time flies like an arrow...

but, fruitflies like (pause here for effect, when spoken), a banana. ba dump bump.

i love mangoes, and sometimes enjoy the organic or conventional ones available in supermarkets, a lovely treat. of course there will be an occasional dud, but not often. i have heard that the mangoes we find in the produce aisles here in the states are just nowhere near as good as the tree ripened ones in country x, y, or z. 'no,' we are told, 'the ones in z are even better than in y - and huge!' mr. x will change the subject... 'you really have no conception of what papaya means in your country,' he'll say.

i've never heard nepalis talk like this. here is what would happen in my village at the start of mango season. the mangoes would be hanging tightly to their stems and tree limbs, maybe the size of a fist. they were about as hard as a baseball, and bright green. the children would climb the trees and begin to harvest, maybe two at a time, nibbling tart bites on their way back from school, spitting out the skin. i was offered such fruit, but would claim no appetite. an honest statement, but not necessarily for the reason they might have guessed.

why did they do this? they genuinely seemed to like the flavor. my guess is that over the millenia, as people would harvest mangoes from the communal trees, the early 'bird' would end up with more fruit, and gradually their taste preferences adapted. the tangy, spicy, and salty pickle made from such unripe fruit i did find quite delicious. same for the lemon and lime peel pickles. still love those with the occasional daalbhaat meal.

but let me tell you about the amazing fruit in village homes, davis, california (country xx). climbing up the old fig trees and picking the black mission figs that have been hanging weeks past ripe, they were just incredibly soft and sweet, shriveled up like raisins, but smooth and creamy like butter - something you truly can never find in a store. or the jojobe tree in our backyard. what, never heard of a jojobe? (not the candy, 'jujube.') middle eastern, it was a golf-ball sized brown fruit, tasted kind of like dried apple. same back yard, a tall apricot tree. in my country, xx, let me tell you about tree ripened fruit. or how about feijoas? they ripened in december or january, and were ripe only after they had fallen off the bush. tasted a bit like quava, a bit juicier like pineapple. and there was the cherry orchard, the plum orchard, the grape vineyards... x, y, and z people have no idea, them was the days, i'm telling you.

spring is here, the cherries are ripe. bon appetit!

'get smart'

remember the intro to the old tv show? agent 86 walks down the hall with all the sliding doors, then the phone booth drop?

seems like many of the doors i come to don't open so easily. maybe i'll have a bag of groceries: i will park in my space, open the car door, lift out my legs - my right one will occasionally want to be literally lifted out with my hands - pass the cane across, pick up the bag, stand, grasp the cane, butt-bump the car door shut, hobble over to and push open one door and face the 'difficult' one; lean my cane against the wall, maybe put the grocery bag on the floor if it's particularly heavy, and fish out the key chain from my left pocket. i wave the fob in front of the magic square that knows me, and hear its beep of recognition. i pull the door open - but it's rather heavy; actually, not so much heavy as hard to open, and hard to keep open as it tries to slam shut. i wedge in my foot so it doesn't, pick up my cane and bag, and elbow my way into the basement hallway to press the elevator button.

i will hope that the nearest of three elevators opens. i hear the ping recognized throughout the otis civilized world. and while consistent with murphy's law, the furthest elevator door usually opens; i think this has more to do with the artificial (that is to say lack of, or dumb) intelligence written into the software of the elevator system. why, i wonder, does the furthest elevator - by default - get sent down to the very lowest basement level? at each floor, this elevator door is the closest to only one - i repeat, just one - apartment unit. the other several dozen units, including ours, are closer by several steps to the other two elevator doors. after another ping, i arrive at the fifteenth floor, and begin my hobble to yet another door at the end of a hall - home at last.

maxwell smart, after his seamless intro will bungle through various crises, and usually, as i recall, come through with his self-esteem fully intact - though we in the tv audience are given to know just what a fool he really is. or maybe i'm confusing this a bit with the recent movie adaptation starring steve carell. these memories of the tv show are pretty rusty of course - those of the recent movie aren't so clear either, for that matter.

in either case, let us proceed... i posit here that in fact agent 86 is a wise and evolved being, though this may require a major reinvention of his character: meet maxwell smart, 2.0, boddhisatva. and here is his lesson for me:

these doors that don't open automatically, the ones i seem to stress and fumble through - the actual physical doors acting as proxies for all the obstacles (physical or otherwise) i might face each day: can these hurdles become invitations to slow down and drop into this precious moment? as i bustle through my self-important agenda, can i allow these obstacles to reveal their hidden invitations? or will they retain their seeming primacy as hurdles, or problems to get past, or to resolve asap?

thich nhat hanh consciously allows certain randomly recurring events - the ring of a telephone say, or a red traffic light - to act as reminders to come into this moment, this breath, this sip of café au lait, this beignet with a dusting of powdered sugar (made by my girlfriend who brought the mix up from a recent trip to new orleans). or perhaps the headache that i've successfully ignored all morning, it having gradually built with the tension of my passing hours of working through a pile of bills (also a potential invitation). can such an ache be brought to a larger all-inclusive awareness? or perhaps to a specific insight: namely, the inexorable link between this pain behind my eyes, and the stressed tightness in my facial muscles - the one a manifestation of the other?

we are invited to take note, pay attention; as the buddhist monk ajahn sumedho suggests, we can say 'it's like this.' (i prefer to ask 'what's it like?' whereas this is virtually the same mantra, i find questions in general to lead deeper than a declaration, with its full stop. and the question 'what's it like?' also brings to my mind the ancient image of a monty python skit; eric idle prattling on with 'nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more...' a tangent here that has taken us already well beyond the outer limit of my topic... but tell me, really, 'is she a sport?') ahem, where was i?

right. will such awareness open up and resolve the headache, melt it in the laser beam of my insight? perhaps. what is virtually guaranteed will be an opening to what is right here and now. at least momentarily: will it sooner or later close up, get lost in distraction, worry, planning, regret, daydreaming? unlike the weather, you can bet on it. but like the weather, i can sometimes find a place where the patterns moving through me seem less 'personal' or 'out to get me' or 'why does this always happen to me?' maybe it's just a spring shower...

the sun is shining today. the birds chirping their spring song loud and clear. will it rain again, or get cold, perhaps even bring a snowmageddon? of course. but will i blame myself for that? that would be silly, no? (anthropogenic climate change notwithstanding...) let me open to a non-judgmental awareness of my internal weather patterns. i think this is the non-attachment the buddha spoke of. he didn't mean don't get rained on - or lost in grief, anger, and worry: these are givens. just be aware that they are as fleeting as the weather. be fully with them when they are here, touch into the breath - or some anchor of right now - then be open to the next storm when it blows in. or delicious bite of praline.

and allow that next red light, or challenging door, or headache, or beignet - that is, every last blessed or cursed thing i see or hear or feel or taste or think - become my invitation into the miracle, the solid gold 'buddha nature' we all carry within, even as deeply encrusted as it so often seems.

but wait, did i miss that moment? this one? it's okay, i can forgive myself, love myself - even the part that judges myself - and begin again. this too is an invitation to the power of now.

it seems there is always another chance to get smart like agent 86.

the green leopard

the spring is coming on, full force. i have been riding in cars more often lately - as opposed to driving them. and of course continue using public transit. i have started to consciously bring my attention to the flora and fauna when out and about: instead of looking at cars and buildings, i have started to practice looking directly at the plants and trees nestled in and around buildings, resting on islands or medians in the street. some manicured, some 'wild' - but often grown past where the pruning shear might trim it at some later date. and the birds have begun their tentative songs. people are also members of the fauna, and deserve at least a glance. out walking a dog or holding a bouquet of flowers (double sightings), or just bustling from work to lunch and back.

the city is also 'where the wild things are,' just not so obvious. or, perhaps because they are scant or hidden, they can be even more powerful to draw one's attention.

the trees are budding and blooming at an amazing rate - especially with our recent record heat wave. these remain, as always, hard to ignore. but having started turning to them when they were still winter dormant, they seem all the more fantastic. a slow-motion fireworks display, and different wherever and whenever you go.

***

on this day, approximately 2500 years ago, prince siddhartha gautama - later known as sakyamuni, and 'the buddha' - was born in nepal. i have lately been reading peter matthiessen's the snow leopard, a brilliant chronicle of a man - recently widowed - trudging through the himalayas in search of a glimpse of the title's mammal. (it is not lost on me that he left his young son back home). i've also been watching 'julie and julia.'

the confluence of these streams compels me to foretell - after the foregoing rather mundane paragraphs detailing urban/suburban wildlife observations (or more precisely, the intention to make such observations) - a coming attraction to this blog. for those who may not have heard, my three sons and i plan to travel to nepal in august this summer. 'peter p. and peter m. and fred macmurray,' is the provisional title of these future blog posts.

let me know if you have any better title suggestions...

letting go

i learned to juggle about 20 years ago - in fact loret showed me the basics. learned a few tricks - behind the back throws, the 'reverse cascade', pins (a la the flying karamazov brothers), juggling four balls, juggling in tandem with a partner - but never took it very far. or to be precise, took it just far enough. (i taught my nephew cyrus how to juggle, however, and he went on to juggle knives, flaming torches, etc. even went to a clown camp).

as with all activities, it was an opportunity for meditative inquiry. almost invariably, when i felt tense or contracted - or was trying 'too hard' - a ball or two or three would hit the floor. the balance between catching and throwing - holding vs. letting go - clearly was key. but a greater emphasis for a fluid juggle needed to fall on, it seemed, the 'letting go.' by contrast, the catching - or holding on - would take care of itself.

i rode the local circulator bus to the metro center on tuesday. a fellow boarded and sat next to me, one seat left vacant between us. short reddish brown hair, half grin on his face; he said 'hi' individually to several nearby passengers, and to me. just seemed like he was having a good start to his day.

i sometimes have days like that, days of feeling the surfeit of love which abounds and surrounds us each moment. feelings that i will often unconsciously throw dark cloaks over. my mind lost in worry, regret, planning, daydreams, whatever. holding on.

anyway, the fellow caught up to me - not too big a feat: little old ladies will often pass me - and stands next to me on the escalator down to the trains. he asked 'what happened, why the cane?' i tell him, citing both the blessed and cursed nature of the beast, and thank him for asking. (fyi, this is one 'cripple' who is more than happy to tell you what ails him, and my guess is that would be the case with many of us. i think most outwardly healthy people fear the 'none of your business, buzz off!' response; or worse, a stoney silence, averted gaze.)

so the smiling fellow said he was 'glad to meet me,' and we shook hands before reaching the bottom of the escalator. his palm was warm and sweaty - i'd be sure to wash mine before lunch, of course: this was the dark-cloaked thought that flitted through my mind. later, waiting for the train on the platform, i patted the wallet in my pants' pocket, still there. the dark cloak casting doubt - why was that guy so friendly? what was his agenda? he didn't proselytize or ask me to support some political cause. or maybe he was high on crystal meth? what has this world come to? can't a person just have a happy, bountiful day, and throw off his cloak now and then? and let go?

even as spring is rising up beneath our feet. rode the metro downtown thursday for lunch with my girlfriend. came up the 'wrong' escalator, not the one right next to our prearranged café. no tables available outside, we dined in. we both were leaving by metro, and the escalator nearest was not operating in the down direction. so we had to walk to the one i'd come up, and guess what, it too was only running 'up.' was this a moment to accept the invitation for more physical therapy than i'd expected, and in the company of my sweetheart? or instead to rue the extra effort? a little of both - as with many such moments - finding the balance between holding on and letting go.

to wear the dark cloak - or to hold onto the juggling ball - this may be an adaptive strategy at times. to cast off the cloak, to let go and throw the ball, this i believe is the antidote. and if our days are weighted in favor of letting go, i think such a balance can help to liberate us. hold, throw, contract, let go, breathe in, breathe out.

may our days be balanced and light, and may our juggling be fluid.

happy easter.