Both sides now

I have long held metta - or the Buddhist meditation practice most akin to prayer - at arm's length. Perhaps it's because I'm a recovering Catholic, but I think it runs deeper. The very basis of so many eastern religions/spiritualities, including Buddhism, is non-duality. Or a more positive word: unity. The idea of calling forth to something other than this moment, or this breath, for 'happiness,' or 'peace,' or even 'freedom from suffering,' seemed to fly in the face of unity. Isn't everything right here right now anyway? And isn't the act of thinking or saying something like 'may I be healthy' not too far removed from 'may I win the lottery'? That is, an individual isolated 'me' asking for a favor from somewhere or somebody or something else?

I have lately been reading Tara Brach's seminal work, Radical Acceptance, subtitled 'embracing your life with the heart of a Buddha.' I came to know of Brach as she holds weekly dharma talks at the nearby Bethesda Unitarian Church. A clinical psychologist and long time yoga and meditation practitioner, she puts on quite a 'show' - weaving anecdotes, personal stories, New Yorker cartoons, humor, ancient poetry, the wisdom of other faith traditions, etc. - into her talks about the Buddhadharma. Only recently did I borrow the book - which I'd heard about for some years - from my girlfriend. My girlfriend who is neither Buddhist nor a meditator, but found the book inspiring. (I will add here that I also am not a 'Buddhist,' though I've been meditating for years - ever since the realities of impermanence were no longer possible to ignore. A cultural Jewish friend describes himself as being Bhuddish, which as a cultural Catholic works for me too.)

There are chapters of the book dedicated to prayer and metta, (often translated as 'lovingkindness'), and have helped me further my understanding and practice of same. Beyond the basics - may I be free of suffering, etc. - she shows how to lean into the fear, or sorrow, or pain, or whatever it may be that our suffering arises around, and find sources of peace within. Which is to say, it's a non-dualistic approach. Perhaps by calling forth an image - God, Jesus, the void, the unity of all, the Buddha, Gandhi, MLK, maybe even a person you know who has been a loving presence in your life - and letting go into the power this image may hold within our hearts, we can tap into deeper connection, or unity. By starting with our fear, our vulnerability, as a bridge to connection with this infinite source of love.

Which may sound like a bunch of gobbledygook moonie madness. To which I might say to the atheists among my vast readership, call forth a Christopher Hitchens or Sam Harris if you find his to be a loving presence in your life. (Much as I admire these intellects, the concept of 'loving presence' is not one I'd ascribe to them. I'll go with the Buddha, or Gandhi, or Atman, or Mother Theresa...or my mom!)

In any event I have been working on a metta with MS as something of a theme. I would attach it here, but can't see how to do so. I'll try to copy and paste, but unfortunately the narrow layout of this blog might make the text less easily read. No matter - the prayer is for me, and I will have it in a more readable format. Only the intrepid need attempt to decipher:

May I be free from suffering. May all beings be free from suffering.

May the symptoms of MS awaken compassion within me for myself and for all beings. To wit:

May the heaviness in my limbs awaken compassion for myself and all beings with illnesses of the limbs.

May the nystagmus in my eyes awaken compassion for myself and for all beings with maladies in the eyes.

May the cane, walker, or other walking aids I use to help my balance and gait awaken compassion for myself, and for all beings with such aids in their lives – and may we be free of the psychological weight these are prone to occasion.

May the occasional klutziness and spasticity in my limbs awaken compassion for myself and others with such disabilities.

May my breath anchor in me each moment the healing power of mind.

May my breath awaken in me each moment the healing power of my heart.

May my heart freely beat blood each moment to cleanse my brain and central nervous system.

May my craniosacral fluid rise and fall – in counterpoint with my breath – free of obstruction, and cleanse my central nervous system.

May my immune system remain calm, expending neither energy on, nor sending T-cells or any other immune response elements in any other service than to protect this organism from infection.

May my whole body relax into the healing power of the present.

May I lean with grace and gentle vulnerability into the fear that this progressive condition may continue to progress.

May I also note with gentle awareness my desire to get back the physical functions which have been impaired – while fully accepting conditions as they are right now.

I’ve looked at life from both sides now

from well and ill, and still somehow,

It’s life’s illusions, I recall; I really don’t know life, at all.

May this ignorance of life – and its illusions – inform each cell of my body with the infinite wonder and miracle of this moment.

May we all be free of suffering. Amen.

The Nepali word for MS (as best I have learned) is kathinaya, which means approximately 'wood-like,' or 'to harden.' Kath, the word for wood, is also found in the name Kathmandu, literally the capital city's eponymous 'wooden temple.' Perhaps this is an image that could be helpful to recall in my prayer, that is, maybe I'm am turning into a wooden temple. Or into Pinnochio. Or into a church pew. How about Pinnochio kneeling at a pew in the wooden temple, hands held in supplication to Atman, breath of the universe?

Very hot today, busy with errands and medical appointments, including an MRI. It's a procedure that I've become surprisingly fond of. Maybe ten times now? Black Sabbath's Iron Man (a band and song more anathema I could hardly imagine) came to me a couple times as I slowly hobbled about with or without cargo in the blazing sun. I am Iron Man, da da da da da...

When I think about it, climbing into the MRI machine is a bit like Robert Downey Jr. putting on his costume in the movie. My movie title: Wooden Man.

Izod, Youzod, we all zod...

It was a This American Life (TAL) story that inspired this American's purchasing choice. I'd long tried to avoid buying clothes or shoes 'made in China.' Unless they are second-hand: my favorite stores being Valu-Village and Goodwill. But it's hard to find affordable new clothes made elsewhere than in our largest creditor nation.

But of course, I love so many things Chinese - the food, the philosophies, the people - but I am not too keen on its government. Especially the way it has annexed many formerly independent neighbors (e.g. Tibet). It has loosened its grip on economic enterprises allowing for tremendous growth, which is kind of a good thing I suppose. But at what costs: environmental degradation, dangerous working conditions, etc.

So Ira Glass, host of TAL, introduced - or told, I can't remember - a story that explained how the Clinton administration had persuaded the government of Cambodia to adopt certain labor standards (such as allowing unions) and perhaps also environmental regulations, in exchange for receiving 'most favored nation' trade status (MFN). Having such status grants countries things like lower tariffs I think. Anyway they did it, and their fledgling garment industry boomed. Then during the Bush administration - big surprise - they lost their MFN status. As far as I can tell, however, the industry is still doing fairly well. And looking at this site, http://www.betterfactories.org/ it seems that unions there are still at work. Or on strike, as the case may be.

Though this concept might smack of social engineering to some, and run counter to the GATT (a treaty riddled with dubious implications), I think it would be fantastic if we could do it for every country - even our landlord's, China.

At Macy's one day some years back, shopping for the boys (and maybe a new shirt for me), I discovered some sale piles and racks of Izod shirts and shorts. And as is my habit, I started looking at the labels to see where the clothes were manufactured. And, as I'm sure you all have been expecting to hear for some time now in this long-winded (redundant) palaver, they were all 'made in Cambodia.' And I liked some of them. As did Eli (then). He's outgrown them, and would likely not care for them now. They tended (in the men's shirts) toward a large lined plaid pattern. At least the few I bought.

Thanks be to Zod, amen. Ahem.

The tenth is in!

...the tenth visa, that is. Four to India, four for Nepal, and two for Brazil. (Just Spencer and Miller will be going on a cruise up the Amazon with extended Ruppe family. I didn't want to risk my health before the big Asian adventure - not to mention an already maxed-out travel budget - and Eli remained faithful to his skateboard and friends. Or something like that.)

The last four visas I got were from the Embassy of Nepal. This is located in a little townhouse on Leroy Ave., near Dupont Circle. Arrived Monday morning, parked on Connecticut (Leroy was a 'one way' preventing a right turn), and put all my silver in the parking meter - sixty cents - which yielded me a grand total of eighteen minutes parking time. This is a bone of contention for many, I know - the new rates - and to the extent that folks in general are suffering in this G.D. II (second great depression), it does seem a bit cruel. On the other hand, if it is one more reason to walk, bike, ride the bus or metro (fare increases notwithstanding), telecommute, or in any other way leave that darned private automobile in the garage (or sell it), then I support the rate hike. Which may sound a bit 'let them eat cake' Antoinettesque; I would counter, however, it is more the opposite: 'how about they eat bread' since we are running out of cake (gasoline, parking spaces, roads, clean air, clean oceans, etc.)

So, huge digression behind me now, on to the next. My eighteen expensive minutes afforded me enough time to walk up Leroy to find the embassy, and some parking spaces (unmetered - which due to my lack of coins was more good than bad). I wheeled my walker back and moved the car closer.

Not knowing what the embassy would be like, I had brought the walker instead of the cane. Something to sit on, if necessary, waiting in line, etc. And - he adds cynically - it tends to elicit kinder regard by bureaucrats than a cane. Unfortunately, in front of the embassy are approximately eight concrete steps up from the sidewalk, with no hand rail. What to do? Sick the ADA on them? No, I'll just go slow, that's what: while breathing in, push down on the walker handles (this is one of the four wheel jobs with a seat - we'd bought if for Loret), to set the front wheels up on the step; while breathing out, lift the handles and set the back wheels on the step below. Pause, feel the balance return to the inner ear and the MS affected regions of the brain and spine. Repeat these steps eight times. Then wheel ahead to five more steps up to the door. Not a problem, I'm moving now folks. Not even the ninety degree heat is slowing me down - there is much more important stuff slowing me down. Like, what is the improbable miracle that dropped me here in this infinite moment, walking past the tall white pole bearing the strikingly unique flag of Nepal. You can see it here: http://www.embassy.org/embassies/np.html

(Anybody know how to put a picture in a blog post? Or make a 'hyperlink'?)

I lift the walker inside. Wooden floor with the dust and dirt of decades ground in. There is a stairway on the right side of the hall - put there as if to taunt me, dare me - I shrug. There is a door on the left slightly ajar. Nothing in the way of ornamentation or directional signs. A few years ago there surely would have been pictures of the late king Birendra and his wife queen Aiswarya. But the monarchy is no more. (Which tempts a huge digression here, but I'll let the curious do their own research on the web - or maybe at the library: just look in...what were those things called, you know, you could get a set of them, they'd weigh a zillion pounds, and make book shelves sag, twenty volumes, thirty maybe? Wyclopedia Britannica or something? World Facebook?)

I push the door open and say 'namaste,' and in Nepali ask, 'do you speak English?' A friendly man - sixty maybe? - sat at a desk with a big ledger book open atop it. With wavy hair and glasses, he had Mongolian features (suggesting Tibetan origin, though I didn't want to ask his ethnicity. I routinely ask Brahmins, Newars, and Chetris their ethnicities - or 'castes' - in order to confirm my guess. And am relatively assured that they will not take umbrage at this, middle to upper caste as they are. I will eventually learn this clerk's caste from his name, Dig Bahadur Tamang, his last name referring to the 'horse warriors' who migrated from Tibet to Nepal over the last several centuries. His 'caste' is the same as mine, that is, non-Hindu, aka. the drinking caste.)

He offers me a seat, and we begin a dialogue in Nepanglish: my Peace Corps years, how long he has been at the embassy - thirty years - how he does not much care for the Maoists (currently in control of the parliament), etc. Very ramailo (a word which translates as gemütlich in German, or cozy, relaxed, harmonious. At which point I will note briefly how often a German word will come into my head as I'm looking for the Nepali - as if there is just one 'foreign language storage locker' in my brain, where words and concepts can get mixed up.) Practice will help with this. I'm currently reading a book in German, as well as The Tin Drum in English. Maybe it's time to focus on Nepali...

At one point somebody shows up - could be thirty or sixty, red polo shirt, coiffed yet natural flowing sandy blond hair, khaki pants: which is to say, a stereotype of privilege (did I mention how judgmental I can be?) - and hands Mr. Horse Warrior his passport and visa application, which he will have to come back in some days to pick up. He leaves, and Dig Bahadur tells me he will process my visas right then and there while I sit and chat. He gets the correct impression that I am in no hurry, which by the laws of judo mean that I sometimes get there sooner. (And even occasionally realize that I'm already there: there is really nowhere, ultimately, to go.) Then he offers me coffee, goes and retrieves two steaming styrofoam cups - his black, mine with what tasted like creamer powder. It was delicious.

He gives me his phone number at his home in Gaithersburg in case I should need anything else, and he helps me with words like 'multiple sclerosis' and 'metastatic breast cancer' which I will want to know if we make it to 'my' village to explain the porters who will have carried me there, etc. He offers to help me down the stairs, but I take the opportunity to sit-walk it down, another physical therapy opportunity. Was nearby the Indian/Nepali restaurant, the 'Polo Club,' so I called my sister and niece who work nearby and they joined me for lunch.

After the drive home, the heat was starting to get to me; but oh what a beautiful morning it had been! The corn as high as an elephant's eye...