and good times with good friends. And though I sat three hours waiting for my roommate to come home from work, my cat complaining all the while, and though worries and fears still preyed on my mind, and though I tried again and again to cut the story line and even succeeded in large part to concentrate on my reading despite my emotional exhaustion and caffeine deprivation, though all of that, now at the end of it, I can think only one thing of my objectively not good day.

It wasn’t so bad.

Concepts of Faith (MDIV 555)

2010-09-07T21:37:00.003-05:00

Third in an ongoing series for my Spiritual Formation class. See the first post, The Faith Delusion, for details.

Journal Entry September 2, 2010

The more I read of Fowler and his predecessors’ definitions of faith, the more I go back and forth from believing it sounds like a the construction of an internal conceptual reality separate from the world as it exists and an experiential manner of knowing that world as it exists through our capacity for intuition. As a Buddhist, I find only the later to be helpful and the former a hindrance to the cultivation of wisdom.

“A strong theme in the theological writings on faith of H. Richard Niebuhr and Paul Tillich has to do with faith as a way of seeing the world. Faith for them is a kind of knowing, a constructing of the world in light of certain disclosures of the character of reality as a whole that are taken as decisive,” Fowler explains on page 98. To say that knowledge is “constructed,” as Fowler does more than once in this section, is to imply it is conceptual. Concepts are what knowledge is constructed with.

Later on, Fowler also points out that knowing is an exercise of intuition and the imagination (page 104), the later implying that some things we ‘know’ are self-generated. One of the synonyms listed in the OED’s definition of imagination is ‘expectation.’ Part of the definition clearly states “4. The tendency to form ideas which do not correspond to reality; the operation of fanciful, erroneous, or deluded thought.”

This leads me to fear that, at the worst, a greater part of faith is made up of those things we wish to be true. Earlier I called them delusions. At best, it steeps whatever faith we have in ways of knowing built on concepts. Many Buddhist teachers warn of concepts’ deceptive nature. “Nirvana means extinction – first of all, the extinction of all concepts and notions. Our concepts about things prevent us from really touching them. We have to destroy our notions if we want to touch the real rose,” Thich Nhat Hanh advises in The Heart of Buddha’s Teaching, page 129. So in either case, might not this so-called faith do more harm than good?

On the other hand, B. Alan Wallace points out that contemplation is “the silent perception of reality” and a “form of knowing arrived at not by thinking but by seeing.” He quotes Christian theologian Josef Pieper as saying “Intuition is without doubt the perfect form of knowing.” Wallace goes on to claim that “…unlike objective knowledge, contemplation does not merely move toward its object; it already rests in it.” (Contemplative Science: Where Buddhism and Neuroscience Converge, page 1.)

In addition, making up fun fictional realities is not the sole province of imagination. It is also “the power or capacity by which the mind integrates sensory data in the process of perception.” (OED) As pointed out on page 25, “…our knowing registers the impact of our experiences in far more comprehensive ways than our own conscious awareness can monitor.” Therefore, intuition and imagination are essential for the integration of all that which we perceive, a truly overwhelming amount of sensory data.

Because we cannot articulate the manner by which we arrive at intuitive conclusions, the process being largely subconscious, we are forced, in many ways, to take these conclusions on faith, a faith in our own abilities. As we test their truthfulness and reliability against actual experience, we are constantly revising both the conclusions and our faith in them, leading to the dynamic quality of faith about which Fowler speaks.

It seems that the intuitive form of knowing that rests in the object of its contemplation, of which Wallace speaks, and the faith constructed of concepts about the “ultimate conditions of existence” (p. 98) of which Fowler speaks may be two ways to perceive faith that, if not entirely mutually exclusive, are significantly different from one another.

People Are Good (MDIV 555)

2010-09-07T21:34:00.002-05:00

Second in an ongoing series for my Spiritual Formation class. See the previous post, The Faith Delusion, for more details.

Journal Entry for August 31, 2010

I come to faith in the Three Refuges in a roundabout way. At least it seems so to me, but perhaps everyone comes to faith by a crooked road and only later realize it. If one were to ask if I have faith in the Three Jewels of Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, I would have to say “Not really.” My heart is not set on these things. By that, I mean when I contemplate the Three Refuges, I feel very little emotion. They are not “mysterious and awesome” nor do they “draw me” as Fowler spoke of God (perhaps with another’s words) and why people have faith in Him. But I do have faith in what they are about.

Early in the book, Fowler asks what it is we trust and commit ourselves to, as I mentioned before. I trust that people are good and commit myself to working in a world to I reveal that goodness and foster its growth. (A Shambhalan might call this “basic goodness,” though my conception of it is slightly different.) The Buddha was a living example of a good person, perhaps the best a person can be. The Dharma teaches that people are good (we are all Buddhas) and the Sangha is both example and vehicle for doing good in the world through community. By taking refuge, I acknowledge this truth as the touchstone of my life. And though I am taking refuge in the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha, where I place my faith is that these three things are manifestations of a single truth – that people are good.

Of course, this begs the question “What is good?” I have only a very simple response. Good is that which reduces suffering and increases happiness. I recognized this is not a very nuanced answer. People could spend days arguing what constitutes suffering and what constitutes happiness. By this definition, illegal drugs might be considered good, in that they make one happy in the moment, though they breed great suffering later. Therefore we need two tools in order to know what is good: compassion and wisdom. Compassion helps us recognize suffering when we see it, in ourselves as much as others, and motivates us to act. Wisdom guides us to understand the causes and skillful alleviation of that suffering in the long term and for as many as possible.

Therefore, to say that people are good is to say that all people, regardless of their outward actions, have the capacity for compassion and wisdom. Moreover, that people, by and large, all seek to cultivate these capacities to at least some degree. That people are good at all, is mysterious, awesome, and draws me in like nothing else.

To me, institutions like the Three Jewels and the Refuge Vow are tools for the public acknowledgement and cultural prolongation of this idea, something that people trust in and commit their lives to. Do I have faith in the Buddha himself? Sure, but it is not the “ultimate concern” of my life the way the goodness of people is. Nor is the Dharma or the Sangha. These things exist because of and in service to that “ultimate concern,” but cannot take its place.

To crib Huineng, the finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.

The Faith Delusion (MDIV 555)

2010-09-07T21:23:00.003-05:00

To introduce this introduction, I should say this is the first of what will be twice weekly journal entries for my MDIV 555 Spiritual Formation class at UWest. They will often reference class readings. At the moment, we are working our way through Stages of Faith by James Fowler, a somewhat dated book commonly used in pastoral care curricula among monotheistic seminaries. Although it has lately fallen out of favor, it is a solid foundation from which to begin. Our professor, Victor Gabriel, has requested these journal entries be a page in length, so they may be somewhat shorter than my normal post. I have written on a few of these topics previously here in the blog, and will try to link back to them as appropriate. These first few posts are journals from the last two weeks. Enjoy!

Journal Entry for August 26, 2010

By way of introduction, I should say I have a problem with “faith,” the word and the deed. Mostly this is baggage. I was raised in the United Methodist Church, a protestant Christian tradition with a very simplistic view of faith (at least as presented to children). Either one has faith or one does not. There is no room for doubt. It is an all or nothing gamble. I was told I would feel a certain way if I had faith. When I failed to feel the “love of Jesus” permeate my being, as children do, I assumed the fault was mine and redoubled my efforts. Years later, as teenagers do, I threw up my hands in rebellion and walked away. I have never returned.

This leaves me in a quandary. On the one hand I have cast faith away as worthless rhetoric, but on the other hand, I live it every day. In the absence of mystical explanations for the universe, I could still not deny the inexplicability of phenomena. The rational mind can only account for so much. Some things are held true without reasonable explanation. I still hold two competing conceptions of faith, but the faith I do have, prevents me from panicking over it.

Firstly, faith is synonymous with delusion. (Or perhaps it should be Faith with a capital ‘F’?) Faith is our loyalty to a concept of the world as we want it to be. This is a delusion we must transcend in order to see the world as it really is. Does anyone ever have Faith in something they don’t want to be true? People believe in the devil, but only in conjunction with something greater they want to be true (i.e. God). Faith is a way of explaining the inexplicable to create a sense of comfort and surety in our lives. The explanation need not correspond to reality to have the power to do this.

“For most of us, most of the time, [faith/delusion] functions so as to screen off the abyss of mystery that surrounds us.” (Page xii of Stages of Faith.) This sounds very similar to a description of the cocoon we use to protect ourselves for groundlessness. However, Fowler also equates faith with “trust and commitment” in the very next paragraph, two ideas not so easy to exchange with delusion.

Here I fall into the trap of applying faith only to the one big belief I rejected so early – God. (That’s capital-‘F’ Faith.) With the rejection of this belief comes a rejection of the reasoning for action. From whence does morality spring if not God? Who made the world if not God? What is the goal of our lives if not to be closer to God? So I have lost Faith, but not trust or commitment. I still trust many things and many people and I have committed my life to certain goals. (Fowler also discusses Smith who points out faith is not about “faith in” certain beliefs and the creation of meaning, which brings out the existentialist in me, but that is a longer discussion for another time.)

Secondly, to say I have no faith is itself a delusion. It took time to realize other things had come to replace Faith in my lost God. I have faith in the goodness of human beings (whether it is a byproduct of a socially evolved species or placed there by God is of less importance). But mostly I have faith in my ability to figure things out … eventually.

I also have faith in much more mundane things, as Fowler points out we all have in Chapter One. I have faith that when I put my feet on the floor in the morning, it will not collapse beneath me. I have faith in the sunrise and the sunset and the rain. But always I fill this faith with caveats. That’s part of my baggage. My faith is not the absolute religious Faith I was taught faith should be. It is a “most-likely” faith, in both the big things and the small. Mostly likely the floor will not collapse. Most likely the sun will rise. Most likely I will be able to figure it out … eventually.

But I could be wrong, and I also have faith that it is okay if I am, most likely.

Too Much, Too Little

2010-09-05T11:08:00.003-05:00

I haven’t published anything this week, though not for lack of trying. My head is filled with too many thoughts. And a good number of those are going into my twice weekly journals for Spiritual Formation. But I want to write. I have things to work out, and the process of writing helps me do that. I have things to say in support or response to others. I want to come out in favor of the so-called Ground Zero Mosque. I want to tell my friend Jake that people aren’t inherently bad and sinful (so there!) even if we are a little broken, we’re also good and wise and full of buddhanature. I want to innumerate all the reasons why Glen Beck is either demented or a better actor than Stephen Colbert and Sean Connery combined (but that could take years). But I haven’t the time or mental energy to do the research to give any of them a proper treatment. There is too much and I am too little. Some things, I guess I just have to let go.

But only some things. So I’ll just say this about the first topic: We ought to build a mosque at Ground Zero. By that I mean a mosque and by that I mean Ground Zero. I do not mean an Islamic cultural center two blocks away in an old Burlington Coat Factory, as is currently being proposed and misnamed the "Ground Zero mosque."

When I first learned of the so-called “Ground Zero mosque,” I was delighted. I thought “What a wonderful idea to demonstrate the true spirit of American than by embracing the religion that was perverted in order to commit atrocities. What a great way to uphold freedom of religion and create a spirit of inclusion and forgiveness. I mean, Christians are all about forgiveness, right? And America is all about freedom of religion, right? And we’re a pluralist country built on the backs of immigrants, right? Wouldn’t it be lovely if we included some kind of chapel for all the faiths, so that as people visit the memorial and remember the victims, who accounted for numerous religions including Islam, they could seek solace in their own tradition.”

Then, as the newscaster went on about this planned “mosque,” I was stupid enough to listen. I was terribly discouraged by the fear mongering and criticism and intolerance I heard. Sarah Palin contended that none of the hundred mosques already in New York failed to prevent September 11th. I wasn’t aware any of the hijackers attended a New York mosque. (Should we outlaw churches in Oklahoma because they failed to stop Timothy McVeigh?) Another talking head asserted we shouldn’t allow mosques in the United States because one can’t build a Christian church in some Muslim countries. I wasn’t aware we were taking our cues for how a free nation should behave from repressive, totalitarianism regimes. People say it’s disrespectful to the victims’ families. What about the Muslim victims who were working in the Twin Towers that day or on the airplanes? (And no, I’m not talking about the hijackers.)

Finally, one gentleman pointed to the truth of the situation, that this isn’t about Islam or honoring the dead. This is about the upcoming election. The announcement regarding the Islamic culture center was made a long time ago, over a year, I believe, and no one made a fuss. It’s only as the November election has loomed that Republicans and Tea Partiers, lacking any concrete policy recommendations of their own, have latched onto anything to criticize,. What better than something that they can link to the most traumatic event in the living memory of our nation?

They have the right to protest and speak their minds, however disgusting. Their right to protest the culture center is guaranteed by the very same document that guarantees the right of the Islamic culture center to exist. To deny a constitutionally protected right is to call into question the entire edifice of constitutional law which also protects them. They seem not to notice.

A number of responsible voices, such as Mayor Bloomberg and President Obama, can also be heard, but even they have been cautious is their “support,” citing constitutionally guaranteed legal rights rather than the more ambiguous moral questions of right and wrong. I can be less hesitant thanks to my utter lack of celebrity. I support the culture center and would suggest the inclusion of a true mosque within the Ground Zero memorial itself as a concrete example of compassion, forgiveness, understanding, inclusion, and respect. The memorial should include worship spaces for as many world religions as we can manage. Religion is great solace to the grieving.

That is all I shall say for now. I am sorry it is not as well thought out as I had hoped, and without sources cited. I would like to have linked readers to some of the more articulate responses to this disturbing argument. They are out there. I hope you go find them.

In the future, I shall begin posting my twice weekly journals. This will be something of a spiritual journey as my professor questions us about the meaning of our “faith,” a word I have commonly eschewed. It is intended to culminate in a spiritual autobiography. Even I know not how this story is going to end. I look forward to finding out.

In the meantime, support the “mosque,” excuse my brusqueness, and maybe give a moment to contemplate your own spiritual autobiography.

Vignettes

2010-08-31T19:43:00.004-05:00

So much. I know of no other way to describe L.A. than in vignettes. There is no quintessential Los Angeles. So far, I have found no unified quality of place, unless one counts the endless concrete world called “the” freeway, which is more a void between places than a place itself. From Pasadena to El Monte to Long Beach to Santa Monica to Venice to Beverly Hills to Downtown, Los Angeles is the winged lady of a thousand faces both ugly and beautiful.

“There’s always something new to do in L.A.,” a friend of a friend explains as we walk past the trendy shops and restaurants on Abbott Kinney Boulevard in Venice, looking in the windows but never at the price tags. None of us felt we met the area’s requisite cool quotient, but we had a fun time people watching (and dog watching) from the well-designed cafes and peering into the artful shops.

A young neo-hippy naps in a the doorway of a couture shop, her cardboard sign asking not for money but for love. At the Mystic Journey Bookstore I chat with a beautifully accented woman while her coworker looks to see if they have the book I need. They could order it, but I’m only visiting Venice today, with no likelihood of getting back to the store. The Australian welcomes me to the area. At the Intelligencia coffee shop, the barista knowledgably explains the merits of various teas is language as complex as any good sommelier.

“This is a well designed space,” one customer comments to another.

“Yes, it is,” the other replies.

They were right.

A few doors down, I stepped into a converted bungalow I thought might be an art gallery only to be greeted and asked “Are you a patient?”

“No, I was just examining your space. It’s a lovely house,” I explained.

“Yes, it really is. The view goes through all the main rooms all the way to the back window,” the young man agrees with a smile.

The proprietor of the Bohemian shop across the street tells me I should be holding her cat, a long-haired black and white preening from atop an armoire, because she would look good against my black and red outfit. And we should come back next week for their celebration of A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream, she explains as I admire the bustiers and corsets on the nearby rack. And would I like to see the dressing room? She recently won an award for it! It was a lovely dressing room, with an array of antique mirrors, soft rugs, and a plush chaise lounge with dozens of soft cushions, all in aged shades of cream and pastel.

We left Venice without spending more than twice as much as we ought on a cup of tea, but enjoying the drink for all of that. The yuppie hipster culture of the district was distinct for its overflowing cheerfulness, not a bit of moody, disaffected angst in sight. (Though granted, our visit was brief.)

“I’ve lived here my whole life and there’s still so much I haven’t seen,” my roommate Harry tells me as we drive down Colorado Ave in Pasadena the next morning. He studies the changes that have happened since he worked in the area a few years ago. “The Huntington Library’s over there a few blocks. It’s a good place to take a date.” The area is one long shopping mall, bright, post-modern, mid-height, mixed-use buildings blending with well-preserved historic structures. Global chains nestle next to well-established independent businesses. Harry drives his BMW fast, making the trip to Pasadena fly in contrast to the public transit expedition of the day before. (Though both modes of transportation were appreciated for their own merits.)

Danny was in tour guide mode as he led us into Union Station. “Okay, I just want to point this out.” He stopped and faced us to make a strong clear hand gesture towards a bus waiting at the curb in a well kept civic square. “This is where you can catch the Fly Away bus to LAX. It’s seven dollars. When you get on you tell the driver what airline you’re flying with and he’ll make sure you get to the right terminal. And obviously there’s a big cargo hold under the bus for luggage. Okay, moving on …” He led us on towards the Trader Joe’s in western Pasadena.

By contrast to Pasadena and Venice, travelling the number 70 bus up Garvey should qualify one for a degree in multicultural education. Holly and I decided we could just hop on the bus and ride until we saw an interesting restaurant. There were so many to choose from, it would take a month to reach Union Station again by this method and we wouldn’t even have tried them all. About halfway there the Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai signs give way to Spanish. Markets advertise piñatas rather than incense. The quality of the neighborhoods rise then fall then rise again a half dozen times before we pass the massive, modern teaching hospitals on the edge of Downtown.

Some places are so poor they bring tears to your eyes to see, while others are so full of consumerism as to provoke disgust or rage, and yet others are both desperate and beautiful. Some are built with care and liberal resources for the enjoyment of all, like Union Station (both the historic and modern sections), and others for a select few, like the Mormon Temple in Westwood. All are dynamic and unique.

These vignettes of Los Angeles are just glimpses of a sprawling multicultural city I have only yet to begin to know.

Cycling Commute

2010-08-26T11:17:00.000-05:00

My commute takes courage, or stupidity. I ride almost six miles a day to the University and back. I start down Garvey’s four busy lanes. The traffic is less concerning than the dearth of blind drives and streets. Making a space for myself between the traffic and parking lane is safer than braving the sidewalk, which turning cars regularly pull across unexpectedly. Sidewalks are obstacle courses dotted with bus stop benches, street sign poles, stunted trees, random squares of grass, fire hydrants, broken concrete, utility access panels, and the moving targets of pedestrians complete with strollers and dogs. The road is clear in comparison, with only a steady stream of passing cars.

I pass small used car lots, mechanics, Uruguayan and Vietnamese restaurants, seafood markets, small trailer courts hidden behind tall concrete walls, dentists, and discount furniture stores. At the busy intersection of Rosemead and Garvey I wait to cross with the crosswalk light and hold to the sidewalks for a bit. The light takes its time, with long turning periods in from multiple directions. Pedestrians collect at the corners, the little Asian ladies under their umbrellas and the Hispanic teenagers texting on their smart phones. Their regular presence ensures drivers don’t charge the crosswalk as they do at less traveled corners.

“Good morning, lady,” an older Hispanic man calls out. “You are beautiful,” he adds as I flash by in my black skirt and red helmet. I return a good morning and a thank you, but I don’t slow down.

I cross the Rio Hondo, an empty concrete canal with stagnant puddles smelling of green algae the Angelinos call a “river.” There are paths on either side, ramping up to meet with the Garvey bridge, the only one in the area crossing the wide trench. Here another cyclist with a rare helmet and bright yellow vest pulls in front of me. I notice the two canes strapped to the back of his bike and the single muscular calf pushing steadily along. On the far side of the bridge, I follow him off the sidewalk and back out into Garvey. If he’s brave enough to ride in the street, so am I.

I pass him slowly a few blocks later, calling out my own “Good morning.” After a few blocks, I pull left towards the turn onto Muscatel. I listen for a break in the traffic coming up behind me before glancing back, momentarily laying my chin on my left shoulder to peer behind. “Be careful,” he calls as he passes me where I wait in the left turn lane.

My path onto Muscatel is calmer, traveling through a sleepy residential neighborhood. Sleepy for Los Angeles anyway, with small, one-storey houses nestled two or three on a lot against the wide street. Along the main roads every house has a fence around the front lot and a closed gate across the drive. Fences are less ubiquitous here and gates are often left open. Cars park along the street. Little space is wasted on garages.

Muscatel continues down to Klingerman, where the neighborhood borders the large corporate campus of Edison International to the south dwarfing a small pocket park with its brightly colored play set. Multistory white buildings with vertical rows of black windows are set back behind wide parking lots and lawns, ringed by tall, unfamiliar trees.

Klingerman brings me to Walnut Grove, wide as Garvey but half as busy. From Klingerman south no cars park along the curb, despite the spaciousness, making an ideal cycle route. After Edison, a swanky new Wal-Mart is set far back behind its massive, palm tree dotted parking lot to the right and a golf course glows a deep green behind a tall chain link fence to the left.

The University drive appears suddenly along a empty seeming stretch of Walnut Grove, two stone walls cutting into the hill and leading up a steep hill to a small, almost hidden campus of pale two and three-story buildings, mature trees, green lawns, concrete parking lots, and a fountained courtyard. I can’t make it more than a third the way up without giving up to walk the rest of the steep rise.

The ride home during the afternoon is much the same, only hotter. The sun beats down relentlessly here and I feel the stress of my eyes held in a constant squint against the glare. I can see tall white clouds over the mountains and wish they would fly this way, but without much hope. I miss the rain.

Riding home after dark, though ostensibly more dangerous, is also more peaceful by comparison. I must trust in the flashing red light on the back of my basket and the steady white light on my handlebars, as well as my own alertness to keep me safe. Kids play on the darkened residential streets and an ice cream truck regularly parks along Muscatel, groups of adults and teens walking to and fro with tall cones. The businesses along Garvey are closed and only guard dogs note my passing. Some lift their heads but do not bark while others pace along the iron fences beside me, silent as smoke and sizzling underneath their dark coats.

I pull into my own darkened drive with a growing sense of homecoming, beneath the looming shadow of the giant tree that overhangs the street. Harry and his buddies are sitting in the carport, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and talking. It is their common evening activity. They greet me as I come in. Sometimes I’ll sit outside with them as I eat dinner, other times I’ll stay indoors and watch a television show or read my email before bed.

I don’t make the mistake of thinking my commute is safe or that I’ll never get hurt. I rather suspect I will. But this happens all the time whether one is a driver, walker, or cycler. I don’t think I’m more at risk for an accident, though I may be more likely to be seriously hurt in one if and when it occurs. It wouldn’t be my first cycling accident and probably not be my last. It makes me wonder how that other cyclist lost his leg. Could I get back up on the bike if I was seriously injured while riding? I don’t know. But I am careful and I stay alert. Cycling is much better mindfulness training than my meditation has ever been (though, yes, I know, I should still be meditating more).

I’m getting both my physical and mental exercise.

Going Without Knowing

2010-08-21T17:23:00.003-05:00

Today was a new adventure. I rode up to Rosemead Place to have lunch at a Thai restaurant with Holly. I tried a fruit smoothie with tapioca balls. The smoothie was good, but I could do without the gooey, tasteless balls in the bottom. The pad thai with tofu was much better. The route along Rosemead Blvd was not really bicycle or pedestrian friendly. I walked my bike along the cracked and pocked shoulder for half the distance. On the way back I rode mostly in the narrow gutter between the right traffic lane and curbed and cracked shoulder. Trouble is, Rosemead is the only path over the Rio Hondo in that direction and under the I-10, so I may just have the brave it. Luckily the bad stretch isn’t very long.

The walk under the I-10 freeway today reminded me of the time I walked from Alameda to Oakland. Lest you think this is impossible, Alameda being an island, I assure you it is not. I took the subway and then a bus out to visit a firm there in a highly auto-centric office park near the College of Alameda. The bus stop was on one side of a very busy road and when I returned, I could not seem to locate where to catch the bus going in the opposite direction. I began walking down the road in the direction I wanted to go, figuring it was a bus route and I would eventually find a stop.

An hour later I had walked all the way to Oakland via the Webster Street Tunnel, at least a good mile underground. Where logic whispers maybe it may be time to turn around and find another route, I just press on, thinking since I’ve come this far and found no physical impediment to forward travel, I might as well continue. There is a path through the tunnel, an elevated walkway of sorts I’m sure is actually intended for maintenance and not pedestrians, but it was safe enough. The worst bit was the noise. I came up in a rather nice and touristy part of Oakland (well, okay, a slightly run down light industrial area two blocks from the touristy part), near the Jack London Square and waterfront. From there, finding a café, a bookstore, and a bus stop was easy.

I have the tendency to set out in the direction of my goal without fully understanding the path and trusting in my own abilities to get me there. I am steady in my resolve and hard to fluster, scare, or turn aside. This personality trait is not restricted to my travel patterns, which have led me on many a strange and marvelous trail. It is part of what allows me to come all the way out to California and make such a seemingly radical change in my life course (though naturally it makes perfect sense to me). It helped me complete my studies in architecture despite a very unclear path and many bumps in the road.

Harry remarks that I’ve settled in very quickly, much quicker than his last roommate who’d lived in the LA area all his life. I’ve been mostly hanging around the house, now and then going out to lunch or a lecture. The other night I sat outside and talked with Harry and his friend Tek for a while. Tomorrow morning, I plan to explore the Hispanic market across the street.

Even when the going is uncertain, my determination to get there is unshakable. I have a good sense of direction. I may not know where the bus stop is or where the tunnel comes out, but I know Oakland is northeast of Alameda. I may not realize all the differences between California and Nebraska yet, but I know a smile and a “thank you” works no matter where you are or what language you speak.

I may not know precisely what I’m going to do with this chaplaincy degree, but I know I’m capable of figuring that out by the time I get there.

Photo: In the Webster Street Tunnel from Alameda to Oakland, March 2008.

Ritual

2010-08-19T16:43:00.002-05:00

“So you are here as chaplaincy student?”

“Yes.”

“And you are also Buddhist practitioner?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Hmm, eight years.”

“Oh. So you do meditation?”

“Yes. Shamatha.”

“Ah. And you do every day?”

“No, not usually. I am very bad about it.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I’m just not very motivated to actually sit.”

“Oh. Do you chant?”

“No.”

“Do you recite mantra?”

“No.”

“Do you recite sutra?”

“No.”

“Do you do prostration?”

“No.”

“Do you worship the Buddha?”

“Well, I wouldn’t use the word ‘worship,’ but revere, yes.”

“Oh. So you have a Buddha statue?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“Well, I read a lot, but otherwise my practice is not structured.”

“Ah, not structured. I see. What do you read? History or sutra or …”

“Lots of things. I started with Thich Naht Hanh and I’ve read some of Chogyam Trungpa and Pema Chodron. I’m in the middle of How the Swans Came to the Lake, a history on how Buddhism came to America.”

“Ah, How the Swans Came to the Lake is very good. Dr. Lancaster knows a lot about this.”

Just then Dr. Lancaster cleared his throat in preparation to begin the lecture and I was saved from the Venerable’s continued interrogation as she and I both found our seats. I wondered if in her eyes I am not a very good Buddhist. I have no rituals. Partly this is because I myself am somewhat biased against ritual, not because I don’t believe it beneficial or useful, but simply because I don’t believe it very useful to me. The other part is that, being unaffiliated, I’ve never learned the ‘proper’ way to conduct rituals, such as chanting or prostration, or the history or meaning behind them. (And Buddha forbid I do anything without knowing the why of it.) Anything I might do would be entirely arbitrary. So I do nothing.

I did not mention that writing is a large part of my practice. That would be a longer conversation that we had time for and not one I am certain I could participate in very well. As I’ve mentioned before, there is no historical or theological basis (that I’ve found) for writing as practice, except perhaps among the Zen poets, but that is of an entirely different format.

The questions remind me I have yet to unpack my Buddha. He shall go on a shelf in the corner within my bedroom that serves as a sort of entry, above the map chest and beside where I shall hang my hats. It is a fairly utilitarian corner, but the one I shall always see immediately upon entering the room, and indeed, the house. First I need to be able to afford to buy a shelf. That is likely all the ritual I shall have, though I may try yet again to take up daily meditation (and probably fail at least half a dozen more times).

The rituals the Venerable questioned me about do not seem to me to be particularly Buddhist things. They are simply things Buddhists happen to do. They are also things Christians and Muslims and Hindus happen to do. This is perhaps part of the reason I have eschewed them. I do not perceive it as helpful for me to define myself as a Buddhist by whether or not I engage in this or that ritual. Rather, I should say I am a Buddhist because I have witnessed the Four Noble Truths. I try to follow the Noble Eightfold Path, hold the Five Precepts, cultivate the Six Perfections, and understand the Three Hallmarks of Existence. I am Buddhist because I suffer and want to end suffering, for myself and all sentient beings.

However, ritual is something I will have to come to terms with. Many people find ritual very soothing and helpful. The military is full of ritual. Daily culture is full of ritual. Religion is full of ritual and for very good reason. What I perceive as a cultural contrivance of occasional functional value, others perceive as vitally important for a directed, balanced, and harmonious life. Nor are they mistaken. We all have different needs, different ways of ordering our minds and lives, different ways of marking significance or seeking comfort. It will be my duty as a chaplain to provide for these needs of others, and that includes knowing and being able to conduct the appropriate rituals in the appropriate circumstances.

Where my worry lies is in that I may be perceived (or may actually be) hypocritical for helping others in rituals of spiritual significance while I myself have so very few. If and when I participate in religious ritual at all, it is for public consumption. I participate in group meditation, group chanting, group ceremonies. Behind closed doors, I just remind myself to be good and count that sufficient. Of course, behind closed doors I also walk around in my underwear. We do many things for the benefit of others when we are with others and many things for the benefit of only ourselves when we are not.

I am comfortable with no rituals. I am uncomfortable with rituals that feel contrived, static, and arbitrary when conducted only for my own sake. I believe I should be comfortable within my own practice. However, I am equally comfortable carrying out ritual for the sake of others. If it is of benefit to them and makes them feel better, how could I be uncomfortable with that?

Personally, I do not feel that rituals have any mystical significance in and of themselves. I believe their sole benefit is to the person engaged then and there with the ritual. If it helps them cultivate patience, for example, that could be of benefit later to others they will encounter in their day to day lives. That is interdependence. Rituals benefit the participants, not the souls of the dead or untold masses of suffering beings. However, if the participants believe otherwise, I am perfectly content with that. After all, the rituals could benefit the souls of the dead and untold masses of suffering beings. It is possible. My opinion as to its likelihood is merely that, an opinion. What is obvious is that the participants who benefit in turn benefit others. That makes ritual a worthy enough endeavor for me.

Though I hold no religious rituals for myself, I still value them.

Making Our Own Milestones

2010-08-19T12:10:00.002-05:00

Robin Marantz Henig of the New York Times asks: “Getting to what we would generally call adulthood is happening later than ever. But why?” in the August 18 article “What Is It About 20-Somethings?”

As an official member of the 20-Somethings for nine more days, I feel the urge to answer. (Not that I think the urge will magically pass the moment I turn thirty, but one never knows.) First of all, Henig is using five criteria for adulthood identified by sociologists: completing our education, moving out, becoming financially independent, marrying, and having kids. So why aren’t we completing all five steps and becoming stable “adults?” Maybe it’s because we just don’t buy it. We don't all see the value in these things that others have.

Henig references a comic in the New Yorker showing a young man hanging his PhD on the wall of his boyhood bedroom, his bewildered parents watching. Another shows a graduate in cap and gown clutching a college diploma and being strangled by a tassel labeled “debt.” Of the thirty students who graduated with a Masters of Architecture from UNL this spring, I know of two with jobs in the field, and they’re two who already had those jobs while in college. The prior year’s statistics weren’t much better. And the alternatives? Work at a coffee shop and earn just enough to make your student loan payments, move back in with the folks (or both), or continue with school. We’re going to be the most educated generation ever, for all the good it will do us.

So if a smart few aren’t buying the college recruiter’s spiel, I say good for them. Right now my brother is doing far better financially than I am on a high school diploma. He’s smart and he works hard and he’s no enormous student loan debt to repay. He’s hit all but the last of those five criteria, and that is by choice.

Yes, he and my sister-in-law have chosen not to have children. I don’t think that makes them any less adults. In fact, I think it’s rather responsible of them. Neither is what I would call a terribly nurturing individual (though they are both very loyal and loving) and they’ve made the conscious decision to spend their time, money, and attention on each other and the adult family they already have.

Right now I am reading the memoir of Mary Pipher, Seeking Peace, and the parents she describes in another era might have been better off not having children – a workaholic physician mother and a volatile, unsettled father. Of course, I’m sure she’s rather glad they followed societies' dictates, as am I, but that’s a red herring. She grew up into a good person more or less on her own, as did her siblings.

I think one could make a reasoned argument that today’s 20-somethings don’t buy into the “traditional” storyline. College is often more trouble than it’s worth if all you’re looking for is return on investment, to do your time and settle down into a “good” job, scarcer and scarcer these days, so you can get on with your “real” life. Alternately, it’s become a lifestyle choice, a chance to spend your years in a state of constant inquiry, and for many, myself included, that has tremendous appeal. Given that we haven’t bought into the former "real life" mantra, the questions that leaves us with leads many to the latter.

We’ve watched are grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles, all follow the traditional path to adulthood and we’ve noticed they don’t seem any happier or better off than we are. The world doesn’t seem to have improved significantly since the end of World War II, which is when this so-called “traditional” pattern began, “…built on the expectation of an orderly progression in which kids finish school, grow up, start careers, make a family and eventually retire to live on pensions supported by the next crop of kids who finish school, grow up, start careers, make a family and on and on. The traditional cycle seems to have gone off course, as young people remain un¬tethered to romantic partners or to permanent homes, going back to school for lack of better options, traveling, avoiding commitments, competing ferociously for unpaid internships or temporary (and often grueling) Teach for America jobs, forestalling the beginning of adult life.” This tradition is only about sixty years old. Social security, built on the taxes of young people, only started in 1935. That’s old for a car, but young for a cultural tradition, a scant three or four generations. My grandmother was born before social security existed.

Yes, things are better now than they were for her. We have more freedoms and more tolerance and, most especially, more stuff, but on the heels of the Baby Boom, things have rather reached a plateau. We still have wars, poverty, violence, injustice, divisiveness, starvation, and innumerable other evils in the world. Earlier generations as a group, don’t appear to be happier, saner, wiser, or more productive individuals than later ones for having completed these so-called milestones. Perhaps that is a deceptive appearance and the value of these five traditions can only be judged by those who have achieved them, but surely we can learn something from observation alone.

I can’t speak for others, but what I observe is that achieving each of these five milestones involves compromise. Something is gained but something is also lost. What we 20-Somethings are unsure of is whether the first something is truly better than the second. Is finishing our education so we can get a “good” job, be financially independent, and afford our own home, car, and white picket fence truly better than continuing to explore the world, either physically through travel or intellectually through academia? We have so many questions and that piece of paper called a diploma does not seem to offer any answers. Nor does the nine to five or the house in the suburbs. Rather it only promises we will be too busy living that daily grind to continue seeking. At least, this is the outward appearance, and a scary one for many.

Nor do we necessarily believe our happiness is to be found in a partner or children. And many who do are legally forbad having either, in a grand tragedy of intolerance. I have no reason to believe my life would be any better were I married (having seen a number of lives made worse) nor that I could significantly improve the life of another through my consistent presence. I might like to hope both are true, but I’m not going to hinge my self-worth on either. The same is true of children, as I’ve discussed before. We have been raised to be independent, to think and do for ourselves, and that naturally makes pairing up a more difficult proposition than for past generations where expectations and roles were clearer (though not better).

So if we have yet to reach the five milestones – education, stability, independence, marriage, and children – perhaps it’s because we don’t think they’re worth it. Maybe this will change. Maybe the sociologists are right to label this “emerging adulthood” and we’ll all get there in time, if a little slower than previous generations. Their twenties will become our thirties.

Maybe we’ll replace these milestones with ones of our own. I’ve visited foreign countries. My parents can’t claim that, nor most of my grandparents. I've chosen my religion. I’ve completed three college degrees (diploma pending). I’ve held eighteen different jobs in fourteen years (usually two at a time), which means I have a remarkable variety of experience to draw from. I’ve published over three-hundred thousand words online (granted, not all of them good). I’ll call those my milestones and challenge other generations to do better (hard to do worse), but to do so on their own terms.

Tradition may have value, but it can’t simply be given if the recipient doesn't buy into it.

Lazy & Learning in L.A.

2010-08-18T10:54:00.003-05:00

Did you know there are Tamil words in the Hebrew Bible? Tamil is the language of the Dravidian peoples at the very southern tip of India. King Solomon imported peacocks to his court from this area and, of course, there was no Hebrew word for peacock, so they called them by the Tamil word (or a very close approximation), tukki. This is not to say that the Hebrew Bible is Indian in origin (although Vatican scholars have just published a paper demonstrating the songs of Solomon are actually Tamil love poetry and the love they describe isn’t love of God, but good old fashioned, ahem, love). However, it shows there was significant trade and communication between these two regions of the world earlier and of greater degree than previously thought.

For example, the Gnostic Gospels, those books omitted from the New Testament, also provide evidence, such as the Six Perfections listed in the correct (that is, the Mahayana Buddhist) order. These virtues are often listed in religious and philosophical texts. Many agree on any four or five, but nowhere else can all six be found listed in order: generosity, morality, patience, diligence, concentration, and wisdom. (The Theravadans have four more: renunciation, honesty, loving-kindness, and equanimity.

These are just a couple things I learned this week at the lecture series being offered at UWest by Dr. Lewis Lancaster. The series is titled “Chinese Buddhism: A New Look,” though after two nights we’ve yet to get to China, but I like that because I find setting up the context is vitally important. It’s been fascinating.

Dr. Lancaster suggests that while trade with the Near East and Rome was strong (by sea and land) in the centuries after the time of the Buddha, it diminished significantly after the fall of Rome, which began its decline in the first centuries of the common era and was sacked by the Visigoths in 410. (And what did the Visigoths demand in tribute? Three-thousand tons of black pepper from India, which Rome actually had in stock, among other things.) Trade shifted from the west side of the Indian peninsula to the east side, around the Bay of Bengal and Southeast Asia. Thus Buddhism gained a stronger foothold there and its presence in the northwest (North India, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, in the ports and along the land trade routes and the Indus River) slowly diminished, especially following the rise of Islam.

As fascinating as this is, I doubt I’ll have time or energy to detail everything I will be learning here in the blog. Although, it would be a wonderful study aid. I’ll be taking four classes: Spiritual Development, Interfaith Chaplaincy, Buddhist Meditation, and Religion, Science, and Society. I’m keeping my eyes open for a job, but I’ve determined not to start looking seriously for a few weeks. I want to get some sense of my class schedule, workload, and the area. This is very odd as I’ve not been unemployed since I was fifteen years old, but I think it will be good for me. I’ve never had the opportunity to be a fully-committed student. It would be lovely if I could find an academic means of support, a research grant or some such, and I will diligently search for one in the meantime.

My cat has just reminded me not to leave her out of this post. She has taken to sitting on window sills and in doorways. I’ve taken the cue from Harry for leaving the inner doors open during the day and locking the iron screens, which are just as sturdy as the solid wooden doors, complete with deadbolts. She likes to sit on the rug by the front door and look out. So far she has not tried to escape. She is still shy of Harry, but I suspect this is because he rarely sits down. He is always coming and going, gone during the day, working out as soon as he returns, and out to dinner with friends and family afterward. If he was still for any amount of time, I’m sure she would quickly discover another lap.

Today I’ve nothing to do, no plan. This evening my parents close on the sale of my condo in Lincoln. I’ll call them after to ensure it went through and then tomorrow I’ll call and take the utilities out of my name. Otherwise my entire list of goals includes finding the local NPR channel (check), eating lunch, eating dinner, washing the dishes, and reading. I might walk down to Garvey and explore some of the little markets or restaurants, but not too much as I’m saving my pennies until my aid comes through.

La, what a life!

L.A. Update

2010-08-15T21:43:00.004-05:00

The Buddhist In Nebraska is now officially the Buddhist [from] Nebraska. Yup. That's right. Hello, L.A.

I have now settled in to my new digs in El Monte, California, part of the cornucopia of suburbs surrounding Los Angeles. Two trips to Ikea, one to Wal-Mart, a tiring but fun morning at the Long Beach Flea Market, and $1000 later and my room is looking like a room - complete with bed, desk, and all-important bookshelves. I am living three miles from University of the West in a nice house with an easy going guy named Harry, who has very graciously given me the master bed/bath, and seems happy to tolerate my finicky cat, not to mention my folks who are staying with us until Tuesday. That's about two days too long, as it turns out, considering I'm already practically completely unpacked and settled in. The folks are currently in the living room having commandeered Harry's fabulous giant television. So, I'm taking a moment to jot a note to explain my recent absence from the buddhablogosphere.

I think I will like it here. The house, not much to look at from the outside, has been entirely remodeled inside. My room is a rather lovely shade of powder blue with a slightly darker blue in the also newly remodeled attached bath and dressing room/closet. It opens onto a little entry on the side of the house that also connects to Harry's room/bath and a narrow galley kitchen with all new everything, including a giant stainless steel fridge (but no dishwasher, alas!). The living room is a cheerful mustard/gold/yellow with handsome reddish wood floors.

Harry is my age, fit, works at a bank, likes beer, kids, and tossing the ball in the backyard with his buddies. The house shares the lot with two others. The middle one is home to Tiffany and Peter and their four kids (three boys and a little girl all under ten) and an older lady whose name I've not caught, but we've been calling Mama-san. Harry tells me a couple with two older children live in the front house. Harry and I are in the back house, and every other week his two year old son, Nate, will be here as well. That will be ... interesting. There are also two grapefruit and a kumquat tree in the backyard and a few branches full of avocados from the neighbor's tree.

The neighborhood is busy and full of life, kids especially, as the neighbors on the north also have a herd. It is a driving area, with wide streets and plenty of traffic on nearby Garvey Street, but also plenty of people on foot or pedal power. People seem to spend more time outdoors here and I can see why. The weather has been sunny and warm, but not hot, low humidity, no bugs, with cool, breezy evenings and mornings. We've barely used the air conditioner and only when we were sweaty from moving boxes and assembling ingenious Swedish furniture. The house doesn't even have heat, just a couple of space heaters tucked in a corner of the back entry. The laundry machines are outside in the carport with Harry's weight bench.

I had only intended to buy a mattress and bookshelf, but my parents decided lending me the money for a proper bed frame would be cheaper than staying in the hotel another four nights just because their knees are too creaky to get up off the floor in the morning. And while we were there, we might as well get the desk that goes with the bookshelf. So my room is rather more furnished than I had anticipated. It's all dark and sleek and very modern, much different from the antique-eclectic-found furnishing vibe I had going on in Lincoln. My old map chest makes an interesting counterpoint. Today at the flea market we found a bright red metal cabinet for $50 (we were hunting for a dresser) for my bath/dressing room/closet. (Mom also found a dozen other knickknacks which will be making the long flight back to Nebraska.) In my future I see some hanging shelves for the last of my books, a couple of rugs, and fewer suitcases, but already this feels very much like home.

I'm holding nothing back. I thought briefly about leaving most of my things boxed, in case I wanted to hedge my bets, but in the end I've unpacked all but six (perhaps the original six?). The others are folded and slid under my new queen bed. That's another change - that bed. I insisted on a queen. It's a way of making room in my life for someone other than myself. Who that someone is, I've yet to discover, but I'm determined to make an effort.

Tomorrow morning I go up to the University for advising and registration. Then my Dad wants to look at Honda motorcycle dealerships just for fun. In the afternoon, we're going to visit Hsi Lai Temple. Then, bright and early Tuesday morning, by which I mean when it's still dark, my parents will head back to Nebraska, taking the lovely Jeep Grand Cherokee rental with them. And I'll be on my own, cat, old blue bicycle, new Ikea furniture, and all.

Sigh.

The Curious Case of the Blue Bicycle

2010-07-29T13:39:00.003-05:00

Six years ago, I bought a bicycle at a garage sale. I was living with my parents that summer in their townhome on Alfred Hitchcock Street. At least that’s what I call it. It’s actually S 154th St. It forms the terminus of their subdivision, a very normal circa 1990’s development, with all the streets coming down the hill and ending there at 154th. On the opposite side of the street, for four blocks, stretches and endless row of pastel duplex townhomes – all – exactly – the – same. But I wasn’t consulted when they bought it and even had I been, I’d have had no say, so when I needed a place to live the summer before I moved to Lincoln, I couldn’t quibble (much).

I was selling the five-bedroom ranch in Gretna and buying a one-bedroom condo in Lincoln, just a mile south of the University of Nebraska. I was not about to invest in an outrageously expensive parking pass (which really only amounts to a hunting permit), so instead I invested in a five dollar bicycle at a garage sale just up the street from my parents’ home. It was pink, or, more properly, magenta. It was an old cruiser, with only three speeds, a wide, brown leather seat, fenders, and a basket on the back. I’ve never been a pink girl, but for five dollars, I wouldn’t quibble (much). The cute boys at the Monkey Wrench, the bicycle shop in downtown Lincoln, told me it was from Poland, manufactured sometime in the Sixties, and somewhat unique.

I rode that bicycle back and forth to work and endured much guff for it from the tough military folk at the ROTC office where I was secretary. They called it a “Dorothy” bicycle. (Never mind that in the Wizard of Oz, it had not been Dorothy who had a bicycle with a basket on the back.) I crisscrossed campus between classes, dodging pedestrians who never heard my calls of “Left!” thanks to their ubiquitous mp3 players. I took a tumble once, when one of them dodged the wrong direction, sent me off the curb, over a bump, and flat on my back on the concrete.

The untouched young man actually pulled his earbuds out as he stood over me as asked “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I gritted. “I’m fine.” I was also terribly pissed off and wanted him to go away before I peeled myself off the pavement and did him an injury. He hurried away sticking his fingers back in his ears.

That bicycle was my main mode of transportation for over a year, until one night as I bounced home along the cracked sidewalks of 16th St, the chain bounced right out of the basket. I never found it. Nor did I get around to replacing it as promptly as I should. A week later my magenta bicycle was stolen from where I had parked it outside of Anderson Hall. I reported it to the campus cops, but nothing ever came of it. I trudged around campus for a month, lugging my heavy backpack, and missing the big basket, teasing and all.

When next I was in Omaha, I went garage saling again with my folks (it’s a family hobby). In short order I found another bicycle. Oddly enough, it was the exact same type, only blue and lacking the basket. It made me happy, as I had greatly enjoyed its pink sister. There must have been a dearth of Polish cyclists in the area in the Sixties. I paid twenty dollars this time for the blue three-speed cruiser with the black seat, and another fifty to have the Monkey Wrench boys put a basket on the back, but I still thought it a good deal.

Over the next five years I’d add LED lights on the front and back and a bell on the handlebars. When the basket would come undone, I’d stop into the Monkey Wrench and they’d replace the zip-ties that held it to the frame. Eventually, I secured it more permanently with a bungee cord, now worn and frayed but still doing its duty. Every spring I shelled out for a tune up and was always amazed at how much better it rode. I never fixed a tire (and miss a chance to visit the cute boys at the bicycle shop?) or oiled the chain myself and I always stored it outside in the rain and snow and sun.

Don’t let that cause you to think I didn’t appreciate my bicycle. I did. On all accounts I found it rather perfect. It would spend long hours parked in front of Architecture Hall, and it would always cheer me to find it still there when I emerged in the wee hours of the morning. Even in winter, I rode all but a handful of days. When I was hit by a car on East Campus and the basket and all its contents sent flying out in the middle of busy Holdrege St, the sturdy frame didn’t bear so much as a dent. The bruise on my thigh lingered longer than it took to repair the bent spokes on the rear wheel.

When the time came to move to California, I was rather disappointed to learn a bicycle can cost a hundred dollars to ship, especially if you have to pay someone to disassemble, pack, unpack, and reassemble it for you (and having never learned much about bicycle maintenance it would certainly have been necessary). For a twenty dollar bicycle with a fifty dollar basket and a five dollar bell, I just couldn’t justify the cost. Spring turned into summer and my August departure date grew close. I hadn’t ridden since May, having lost the key straight off my keychain somewhere between Chicago and Denver. The bicycle sat chained and unloved at the rack behind my brick building all summer.

Until last Friday, that is, when my father came to help me move some furniture and brought a pair of bolt cutters with him. He cut the chain and I thought no more about it, having no need of it that weekend. On Monday morning, I walked the four blocks to work much as I had the past two months. But when I came home Tuesday night and noticed it gone, I let out a quiet curse. I had been trying to sell it, true, or just give it away to a friend I thought would appreciate it, and here it had been stolen. Who would have known that this week, of all weeks, the chain had been cut off? It was hardly visible there where the weeds had grown up about the wheels. It made me sad not to see it there anymore, despite my recent neglect.

Today is Thursday, and my coworkers and I (in the three-person Office of Rural Health) walked up to get a burger at the new place on P St, just across from the Monkey Wrench. As we walked back, I was lamenting the loss of my old blue bicycle and the magenta one before that. Two bicycles in six years isn’t so bad, I thought, especially as neither was very expensive. As we reached the corner of Fourteenth, I glanced to my right at the bicycle rack in from of Jake’s Cigars.

“There it is!” I cried, practically on the heels of “I hope whoever got it is making good use of it.”

We walked over and I checked the blue frame for the telltale gold bell and frayed bungee holding the basket on the back. Sure enough, it was my blue bicycle, rusted bits and all. Nor was it chained to the rack. We glanced into Jake’s but saw no patrons and no one staring back at us clustered around this old bike. So I re-stole it.

“We’ll see if anyone comes out after us,” I said.

“I’ll take care of them if they do,” Mike offered with a grin.

We all agreed on the walk back to the office if whoever had ridden it there had believed it was theirs legitimately, perhaps having bought it from the thief unwitting, they surely would have locked it up. I may have stolen it from someone quite innocent, but I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for them. They can’t have paid very much for it, even if their intentions were good. It’s more likely I stole it back from the thief who stole it from me in the first place. And although I don’t need it and shall be looking to give it away soon myself, I didn’t hesitate to dish out a little of their own medicine. I didn’t entertain Tom’s advice to call the police for more than a moment, not for such a petty thief (who might very well be a neighbor). It would only have ended in a he-said-she-said scenario anyway.

So now my blue bicycle, twin sister to my magenta bicycle, is returned to me. When I get home tonight, for the first time ever, it will go up to my apartment rather than being left down at the bike rack. Now that it is returned, I wonder if I should not ship it to California after all, if just for sentimental reasons.

After all, it feels as though I have found it three times now, rather than just one.

Freedom From Hope & Fear

2010-07-27T14:23:00.002-05:00

An essay for a competition on the subject of death, written June 15, 2010 .

I have no hope. No hope for heaven, no fear of hell. No hope for a better rebirth and no fear of worse. I know I will die. I seek no reward nor escape from any punishment. This life is all I have. And though I tell myself I could be wrong (what if I’m wrong?) I never seem to find enough faith or reason in such belief to spur action. Nor do I think I should.

How selfish is it to think “I am helping you so I can go to heaven?” How moral is it to believe “I will not hurt you because I don’t want to go to hell?” And we call this religion? And we call this religion good?

Heaven and hell exist here. Better and worse lives are but a second away. Do not pass the bardo, do not collect two-hundred good karmas, go directly to now. Reward and punishment are as constant as the daily movement of air through our lungs. I need nothing else.

This is not nihilism. If what comes after this life does not matter, then only this life matters. And in this life there is much to be done. This is the energy and urgency and motivation of all deeds.

It is fair to ask “If you have no fear of punishment, what stops you from doing harm?” The answer is myself, only myself. Because I am, like you are, not alone in this world. We should not make enemies of our neighbors. I have seven billion neighbors.

Others may follow with “If you have no hope of reward, what prompts you to help others?” The answer is that they do, always they do. I could hide in my selfishness, like a turtle in her shell, never doing harm but never rendering aid. But no shell is thick enough to shield the screams of a suffering world. The only relief is their relief.

I have no hope for joy other than this. My heart will stop beating, my blood stop flowing, the twitch of electricity in my mind will fall silent. My body will be burnt to ash and scattered. There will be no joy in me for that. But there is joy here, now.

There is pain, too. Endless, untold oceans of suffering. They got that bit right, these religions. So they sit in hard church pews praying for redemption and on soft cushions meditating for freedom. Escape, escape, escape.

They are not wrong. Prayer too can be joy. And meditation can be relief from suffering. And these things spread, like waves in the ocean, crisscrossing the ripples of a child’s smile and a baby’s laugh, spreading from shore to shore. They touch you and me.

But only so long as we continue to stand in the ocean. When I am gone from here, I will feel them no more. The ripples from each person’s life may continue after they are gone. Like a stone disappearing below the surface of the waves, nevertheless felt. We are all stones. Some sink with hardly a trace. I do not seek to make waves. I will not hinge today’s happiness on something so fickle as tomorrow’s sea.

I live my life hopelessly, as much as I can, but also fearlessly, as much as I am able. I will try (oh, how we try!) to harm none and help many. I am concerned with today’s joy and today’s sorrow. I heed no promise of after.

I do not advocate this for anyone. I do not say it is the way. It is simply how I must live.

In the languages of India, “mind” and “heart” are one word. My mind and heart are one in this. My reason and intuition agree. What I know, as best one can know, and what I feel are twinned.

In hopelessness, there is no despair. In fearlessness, there is no valor.

It is only freedom.

Sharing & Needing

2010-07-26T12:22:00.000-05:00

“Is it weird? Seeing someone else with your car? You’ve been so good about sharing it. If it were me, it’d be weird, leaving the car I’d had for ten years,” Lacey asked as we stood by the car in question on my darkened street last night. I’d just given her my standing oval mirror and a small jewelry table.

I shrugged. “No, not really. I’ve had practice learning what I can live without. I lived a whole summer in a tent once.” A rather palatial tent by the standards of such things, with access to a bathhouse and meals provided every day, but it was still a tent.

The truth is, for all my many character flaws, sharing is not one of them. In fact, I like to share. It makes me feel useful, so you see, it’s not entirely altruistic. I like to be helpful. I like to show people things and teach them how to do stuff. There are limits, of course, and I can be impatient when it comes to showing someone the same thing for the third time, but I can usually stifle my annoyance and manage it with a smile.

If someone has a question, I’m right there with an answer, sometimes rather too quickly as I’ve been known to answer questions that weren’t addressed to me. I’ve discovered this enthusiasm isn’t always appreciated and learned to linger in the back of the classroom, only supplying an answer after others have had ample opportunity. And I have no particular attachment to things, or most things anyway. If you need a quarter or a book or a ride or even a car, if I have it, then you have it. I once gave my friend John my gigantic calculus textbook. He bought me a pop every week during class for the rest of the semester and I thought that an equitable exchange (the treat was certainly more fun than calculus had been).

Lacey is buying my car, the 1999 Hyundai Accent I bought brand new when I was nineteen years old. I’m the only person to have ever owned it. It’s blue and has a spoiler on its hatchback, which is absurd, but I rather enjoy. I would have given it to her, had I not needed the money. As it is, we didn’t even quibble over the price. She gave me a down payment and we’ve been sharing it until I leave. This week, I’ll see she gets the title paperwork and that’ll be it. The car will be hers, faded bumper stickers, stained seats, new tires and all. I’m glad she’s so excited to have it.

I sold my furniture to Barbara, who had “Best Grandmother” embroidered on her tee-shirt and spotless white sneakers. She just moved in upstairs.

“What would you like for it?” she asked. “I don’t want to insult you with too low a price.”

I shrugged and looked around. “I don’t know.” It’s my home, and it’s comfortable, but it doesn’t amount to much.

“How about $50 for the couch and the dining set?” she offered. “I can pay you next week when I get my social security. My grandsons can help move it on Sunday.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” I agreed. I probably would have agreed to the price of having the grandsons come take it away (especially if they were legal, cute, and it was hot enough to merit shirtless furniture moving, but that might have been asking a bit much).

It’s all gone now, along with the cobbled-together entertainment center and the last tall bookshelf. My house is a vast (500 square foot) desert prairie, with the occasional chair or box popping up above the faded Berber carpet. My cat sprawls languidly in the middle of the floor and surveys her domain, when she’s not stalking amongst the ruins and exploring the interiors of cardboard caves.

Elisabeth stopped over and bought the DVD player and a computer monitor. Dad came this weekend and helped move a few more things. He’d had a tetanus shot the day before and it was making him tired in the evenings, but he still wanted to help. My family is like that, so I guess that’s where I learned it. We took a load of boxes over to their garage and then he fell asleep on the couch in front of his big screen television, with little Lucy curled up next to him because Mom was away at quilt camp. He would snort and she would twitch her multi-colored ears and it was all very cute. When I finally went up to bed, I had to clear several boxes of craft supplies from the daybed in what was once the guest bedroom, the one I’ve generally thought of as mine.

I’ve always shared, ever since I was little, but these last few years I’ve also felt I needed less. I attribute that to my practice. I shop less and I buy less, partly because I have less money, but also because I don’t feel the need. I don’t feel sad when I can’t afford something I want. I really don’t want that much anymore. A few years ago, I would have been annoyed at the conquering army that is my mother’s craft supplies taking over what was ostensibly “my” space, the only bit of that house I’d ever felt was at all private. Now, I just shift the boxes and climb into bed. It doesn’t matter. How much space do I need for my glasses and mala and toothbrush anyway? Maybe mom should just get rid of the daybed. I won’t be visiting as much and when I do, I can sleep on the couch.

I also recognize that my sharing is as much about my ego as about the other person. I work on cultivating good intentions and not being pushy. Very shortly, sharing will take on an entirely new meaning, as I gain a roommate and his two-year-old son. I won’t be able to share entirely on my terms anymore. There is an opportunity to learn from that, if I can stay open enough to recognize it.

Compassion, we are often reminded means to “suffer with” another. Buddhism speaks about it often with its emphasis on suffering. But there is also sympathetic joy. There is also the smile I find on my face when Lacey posts a picture of her “new” car on Facebook with the caption “I LOVE IT!” Sometimes I think we could do well to talk about that feeling a little more.

I was watching a commercial about teeth whitening while Dad slept on the couch with the cat. When the woman on the screen smiled, I smiled. I didn’t even recognize it until the third time. We suffer, it’s true. But we’re also hardwired for compassion and sympathetic joy. We wince when someone else gets hurt and laugh when someone else laughs even if we don’t know the joke.

Sharing is a way of training for that empathetic response, which is why it’s so much more appealing to share in-person, with someone you know than to just drop things off at a thrift store for a nameless stranger. My friend Noreen might not need that shirt as much as the women’s shelter, but if I give it to her, I get to share her pleasure in having it. If we could find a way to incorporate this aspect into our charities, if our communities weren’t so divorced from the needy in our midst, we could harness a great deal more generosity.

Part of being generous comes from feeling wealthy. I don’t have much, by the standards of American society, but it feels like a lot to me, so sharing is never a burden. When I take boxes to donate to Good Will, I don’t feel like I’m giving up anything. Practice has helped me lessen the poverty mentality that makes us believe we need more than we do. I actually don’t need a car or a couch or ten pairs of jeans. That I have (for now) a car and a couch (there’s one waiting for me in California) and two (I gave the others away) pairs of jeans, makes me feel very fortunate. So there’s that, too – feelings of wealth and good fortune and sympathetic joy.

I’m going to my bankruptcy hearing today, but you know, I don’t feel particularly unlucky. I’ve got enough in my pocket for a piece of pizza on the way. I can pick up a little milk on the way home to share with my cat. When I get to California, I’ll have enough to buy a nice mattress, one big enough for two. My practice has helped me discover this and refine it. I may suck at meditation, but this I can do.

And here’s one way I can share it with you.

Guest Posting On Gender

2010-07-26T10:24:00.002-05:00

My friend Jake has graciously included me as a guest post on his blog, Notes From A Small Place, in an ongoing series about gender and the body. And, no Jake, I don't even quibble about anything in the introduction, but I'd be happy to argue over the meaning of the word 'the' if you're looking for a good conversation. :-)

Enjoy!

Geeks To The Rescue

2010-07-23T11:43:00.005-05:00

I usually don’t post about news, pop culture, or current events here on the blog. After all, this blog is a journal, which means it’s all about me, me, me. Uh-huh. But there is something going down in San Diego I feel everyone should be aware of: Comic-Con. Well, not Comic-Con specifically, but what happens when two worlds collide, namely Comic-Con and the Westboro Baptist Church.

Now, if you don’t know what Comic-Con is…well, all I can say is I’m sorry. But for the uneducated amongst us, it’s the geek version of the holy pilgrimage. Comic-Con is the largest gathering of science fiction, fantasy, anime, video games, and comic books fans in the world. While there are several Comic-Cons, it is the International San Diego Comic-Con, held since 1970, with over 125,000 attendees in 2007, to which I refer. And it is going on right now.

As for the Westboro Baptist Church is a hate-group (Wikipedia’s word and mine) founded by ultra-fundamentalist “Christian” pastor Fred Phelps. They like to protest. A lot. And they are particularly well known for protesting soldiers’ funerals with signs that say “God Hates Fags” and “God Hates America.” As far as they are concerned, God is killing our troops because of America’s tolerance of homosexuality. Well they showed up to protest Comic-Con for the “worship of false idols.”

Well, Geekdom protested them right back. The photo below is of the Westboro protestors. And the one below that is the Comic-Con protestors.

Here are some links to blog coverage of the event from Bleeding Cool and Comics Alliance.

I am by turns saddened and sickened, rolling on the floor laughing my ass off, and greatly encouraged. My personal favorite is the homemade protest sign that reads “Hallo. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die” Partly I love it as one of my favorite quotes and partly because it has nothing to do with anything, which just strikes me as so damned appropriate.

To all the folks at Westboro much loving kindness and to all of Geekdom many, many, many thanks!

Dear John Letter

2010-07-22T13:07:00.002-05:00

Dear Home,

I want to thank you for a wonderful six years. I have truly loved living with you and I am not sure I shall find something that suits me quite as well anywhere else in the world. I will remember you with fondness and miss you very much.

When I first stepped across your threshold six years ago, it’s true you had seen better days, but I could see you had potential. The lack of light fixtures didn’t faze me, nor the mysteriously missing bathroom sink. Even the stained floors and badly painted moldings couldn’t hide the wonderful potential I saw in you. Even on a cloudy day, you glowed with a wonderful west light that has never failed to brighten my outlook. I loved your age and you majestic view and knew that together you and I could make a home.

I was a little apprehensive, of course. New relationships can be scary and I’d never been in an urban apartment before. It turned out I had little to fear. You taught me just how wonderful urban living can be and I shall be forever grateful for that. I’m actually in better shape now and more in touch with nature here in the heart of the city, thanks to the long walks and bicycle rides you encouraged me to make every day.

I have many wonderful memories of lazy evenings watching the sun set behind the Capitol building and the dark silhouettes of the mighty oak trees. You always gave me the best views of approaching thunderstorms. We had some good parties and dinners. You were good to my friends and always respectful of the neighbors, never being loud or disruptive. I only wish I could have spent more time with you these last two years, but you know my work kept me at the college far too often. Yet you were always here waiting patiently for me, with a soft bed and a warm drink.

Not only have you been great for me, but you’ve been good to my cat as well. She loves the undivided attention and freedom to roam in her own exclusive territory. You’ve always given her the light and views of small, fluttering animals she craves. And you never complained when she added a new stain to your long-suffering carpet.

I only wish I could take you with me, but California is not for you. They have earthquakes there and brick buildings don't hold up so well. You’re much better off here. And how could I ever separate you from your beloved city and all the things you’re close to, not to mention that beautiful view of the State Capitol?

But my life has changed. We knew this day would come. I have changed and it’s time to move on. There are new and exciting things waiting for me in California and I can’t give that up, not even for you. You were there for me when I needed you the most and I shall always cherish the comfort and shelter you gave me. Now it’s time for you to share that wonderful sense of security with someone else.

I know right now you’re feeling empty, but don’t worry. Very soon you’ll have someone new. They’ll fill you with furniture and books and laughter. Maybe you’ll finally get those new windows or that refinished floor you’ve always wanted. I know they’ll take good care of you and love you just as much as I have.

I’d like to say I’ll come and visit you, but I just don’t think that will be possible. I’ll move out, someone new will move in, and we’ll all move on. That’s the way it should be. But I want you to know I love you and I’ll miss you. Thanks for all your unwavering support these last six years.

Your Loving Resident,

Monica

Ugly, Petty Things

2010-07-21T14:45:00.002-05:00

“People were gracious to give you the extension that they did…” My thesis mentor wrote in an email.

That festered in my mind for a full day. What he sees as a gracious extension is to me an unprecedented and onerous requirement sprung at the last minute by a callous committee who utterly failed to so much as attempt to provide some idea of their expectations beforehand.

Of course, that’s not entirely fair. That’s anger speaking. And pride. And disappointment. And lots and lots of ego. And it’s not something I even want to admit to feeling because it’s ugly and petty. But you know what? Sometimes our feelings are ugly and petty.

For Buddhist there are a lot of teachings out there about how to deal with negative emotions, but it’s all presented in the abstract. “When anger arises, do this…” It all sounds so simple. We are told to “cut the storyline.” It’s good advice. When my mind starts going on, yet again, about how damned unfair the entire thing is or how I just don’t know what they hell they… cut the story line. The storyline won’t help me actually accomplish the task.

But when does cutting the storyline become repression? It’s still there, festering in the back of my mind. And lately it’s been pushing itself forward. It's a fist closing around my heart, choking off my breath while the thought runs through my mind “Is it always going to be this way? Is this ever going to change?” And in that moment of desperation I wish to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this and yet simultaneous stare at a future of this instant without end. Panic freezes me into brittle stone as fear chews a hole in my chest.

Then I breathe. Let go. And when letting go doesn’t work, I push it away and stomp on it. I reassert the stubborn will that, as of yet, has never found a problem it couldn’t outlast. It’s not a permanent solution. The shadow still follows me around, but it is once again a shadow, not a full-grown monster. And it all happens in the blink of an eye, sitting in front of my computer in my sunny living room.

Most bizarre of all, I know what the problem is and I know what the solution is – intellectually. Putting this knowledge to practical use has always been the most difficult thing.

I know intellectually I am struggling with motivation. I see this entire project as an imposition from outside and I am an intrinsically motivated individual. This generates resistance and resentment. I also know what role fear plays. A teacher and good friend of mine hit it on the head many years ago when she noted I react most strongly and most negatively when my competence is threatened. I’m smart and I’m spoiled and I’m used to getting it in one. I don’t like feeling stupid. When I fail to understand I am also likely to fail to act, frozen into depression and confusion.

Despite all of this, I am approaching the end. But the process has been so long and so fraught with suffering that I now find myself gripped by a panic that my entire life will be this way – periods during which I feel my feet securely under me only to have my every effort once again dismissed as worthless by people who have authority over me but neither understanding of nor caring for me.

Perhaps, ‘worthless’ is a bit of an overstatement of fact, if not of feeling, but it is the feelings I am struggling with. They are strong emotions of resistance and incompetence, of being devalued and coerced. As many times as I cut the story line and attempt to refocus on the task, the feelings remain.

And I’m not going to “sit with it.” I’m not going to “delve into it,” because I can just feel it waiting to rise up and swallow me. I don’t have time for a nervous breakdown today, thank you.

The only course of action I feel open to me at this point is to just finish it. Do the best I can, finish the thesis, turn it in, show up at the defense, and then wash my hands of it and walk away. Maybe then I’ll be able to let go, to cut the story line, to sit with it if I still need to. Perhaps it’s not a healthy plan or even a good one, but for now, its the plan.

But what about next time? This surely isn’t the end of unwanted projects. It’s not the last time my competency will be threatened, just as it wasn’t the first. I claim I want to learn, but if I can’t put up with feeling stupid every once in a while (or constantly), how deep is my actual commitment to learning? Do I really want to set myself up for a lifetime of this?

The weary answer is yes. If I want to live a life of inquiry, then yes. And I’ve got one thing going for me – this entire problem is all in my mind.

Sure the work is bad enough, but that’s just a question of effort. I can write every section over again a dozen times if it comes down to it. It's only putting words on paper, typing on a keyboard, arranging and editing on a computer screen, all of which is totally within my ability to do.

The rest of it, the motivation and resentment and anger, that’s all on me, which means it’s entirely within my ability to control. Not easily, and not well (obviously), but it’s something I can learn to handle. And though my professors might be surprised to find, it is something I have learned to deal with, better this year than last year and all the years before.

That’s the Third Noble Truth, the cessation of suffering. It’s the path, too. There are ugly and petty things on the path, things we’d rather not encounter on this so-called journey to enlightenment because they’re not very enlightened. They’re not things we “should” feel. But isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we’re on the path?

As for the thesis, there’s no turning back now. The damn thing’s all but done. And if I think this was bad, wait ‘til I get to my doctoral dissertation. Yeehaw. I'll lean a little more on that stubborn will I have in spades.

My mentor was right about the “gracious” bit, and if I’m obstinate enough to force myself to really look past the storyline, I can even see it that way sometimes.