The key.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, food and family enjoyed.  My niece and her husband hosted the bounteous feast.  Though now 'eating for two,' she was unable to finish her plate.  Seated next to her, I scavenged some morsels of stuffing, gravy, and flesh, carrion for the tarrion.  Then later pie for all.  And great parlor games!

Though food is what many think about over the holidays, I do not intend to dwell on my particular dietary peccadilloes.  I think my readership has already had their fill of that.  Or at least I'll try not to dwell on what it is we eat and drink, so much as how.

The recent New Yorker magazine was dedicated to food, as it usually is this season.  One article followed the story of René Redzepi, proprietor of Noma, a gourmet food restaurant in Denmark, where 90% of its food comes from local sources, and a significant portion of that foraged in the wilds nearby.  Mushrooms, berries, even the occasional insect (though this is in the 'alpha' phase as far as I could tell), added fresh, cooked, or preserved by pickling or drying.  The restaurant is rated 'best in the world,' apparently for the second year running by the über-exclusive British Restaurant magazine.  The article was very interesting, but in the end, though I am fond of local food in general, and intrigued by foraged food in particular, I did not feel inspired to dash off to Copenhagen on the next flight.  Instead, my appetite was stirred for the contents of my own refrigerator (which my wife will tell you can be rather scant - actually, no, she will tell you it is always scant).

Another fascinating article had to do with a coffee grower in El Salvadore who produces high altitude and shade-grown beans, meticulously hand-picked three or more times (sequentially to get the ripest 'cherries' - that is, the round pods in which two coffee beans ripen).  Aida Batlle, the grower, a woman in a field dominated by men, is also a connoisseur, and a vanguard in what is now referred to as the 'third wave' of coffee.  The first being the Maxwell House bilge water served from percolators - or Folgers Instant - drunk by our parents' generation.  The second wave took the dark, or French roasted coffees of southern Europe, in particular from Italy, often espressed, and sometimes sweetened or mixed with steamed or foamed milk.  This is the coffee that Starbucks and other cafés popularized.  And some say bastardized in the process.

The third wave is supposedly closer to the roots of where coffee originated in what is now Ethiopia, millennia ago.  The coffee is roasted mildly, and added to boiled water, and sometimes pressed or poured through a sieve.  'Cuppers' then will taste the various varietals in a fashion similar to fine wines.  Hints of caramel, or chocolate-covered strawberries, say, or the aftertaste of créme brulée are detected.  Or how about 'remember that time we were stranded in Morocco mid-summer with the musky smell of camel dung heavy in the stagnant air...  And the pipe tobacco from the cart driver?'  (This last one was mine, but the impression I got was that a 'cupper' could say such a thing without breaking character.)  This third-wave eschews anything dairy or sweet in their oh-so-precious cups.  A frappucino is considered a crime against humanity.

And reading the article I was inspired to try such a fancy brew.  But then again, I don't drink much coffee, and I like latte when I do.  I really like it, and I refuse to think the lesser of myself for it.  On the other hand, I suppose I would give the Batlle coffee a try.  The article said it was available at Caribou cafés, but I don't get there very often, maybe twice a decade.  I'll wait and see if this so called 'third-wave' lasts.

This fascination with the latest greatest taste - local or exotic, traditional or new wave - has me noticing something about my breakfast.  And for this, I need to go into my aforementioned verboten area of what I eat.  27 of my breakfasts out of 28 consist of granola (most often the inexpensive Giant brand - which ain't that bad really), some 'Kashi' Seven Grain cereal (similar to Grape Nuts), and several dollops of yogurt stirred in. I will vary the kind of yogurt - traditional, greek, goat - and vary the relative amounts of the dry stuff.  So that, though the menu item reads identically, each day it is slightly unique.  Which has seemed a desirable strategy.  For, as you may be aware, eating the same dang thing each morning can become tiresome.  As I munch on the contents of my feed trough, I snort at the porcine behemoth next to me:  'Oink, don't they have anything else at this giant factory farm?  I never would have agreed to vacation here if I'd known.'  Munch munch...

However, it ain't necessarily so!  It's not what's in the trough, it's what's in the heart.  It could be exactly the same each day, and if I am truly alive and present, so also will my meal be.  What miracle is this:  notice this hand that holds the spoon, it lifts and guides it magically into my open mouth, just after I've swallowed!  And these teeth that crunch and munch, as this tongue deftly dodges the 'guillotine' as it pushes and prods the larger morsels into the grinder!  What a symphony!

And the green tea.  I vary the flavor - jasmine, moroccan mint, genmaicha - and the spoonful of honey - orange blossom, clover, wildflower - but truly these variations are mere window dressing for the wonder of hot essence rising from a cup of golden elixir!

Full disclosure, it is not often that I can be this present.  While eating, I'm usually busy getting my son's bagel ready, or checking the weather forecast on-line, or counting out my week of medicines and supplements, maybe planning or resenting my day ahead;  and true, I will continue to vary the ingredients of my breakfast meal.  But I know from experience that the key to a truly remarkable meal has very little to do with what went into it, and very much to do with my presence of heart, mind, and spirit.  When I accept the invitation to right now, it is truly a present.  To notice what is there in front of me, and not mire in what isn't, seems to be the key.

But like all keys, it is subject to getting lost...and found again, just when you give up looking!

CHANGING

Three babies times
Three years, easily
     equals ten thousand diapers.

One mother times
One year’s rapid decline
     equals one hundred diapers.

One wife times
Two years' gradual decline
     equals one hundred-fifty diapers.

I did not know
Love could be measured
     by wiping shit off of bottoms.

Will I have the courage
Necessary to lie back,
     and have it done for me?

Grub

Profile - a formerly widowed and remarried returned Peace Corps Volunteer who served in Nepal; have been a stay-at-home father for the past 16 years; am afflicted by a serious autoimmune condition, but can manage with a cane or walker; have four children ranging from 14 to 19, three sons and one step-daughter; play guitar (not too well, but enjoy it); live in the mid-atlantic region, but prefer the west coast; have been a vegetarian of various stripe for over 25 years, but currently consider myself a 'carrion-vegetarian,' that is, one who will occasionally eat the flesh of fish, fowl, or beast if it has been leftover and forgotten in the fridge well past anybody's intent to consume.  These are some of the things that I carry.

Sometimes it feels like my life experiences, both big and small, will separate me in ever smaller groupings till this unique little snowflake melts or blows away.  But then I will reach out, talk to another homo sapiens sapiens and find that in fact the chasm which divides really isn't there.  How vast our shared humanity is.  However, there are some issues I might broach that almost without exception will paint me into my tiny idiosyncratic corner.  Such as this post.  Why do I persevere in this manner?  Is it boredom, a desire to shock and awe my dear reader?  To stand up and be counted, occupy myself?  Probably some pedestrian blend of the above, and more.  Or perhaps less.

Without further ado, back to the 'meat' of this post.  What is an entomophagist?  (And, will this discussion wedge me off even further from the 99%?)  It's a nice new (to me) word I recently picked up from an article in the New Yorker with the same title as this post.  And means one who eats insects.  As noted above, I've practiced vegetarianism for much of my life, mostly lacto-ovo, and for some years I also ate fish.  Recently went back off fish, due to the very dire state of worldwide fisheries.  However, I will occasionally eat the leftovers off the plate of a friend or relative, right after they tell the waiter 'sure, I'm done.'  Maybe a crunchy fish head, some fat off of a steak, salmon skin - whatever, before it goes to the trash.  That's me, the last stop before the dumpster.

Well, some many posts ago I mentioned trying the 'chapulines', or grasshopper tacos at the gourmet Mexican restaurant Oyamel here in D.C.  I was working on my 'life list' of bizarre foods (not to mention taking my then girlfriend/now wife Dwan out for a Valentine's day dinner.  Go figure, I ate bugs, and still she married me!).  And they were pretty good.  Recently we returned to the restaurant with a gift card we'd received from a friend.  True confession, I ordered the 'hoppas' again!  To be honest, it didn't taste as good as the first time, so I probably won't be going back for more anytime soon, if ever.

I have a question though, namely, are bugs people too?  That is, are they sentient beings?  And, more specific to my brand of vegetarianism, are they endangered?  According to the New Yorker article (as far as my weak memory serves) they are a very healthy source of protein and other nutrients.  And have been eaten throughout the ages, both cooked and raw, even to this very day in some cultures.  There are even entomophagists in this country, and they meet for occasional cooking competitions, serving up morsels both savory and sweet like the delectable pictured here:

The article claims that insects are an ecological source of these nutrients, but I wonder just how sustainable they would be if everybody started eating them.  I mean a lot of them every day.  And, if they had to be transported hundreds of miles, freezer packed, or otherwise processed, for the average consumer to be able to incorporate them into their busy lives?  (For more about the article, and some cool audio and video, check out:  http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/08/eating-insects-entomophagy-video.html - it's pretty short.) 

If this sounds like a bit too much bother, for little or no gain, how about this?  Drop a roach into your next smoothie, blend it beyond recognition, and if there is a crunch, tell yourself it's a blackberry seed.  Still feeling skittish?  Maybe start with an ant, and work your way up the food chain?  I can feel the chasm widen as I think of you pondering this...  But wait, let me paraphrase Solzhenitsyn: the line which separates disgusting from delicious runs through the heart of every bug!

Anti-materialistic

You think shopping for the 'guy who has everything is hard'? Try the guy who hates everything! Which would be me.

Well, sorta kinda. Not quite everything, so much as most 'things.' And hate is a bit of an exaggeration.  For my birthday, my wife gave me a compact disc she burned with some of my all time favorite songs.  (Oh right, and a delicious Nepali meal delivered, and cake.  Mmm.)  Those are examples of the kind of 'thing' I like.  Or the letters 'D', 'A', and 'D' that my sons fashioned with their bare hands a few years ago out of the relatively hard sand and sediment layer under the great Salt Lake where we went for a dip.  Or the skateboard broken in half and re-glued into the shape of a heart from Eli.

Certainly there are other 'things' - hand-made or not - that have found their way into my relatively Spartan lifestyle, which have gathered to them feelings and memories.  And a certain emotional gravity that I will not discount.  Or even necessarily feel burdened by. In fact, these are the things that can be triggers for joy, sorrow, poignancy, and other emotions.

However, in general I can be described as 'thing-o-phobic.'  I readily acknowledge that this predilection to eschew the material is not in any way spiritually superior to acquisitiveness.  I find that either direction can be as 'materialistic' as the other.  The degree to which one finds suffering through aversion on the one hand, or clinging on the other seems for all intents and purposes equivalent.  And the challenge at either extreme also seems equal:  can one be surrounded by material possessions without attaching to them?  And by 'attaching to them' I don't mean to value them, or use them, or admire them - but rather to feel an undue sense of grief if they should be lost or broken, which is an inevitable outcome, whether in one's lifetime or after.  And can one live in relative austerity without feeling a sense of moral superiority, and disdain for the few things that do come into one's possession?

Buddhists speak of a 'middle way,' which in this arena might be understood as neither Spartan nor cluttered.  But I think it refers rather to an ease with either extreme (or middle), a peace that is borne of understanding the true nature of all things and non-things.  Namely, that they are in their very nature holy, spirit - just like all of us.  Ultimately we are of this earth, we are this earth, and ultimately we shall lose everything and everyone we know, love, or feel attached to.  Can we know, love, and attach to that which is our timeless perfection?  The god we all already are?

Fund drive!

Yes, it's that time of year here in the D.C. metropolitan area.  Our local station, WAMU is soliciting funds.  And in a time of shrinking governmental support, it's more important than ever.  If you haven't done so already, pick up the phone, or go on-line, and pay until it hurts.

Because public broadcasting - especially NPR and the local affiliates - seems to be the last bastion of independent journalism.  There is an overabundance of opinion (much of it right-wing nut-job).  Our very democracy hangs in the balance.  You know it, I know it, all of us choir members know it, so as the demigoddess Nike says, just do it!

And if you listen regularly to NPR, there is an even more immediate reason to make your donation:  self interest.  Once you've called and made your pledge (or payment), then you can go on listening to the shows - Morning Edition, This American Life, Car Talk, etc. - even as they are holding the telethon.  Then notice the lack of guilt you feel, even as you enjoy the clever promotional 'spots' done by various celebrities.  And not feel the urge to change the channel, or turn off the radio, just to avoid the guilt.

Monsoon

It seems we've had a fortnight or so of sticky humidity and light rain - very reminiscent of the monsoon season in Nepal.  Sure, climate change:  a 'theory', like evolution, contested by many right-wing industrial capitalists and their nut-job lackeys; however, considered an anthropogenic fait accompli by the vast majority of heliocentric-leaning scientists.  Which I am sorry to admit is quite the mouthful of a sentence.  Worry not, such polemic is not the direction in which this post is headed.

Our meditation teacher sometimes intones the acronym 'r-a-i-n.'  We are advised, while sitting in meditation (or running about our days), if an emotional storm or difficult mind-state, or set of problematic circumstances should arise - we are invited to recognize, allow, investigate, and non-identify with these phenomena.  (I'll leave the 'non-identify' word alone, syntactically awkward as it may be.)

WARNING: Pointless and mildly droll paragraph follows...

I can think of other helpful acronyms:  non-identify, allow, investigate, let-go (NAIL);  inquire, recognize, allow, non-identify (IRAN);  and while the order of IRAN does actually feel more intuitive to me, the acronym is less alluring than RAIN.

END of distraction.

Eckhart Tolle, latter-day purveyor of Buddho-Christo-Sufist insight, in works such as The Power of Now, uses the phrase 'what you accept, you go beyond' (or something like it).  The idea is not to passively sit back and accept abhorrent conditions, and do nothing about them.  Rather, the pilgrim is instructed to open to the conditions - however beautiful or tragic they may be - just as they present in the moment.  To complain that 'it shouldn't be like this' is to invite suffering, and typically does not lead to wise - and possibly corrective - action.  Accepting the present to be just as it is, allows us to go beyond it, and even sometimes to act wisely.

Saints and monks through the ages have shown such peace and faith in the face of very grave situations.  I read of a Tibetan nun, who, while being tortured, says prayers of loving-kindness for her Chinese captors.  Her mouth is taped shut, but still her lips keep moving.  Clearly, her life of practice in opening to the present moment - come what may - enables her to recognize the dire situation she faces, and instead of wishing it to be other than it is - other than what it simply and irrevocably is at that moment - proceeds instead directly to the only positive action she knows and is able to accomplish.

In our day to day lives, we are generally spared from such harsh or life-threatening situations.  To take a recent commonplace example in my life, I had lost an important piece of jewelry.  You see, our wedding was coming up, only days away, and the evening before, Dwan had asked on the phone - tongue mildly in cheek, though past experience gave her question at least some relevance - 'do you still have your ring?'  I'd said sure - which was technically true - but in fact I couldn't say just then exactly where it was.  Or even approximately.  So I looked and looked and looked, till my eyesight and body were exhausted.  Brushed my teeth, and dropped into bed.

The next morning, I resumed the search, now more frantic, our nuptial event just one day away.  I finally dropped into the recliner, closed my eyes, and a light 'rain' began to fall, almost spontaneously:  Recognize the bodily sensations I perceived due to this loss - a sort of weary tightness in the belly, harshness in the jaw, etc.  Allow the situation to be as it is, for try as I might to change or resist it, this situation was exactly as it was in that moment.  Even my resistance to the situation was just as it was.  Investigate the myriad emotions and mind-states which arose - regret, self-recrimination (how stupid of me!), etc.  Non-identify, or let go of attachment to these emotions, sensations, and thoughts, which you can imagine is much easier said than done.  However, simply opening to such an intention - to see a larger whole in which these stories played themselves out - allowed me to feel just how I was identified with, or attached to, these conditions.  And with such recognition came a release, a letting-go, even if only partially.  As waves and ocean currents rage with a tropical storm on the surface, deep down the fish swim through waters as calmly as ever.

After this little 'meditation,' I dropped to my knees, and crawled over to a sort of hutch/secretary in my bedroom.  I'd already looked in it, so didn't really know what I was doing.  I opened the right cabinet door, and pulled out a small drawstring pouch made in Nepal (there are several other such keepsakes in there).  I could feel there was something in the pouch, reached in, and pulled out a small black velveteen ring sleeve.  Now the warm summer rain felt like elixir.

Though I lost and found one other item this summer in like fashion, I also was unable to find something rather valuable after trying the 'rain method.'  (Fortunately I did accidentally come across it two months after losing it.)  I suppose that two out of three ain't bad, but I think the larger point is, though the process is a rich one, attaching to an outcome - such as locating a lost object - can be perilous.  What we may find instead is a heart that feels, eyes that may cry or smile, and a mind that dreams.  It seems that opening up to our present moment is never wrong.

Tick-Tock

I enter triage, take my number, and sit down.
The man seated to my right is large - in a healthy way - his expression placid and warm.
Drifting through space, I'd felt his gravitational pull:  his planet, his star so familiar.
Perched on each knee is a toddler, leaning back.

   As if from a ventriloquist comes the sound -
   a loud, erratic clock.  The man's eyebrows move:
   not in time,
   as if to bury the trick even deeper.
   It seems unlikely - here, in the hushed and busy  
   hospital - but clearly, it emanates
   from this gentle giant.
   Gentle, timeless giant.
   The sound seems to placate the boys, an ancient lullaby.
   Until the older brother asks - he is three, maybe four -

What's taking mommy so long?
The soft, almost whispered response comes tumbling, bathing baritone like swich licour.
The man and sons rise to fetch her, she's just done at the
window with her chemo appointment check-in;
they walk away, small hands in large.

Petrus

Early this summer on a Saturday morning, Miller had a Bat Mitzvah service to attend up in Potomac, a neighborhood northwest of Bethesda.  I dropped him off and drove to nearby Carderock, a favorite 'natural area' destination of mine.  Occasionally I will walk some small portion of the Billy Goat Trail along the sometimes mighty, sometimes docile Potomac river.

However, this time I felt drawn instead to the considerable rock outcroppings.  There were at least two climbers out with ropes and harnesses.  The morning was cool and clear.  I set down my cane, and 'bouldered' up to something of a ledge, perhaps chest high from the trail, and sat, legs crossed.  I was out of view of the climbers, though their voices drifted over me.  "Belay on," said one woman's voice, then "on belay" came her companion's reply.  Then just their chatting - softer than the climbing calls.  The rope they were using was anchored on my side of the massive dark gray rock face.

A few hikers passed right in front of me, their tongue foreign - maybe Dutch.  Did they ask, 'what's with the old gray Buddha?'  Very doubtful they would.  In my world travels, it often seemed that only Americans would assume that nobody understands them and say such dorky things out loud, right in front of people.  (However, one technical caveat must be remembered, namely, that I am able to understand at most German, Nepali, and the various dialects of English.)  And it is assuredly a rather harsh observation, one I remember having as a young man in Germany:  taking pride as I'd blend in with language, dress, and the mannerisms of the modern Teuton; and cringing at the midwestern tourists talking in the U-bahn about what? - the 'stupid conductor?' - or some other such inanity.  Over half a lifetime ago.  I should know better by now:  insensitive dorks aren't just American, they come in all nationalities!  Ba dump bump.  No, the wisdom of years seems to be that people aren't so easily defined by stereotypes.  That these stereotypes aren't solid as rock.

Sitting for some minutes, eyes closed, a cool breeze, no mosquitos or bugs of any kind - a minor miracle.  The voices of the two climbers.  And then falling into the memory of lying on top of a similar promontory high above 'Deep Creep' in Running Springs, a small resort town where my family lived for a couple years in the San Gabriel mountains of Southern California.  A place where friends and I - age ten - would fish, swim, climb, skip rocks - boy stuff.  Or sometimes I would go there alone, and having swum in the pool below, climb up, lay my skinny belly on the wide smooth boulder and dry off.

That rock, this rock, several lifetimes ago.  These rocks seem so ageless and timeless, but I've heard that the terrestrial variety aren't really so very old.  Moon rocks, for instance, can be over a billion years old.  The rocks we climb on, or collect and save on top of our dressers - these are relative newbies, having been heaved up from volcanoes, eroded, crushed a few million years, and metamorphosed many times again before we come to see them.  Rest on them.  Hold them.

What do we really see in them?  Are we looking into and feeling that timelessness we all carry, our Buddha nature, our grace of God, our Allahu akbar?


Rock of ages, cleft for me...we are stardust, we are golden.

I.V. Drip

Just heard a stunning This American Life (TAL) episode about the patent wars raging in the Bay Area.  Stunning on many levels.

Let me begin with an innocent tale of a cutting edge company I read about some years ago, Intellectual Ventures.  The idea was to bring together varied thinkers from the tops of their fields, and convene them around a table, to discuss real problems and issues of the day.  There might be an oncologist, an engineer, a physicist, a molecular biologist, a visual artist, etc.  And on the agenda might be a range of topics including MS, or breast cancer, say.  The neurologist might lead off with the state of science surrounding MS to date - or perhaps just a description of the demyelination process.  This is then bandied about by the meeting of disparate minds - the sculptor might ask what in fact nerve tissue actually feels like, in a tactile sense, while the engineer might ask exactly by what mechanism the flow of blood into the brain is 'filtered' and prevents immune cells from gaining access in one without the disease.  A discussion might ensue that opens up new directions for further research, or even for bona fide applications.  Which then might be patented and sold, leading to the betterment of the condition of us all.

What a lovely idea I thought.  But according to the TAL episode, Intellectual Ventures (IV) has become possibly the biggest and most powerful 'patent troll' in Silicon Valley.  Very few of their own patents have come to see the light of day, and in fact the company now spends most of its resources purchasing patents from other inventors, and selling them to other companies which use the same or similar technologies.  Or more often suing them.  Many of these companies are hit broadside; and faced with possible ruin of their small startups, will agree to settle out of court rather than face millions in legal fees.  Meanwhile, IV was started with billions of dollars of venture capital, investments which are hoping for huge returns.  IV has found that being a patent troll a far more lucrative endeavor than the actual pursuit of ideas to solve problems and alleviate suffering which got them started.  Of course they don't admit this, and their VEEP's and PR people claim that their efforts do even more to encourage innovation.

The investigative journalism provided by TAL, however, presents a far different conclusion, even suggesting that, to the contrary, patent troll's (especially ones 'on steroids' as IV is described), actually inhibit innovation.  Amazing story, I recommend it to all.  Archived TAL stories can be found at thislife.org beginning a week after airing, and listened to on-line, or pod-casted, for free.

Does IV break any laws?  If not, one wonders whether the patent system in general should be reworked so that innovation is truly encouraged once again, as it may have, in days of yore.

Falls Church morning.

Oh what a beautiful morning!

Oh what a beautiful day!

We were running late - tie too short, can't find a belt, where are the black socks, and more questions/issues raised by the boys.  And then there were my own, including a pair of suit pants [not pictured above] that i could barely fit into.  Then waiting for Eli in the car....  Should I send Miller up after him?  No, Spencer says, seated behind the steering wheel, calm down dad, so I close my eyes, take two easy breaths, and out the door steps Eli.  But, it is 15 minutes past the time I had planned to be on the road!

As it turned out, traffic was light, and we arrived at Dwan's only five minutes late, and then had to wait five more for the female folk to be ready.  Vive la difference...  Made it to the gazebo in a nearby park, plenty of time to set up before the ceremony at 11:00 (the time and date having been chosen by our celebrated astrologer - whose name cannot be mentioned to protect her privacy.  Isn't that right Dwan?)  The ceremony was over in a flash:  suddenly we were man and wife!  Woman and husband?  Actually, the wording was 'husband and wife.'

Dwan and I each gave a reading, which I will post here:

A READING FROM ANCIENT HINDU SCRIPTURE,  AS INTERPRETED BY ALAN WATTS (and paraphrased with oblique gender syntax by the reader - PJP.)

When God plays hide and seeek and pretends to be you and me, the earth and sky - and everything else - he does it so well that it takes a long time to remember where she hid herself.  But, that's the whole fun of it - just what God wanted to do.  She doesn't want to find himself too quickly, for that would spoil the game.

That's why it's so hard for you and me - all of us - to find out that we are God in disguise, pretending to be somebody else.  But when the game has gone on long enough, we will all wake up, stop pretending, and remember that we're all one single self - the God who is all there is - and who lives forever and ever.

A READING FROM ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPE´RY'S THE LITTLE PRINCE (read by DRR.)

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made him my friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose. 

Japan Syndrome

While my heart goes out to the illustrious island nation that has brought us Zen, sushi, Honda, the kimono - and so much more - I wish I could say that my morning cold showers are taken in solidarity with the privations the Japanese have been facing each day since the earthquake/tidal wave/meltdown disasters.  But no, my daily bracing ablutions date way back to the California energy crisis of 2000 (which was revealed to be the result of Enron's predatory practices.)  However, regardless of the reasons, the state - our state of residence at the time - faced roving blackouts, and other such pleasantries.  What was a bike-riding, light switch Nazi, vegetarian like me to do?

And it turned out that these cold showers actually felt good - though it's been something of an acquired taste - and left me feeling energized.  Whereas, hot showers I had been noticing kind of had the opposite effect.  Well, turns out that 'heat sensitivity' is very common in MS - hot days make your symptoms markedly worse - a condition I was soon diagnosed with.  In fact, back in the days before MRI, spinal taps for chemical markers, and other diagnostic testing, patients where put in a hot bath, taken out, and asked to 'walk the line,' heel to toe fashion - if they looked drunker than before the hot bath (but weren't) - they were diagnosed with MS. Additional benefits of the cold shower:  no matter how chilly the morning, once you finish rinsing off and turn off the spigot, the bathroom instantly feels nice and warm, the towel even more so.  This means, no need to heat the bathroom - or the house much for that matter, the shower kind of judo-kickstarts your internal power plant.

We all know the problems with profligate energy consumption:  Exxon and BP oil spills (just a couple of the big ones), nuclear power risks and the waste disposal 'problem' that won't go away - for eons, global climate change, and on and on.  So, give it a try, I know you are curious...  Maybe start with lukewarm, and gradually drop the temp day by day.  Or jump right in - the water is great!

Clouds

The clouds and mist cleared, the late afternoon sun shining from the west.  We were standing in the Daman lookout tower I had stayed in some twenty four years before at the end of my Peace Corps tour in Nepal, a kind of 'self-retreat.'  Spencer, Miller, and I could see shiny white Himaalayas in the distance.  This remained our only glimpse during the entire Asia trip last summer.

"I can't meditate," some will say, "my mind just won't shut up," they may add.  Now, before you think I'm starting to proselytize, you can calm down - this is not my intention.  Rather, I would like to share some recent insights, and some facility with the contemplative path might be helpful.  Meditation, at least as practiced in the Theravada tradition, neither begins nor ends with clarity of mind, necessarily, or some sort of blissful tabula rasa.  The practice involves a good deal of watching just what the mind does on its own, moment by moment, returning from time to time to an 'anchor,' commonly the breath.  Each time you become aware of having 'drifted off,' and return your attention to the breath, is a moment of awakening to the here and now.  No matter that three breaths later you are adding to your shopping list, lamenting a recent altercation, or making plans for the weekend.  These are three more opportunities from which to 'wake up.'

A kind heart, and patience with the messy process of mind, are quite helpful in this endeavor.  We may be quick to judge ourselves, sometimes harshly, for the confused and muddy mind that presents.  Even these judgments are mind states we can observe, let go of - if only for a moment - and return to the anchor.  "Why did I waste a whole half hour planning and regretting, and now have nothing to show for it?  Am I now more 'awake,' or 'Buddhish,' or something?"  These are questions that may arise, and only you can answer.  The empirical nature of the practice is clear:  if meditation (or any other form of mindfulness practice - yoga, tai chi, qi gong, etc.) does not lead toward freedom, then let it go, by all means.  It may not be a wise path for you right now - or maybe ever.  However, it has been a path I have found quite helpful negotiating a rather challenging decade.

After getting lost in thought (which is bound to happen - to you and even to the Dalai Lama), can you return to the breath with a 'thank you' to the very thought process you were lost in?  And without which you likely would not have noticed coming back to your breath?  The jewel of your awareness - your clear view of the Himalaayas - is not just enhanced by the distracting thoughts which surround it - like the mist and clouds - but is in fact created by them.  The luminous mind is only seen in contrast to the clutter surrounding it.  Yin and yang arise in concert.

I'm attempting to let such a practice of gratitude enter other facets of my life.  One area that has been particularly challenging concerns my symptoms of MS.  Which you are likely aware, is a very big facet.  What would it mean to thank these 'clouds'?  There are times I can feel gratitude for the slower pace, but then there are lots of other times...  Sometimes the MS feels like an animal trap.  Unlike a mouse trap, which snaps and holds with a constant force, the larger animal traps used by professionals in the fur trade do this:  after being triggered they clutch their quarry, and if the trap holds around any moving body parts - such as the lungs or heart - it will constrict tighter with each breath or pulse, narrowing to an intractable end.  Some days my mind will go there.

Driving the other day I was having a more pronounced 'nystagmus' - the slight jiggling of my eyeballs in their sockets so that everything at rest seems to be shaking and pulsing.  This is usually less pronounced in the morning, and gets more intense during the day.  (Like most of my symptoms.)  Anyway, I thought of Cat Stevens' song 'Moon Shadow', with a slight twist:  and if I ever lose my eyes, if my colors all run dry, yes, if I ever lose my eyes, oh way ay ay ay hey...I won't have to [drive], no more.  Because I've never much cared for driving.  But the possibility of losing my license most assuredly gives me considerable pause.

Sure, there are taxis, busses, and metro, thankfully driving isn't everything.  Yesterday I rode the metro back from downtown, the day was mild, even a bit too warm under the windbreaker I wore.  There are many steps, however, between the bus and train doors.  And coming back, I just missed the connecting bus, and needed to use the loo.  Which meant it would not be well to sit and wait the extra half hour, so I decided to walk to the Giant, use the facility, and catch the bus from there.  My early morning walking metric - the number of unassisted steps it takes to get from our door to the elevator - was the lowest number I've ever recorded (since noting this for maybe a year now), tying perhaps only two previous occasions.  However, walking around town my legs - particularly my right one - were dragging something fierce, and my pace and balance were quite shaky.   Fortunately, I have learned after all these years how to slow it way down.

Can I learn how to thank my shaking eyes, dragging feet, impaired balance, etc. etc. etc.?  Are these dark clouds allowing me to appreciate the Himaalayan vistas in my life - my darling fiancée, strong and healthy sons, the guitar that feels gradually lighter and more facile in my grasp?  The vibrant greens of the season?

"But teacher," I ask my inner Buddha, "these MS symptoms are always changing, and are mostly getting worse!  How can I ever find peace with such a dire situation?  Waaah!"  On my good days, I can say, "lucky me!  Impermanence is in my face, every day - no need to imagine a future loss and decline - just hobble down the hall!"  But on the heavier days, oh my.  Can I look at these clouds from both sides now?

The best sauce...

Some old dry cheese, a small tart apple, a handful of peanuts in their shells, and some stale crackers - these comprised the 'lunch' I brought with me to a non-residential (one could say 'out-patient') weekend meditation retreat at a yoga center in northern Virginia several years ago.

I had already been to two five-day retreats at the bucolic Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Marin County, California.  Nestled among copses of lush green live oak - the surrounding hills golden with ripe wild oats and other prairie grasses - the meditation hall, dormitories, and other buildings are a sight for weary pilgrim eyes.  A large Buddha statue sits near a small stream trickling past, two black lizards play chase around his belly.  A rusted bell stands on the slope near the meditation hall.  It is first sounded at 5:30 a.m.  Then again at noon, signaling lunch time.

The retreat participants and I file silently down the hill to the dining hall, where we are greeted by resplendent vegetarian fare (which may seem an oxymoron to some, but to a vegetarian of several decades, it was truly sumptuous).

The bulk of the retreat is spent in motion, it's not all silent sitting: 'walking meditation,' 'mindful eating,' and 'chore meditation' (whether helping with dishes, sous chefing, cleaning the bathrooms, etc.).  All in silence, except for the occasional murmured interrogative or whispered salutation to a retreat 'friend.'  Both of which are discouraged; the invitation is rather to come fully into the boundless present as it arises each moment, free of interpersonal distraction.  When the retreat is over, the idea is to bring this sense of wonder into our lives in the world, to our families, our places of work, our friendships - and even, perhaps especially, to our difficult relationships.  But until the silent retreat is over, this 'talking meditation' is to be avoided.

Okay, I see I'm drifting a bit from the topic, but bear with me.

At meals, one is invited to focus one's attention on the food, the sensations of chewing, swallowing, etc.  While sitting in the meditation hall, the yogi is instructed to 'follow the breath' or some other 'anchor' to help focus the mind.  At the dining table, by contrast, surrounded by the sound of sliding chairs, clinking utensils, and glasses being set down, the invitation is to open fully to these sense objects, and in particular to those which are front and center:  that is, your plate, the food upon it, the heft of your fork, the cool glass of water in your hand - how it is brought to your lips, and the passage of water into your mouth and down your throat.

This may all sound like pointless navel gazing, and of course it can remain simply that.  (I'm not referring of course to the navel oranges - a particularly sensual experience to peel, to smell the cascading, spritzing, spray and aromas as they emerge while you remove the skin.)  In fact, it was while doing just that - peeling an orange - when I first felt the moment sort of meld with the universe.  Which may sound a bit grandiose, so let me put it in more pedestrian terms:  formerly, peeling an orange had usually felt like a task to get through as quickly as possible before enjoying the fruit inside.  (Which, often as not, would be quickly dispatched while pressing ahead to the pie or cup of tea; or perhaps the next to-do list item.)  But it suddenly felt that the act of peeling was every bit being 'there' already.  However, such moments of insight are rare, and as soon as they go from the immediate sense of feeling - the aah-haa experience - to a cognitive awareness, or analysis - the 'okay, x happened, therefore y followed' - the moment is gone like a passing weather system.  Which is not to say it is lost, and that the goal of full enlightenment is once again put off for some distant future.  Nay, even just this passing taste of nirvana (a state beyond clinging and aversion) - is it.  As is the clinging that may follow, if we can bring the same non-judgmental awareness to it.  It just might not feel as special.  The impermanence of all things is an insight to be discovered each moment anew.

By and large, however, the delicious food at Spirit Rock I generally experienced with the usual distractions - worries about my health, and that of my wife's, and all manner of mind states.  But there were also some other distractions, unique to the rarified retreat atmosphere.  To wit:  falling 'in love' with another retreatant, daydreaming of our new and beautiful lives together, etc., based solely upon occasional glimpses of the apparent love object.  Did she sit across from me on purpose?  It's all very Jane Austen.  There is even a term for this, 'vipassana romance.'  (Vipassana means 'insight' in the ancient Pali language spoken in the time of the Buddha, and is the term used to describe retreats such as this.  Pali is similar to Nepali, both languages based on Sanskrit.)  'Vipassana vendettas' on the other hand, or strong aversions one can develop toward another retreatant, are also not uncommon on retreats.

In spite of having been to such retreats, with the resplendent meals eaten there, it wasn't until I sat down on the floor to eat the hastily assembled snack 'lunch' described at the beginning of this post, that my sensations became flooded with here and now presence.  And who'd a' thunk?  Northern Virginia?  Stale crackers?  Come on, really....  Of course the moments of clarity - or 'beginner's mind' - passed after some minutes.  But with the nirvana-busting cogitation and analysis also came an appreciation that any moment, no matter how mundane, is but one small step away from the brilliant miracle of what we normally take for granted.  Can we let go of the millions of other breaths we have already breathed, and be with just this one?  Or this peanut, its shell crumbling in my hand, scattering specks of dust in my lap?  Or this person - this son, wife, boss, friend, difficult person - the one who appears here and now like so many times before, but never, oh never just as in this impossibly unique and fleeting snowflake moment?

Which leads me at last to posit that which inspired me to sit and ex-blogulate in the first place.  My niece writes a daily food blog - supertastes.com - with recipes and epicurean tales.  Very nice, sweet, and all to the good, I encourage you to check it out.  However the slow-food, fast-food, gourmet food, modern food (see the recent New Yorker article about the intersection of food and science for a 'taste' of what can be done with liquid nitrogen, or slow cooking vacuum-packed meals at low temperature), while all mildly interesting, I feel kind of miss the point on an existential level.  It's like searching madly about for the next excellent culinary experience - or an ancient one that has recently been brought to light - that will outdo the last.  With obesity at epidemic levels in this country, I'm not sure this is what the 'world needs now.'  (You don't have to tell me that the obesity epidemic has much more to do with high-fructose corn syrup and Doritos than it does with gourmet food.  I know, but I don't think the food crazed mentality - gourmet or otherwise - can be a significant part of a healthy food renaissance.  Then again, perhaps it can, or even must, but that is a matter for another blogpost.)  What I believe the 'world needs now' has everything to do with now, with present moment awareness.

Whether you dumpster dive for dinner (like eating from a rusty metal tray at the Chateau d'If), dine at the Pierre Gagnaire restaurant in France, or like most of us, something in between, there is one thing that will always help:  don't sit down to eat until you are good and hungry, then stop eating when you are full.  Feel the seat beneath you, the air on your cheeks, the love (or other emotions) emanating from those around you.  Open to the miracle that put you here in front of a bounty wrought by a vast network of human hands, including your own.  To paraphrase Ram Dass:  eat here now.

It's no wonder the French bless their meals with a simple wish:  bon appétit!

Idyll

(I started this post before Christmas break, and now that it is warming up, I'll send it out - my fingers thawed out and all...)

Baby it's cold outside! Even in our dry and wind-shielded parking garage it's pretty chilly in the morning. Cold enough that after turning on the engine, and shifting into reverse, and taking my foot off of the brake, the car does not move. Even as the engine races. But slowly the wheels begin to turn, and the car backs as I turn out of our space. Then into drive I shift, and the car rolls slowly forward. At this point, it takes some pressure on the gas pedal to drive up the two stories to the exit.

Why, you may wonder, such a laborious description of starting the morning 'commute' (taking Miller to school)? Why indeed. I think I am learning to put this practice of the slow start into my daily life - sometimes anyway.

Sitting here at my desk - just back from taking Miller to the orthopedist for a wrestling related knee injury - I'm sealing envelopes for a (very) few holiday cards, working on a short story, checking email and facebook, scheduling an MRI, and doctor visit, paying bills. You know, just the stuff people do. And earlier I had been to the gym: feel relatively strong today, my 'numbers' will be good, though bedtime is a way's off. The snow is falling outside, 25 degrees. Spencer just called from New York, he'd caught an earlier bus, should arrive by eight tonight. Every so often I'll take a deep breath, and relax into the idle. Open the eyes, remember the next todo item, then press on the gas.

Finding the idle speed: it isn't always so easy. It's not a matter of just doing nothing, chilling, vegging. There is some energy to it, and some days it just doesn't seem to be as available. Or I forget to check into it. Just now, tensing up a slight bit, getting lost in these words. These words that seem to bubble up from some forgotten place. They can remind me to slow down, feel the breath, the idle, then go forward.

It's helpful in the gym too. After pulling ten minutes of rows on the erg machine, it helps if I remember to notice my breath - maybe three of them - unstrap my feet, feel the idle, and slowly stand up and move to a weight machine. I usually take the walker to the gym, as the exercise (idle or no) pretty much knocks me out: I ride down in the elevator, seated in it. But by the afternoon or evening, I can feel the benefits.

Feeling that idle speed - some energy, but also some calm - that is the stuff of yoga, meditation, tai chi, and other practices.

Can they lead to the homonymic title of this post?

P.S. Sometimes. While walking to a meditation group near Dupont circle this morning, it occurred to me that a wheel chair might be kind of nice. Which is a far different feeling than the technology has inspired in me in the past.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H-I've got a gal, in Kalamazoo!

My sister and niece work at The American Prospect, a progressive news magazine published here in D.C.  The articles and analyses are quite good.  Usually too good.  You see, I can get very depressed reading even just one or two articles.  (Unlike the New Yorker, which has cartoons, 'shouts and murmurs,' 'talk of the town,' a fiction piece, etc.  Which kind of paces me as I read through the sometimes rather long and hard-hitting investigative journalistic pieces.)

Anyway, the last issue had a very insightful piece on how is it that with near double digit unemployment figures, the fat cats in the boardroom and on Wall Street are back on their feet, dancing the Charleston?  We're in the money....  While the article put a much finer point on the multiple factors behind this apparent heist of the millennium, by far the biggest one had to do with a phenomenon we are all familiar with:  outsourcing.  But not only jobs are being shipped overseas, more and more of the products made by these workers are being purchased there, or in some other country.  Take Apple, for instance, and China.  The ratio of Chinese employees to American workers is a full ten to one.  At Apple.  Similar for dozens, even hundreds of other so-called American companies.  The gist that I recall from the article was, for so many un- or under employed Americans, the situation they face is not a 'structural' change in the economy - that is, one in which with retraining or going back to school for a different degree a worker can find a new job - but one where the manufacturing base has just up and gone.  This is my limited memory of a limited understanding having read the article many weeks ago, and please, if the Managing Editor or Art Director is reading these words, feel free to set me straight.

What we can all agree on, I think, is that the economy is still barely on life-support.  The liberals among you (90% or more?) will agree that the government still needs to play a big role if any long term recovery will ever happen.  I would suggest something rather simple: how about a humongous tax on any profits earned by a company from employees overseas?  (Do I hear 150%, 125, 150, 125%, yes, 150, from the man sporting the fez.  Do I hear 175%?  175, 150, 175%.....sold, at 300% to the woman with the ruby slippers chanting there's no place like home....)

Things seem dire, and with the tea baggers clogging up congress, only direr.  However, very few have called our protracted economic collapse a depression.  But I call it G.D.II, that is, the Second Great Depression.  I remember my late grandfather, a wise, moderately wealthy, and a tad curmudgeonly man, would often scoff at the term 'recession.'  "Bah," he might say, "there is no such thing as a recession.  These are just minor depressions."

Though some economic indicators are either not as bad as they were in G.D.I or, like the Dow, almost fully recovered.  I nevertheless believe we find ourselves in a Second Great Depression because in addition to the tenacious unemployment situation, we have such an enormous debt, mostly to China.  This was not the case in the thirties and forties.  After being handed a budget surplus by his predecessor, the size of the national debt grew at a phenomenal pace under Bush the Lessor's two terms in office, what with the tax windfalls for the wealthy, and two unfunded wars.  Not to mention the financial crash that came after decades of the industry's deregulation.  (Mostly Repugnant party genesis, it's true; however the Dems weren't exactly innocent.)

I started this post with little intention to share the liberal screed above.  Mainly, I wanted to offer some practical tips on how to cope with less, as we attempt feebly to shop our way back to recovery.  (This is kind of hard, when most of what we buy is made overseas, either by foreign or our own companies.  If it isn't absolutely necessary, and it's made overseas, skip it - that's my plan.  Or, shop at a thrift store.)

Step one, go to a used CD shop, and buy some music from the depression era.  I enjoy the Glenn Miller Orchestra, and other big band music.  But that's just me (by way of my dear old pop, who played the clarinet in a big band way back when).  Louis Armstrong, Fred Astaire, Ethel Waters, Bing Crosby, Billie Holiday, Frank Sinatra, Lena Horne, Judy Garland - the list has no end.

With this music playing on your ancient stereo - the one that still has cassette slots - take those slippers out of the waste basket!  True, your toes have worn through the ends, but see those socks over there?  The ones with heel-holes?  You guessed it, socks first, then slippers, and dance the night away, heat turned low:  you are keeping warm, G.D.II style.  And hey, done with your dinner?  After you scrape the leftovers into an old yogurt or sour cream container, lick the plate clean before you put it in the dishwasher (or wash it by hand - though if you have the dishwasher, it will be cheaper to run a full load than to hand wash.)  Another way to keep warm in the winter:  start your day with a bracing cold shower!  Trust me, it works.  Just like the surfeit of depression era musicians and singers, there is no end to the cost saving ideas you will come up with once you put your mind to it.

(And to all those who know me well, or even not so well, of course I have been living a depression era lifestyle for many decades.  Because the environmental depression has only been getting deeper every day....)

wait until you see her, you'll agree, she's my hometown gal, the only one for meee!

An intercontinental prayer.

If you see where this post is leading at any time - like now for example - feel free to turn away. It's not fun stuff, and I can make no guarantees that any kind of redemption or epiphany will ever materialize. If you do find it there, such states of understanding, compassion, freedom, or whatever, will be, as always, entirely up to you. You, my precious reader.

I stopped by the Giant grocery store recently. The name of this food conglomerate used to rub me the wrong way (still does a bit, but I'm older and wiser now, right?). And while I sometimes will shop at the Bethesda Food Coop, or Whole Foods, the bulk of my grocery dollar goes to the big guy. It's close, it's cheaper, the produce selection is better than at Whole Foods, and they have a growing variety of organic choices. Okay, commercial over, where was I? Yes, I was at Giant and needed to use the men's room, so I pushed my shopping cart, walker style, in that direction. As I approached the elevator there were two employees in my way, with some sort of stocking cart. I stopped behind them.

Beyond them, a man emerged from the elevator, pushing a walker - the triangular sort, which rolls - in our direction. (You probably don't know what that means. By comparison, the walker I sometimes use is rectangular, and has a seat, with four wheels. The triangle has room for some cargo, but no seat, and just three wheels.) He had a blue down jacket on, kind of wavy dark gray hair, a beard, and - do my eyes deceive me - No pants? One of the employees exchanged some words with him out of my earshot. 'Looking for the hosiery aisle, sir?' Or maybe, 'some kinda cold front blowing through, eh?' (Indeed it was very cold outside.) I pushed my cart past, and turned around to confirm my first glimpse. Not just bare legs, there was a brown striation, a few inches wide, running down along the inside of his right leg. My vision wasn't all that clear at the distance of maybe ten paces - I'm rather nearsighted, but normally only wear glasses to drive - so I had no idea what the stain was. Maybe just a naturally occurring pigmentation? Smelling nothing untoward, I pressed the elevator button, and went down.

No off-odor that is, until I entered the bathroom. Let me pause this narrative a moment. How much can you take? If you were in the Peace Corps, you can probably take all I've got to say. In Nepal, the state of our respective gastrointestinal 'issues' (a term both figurative and literal) were topics du jour - what with worms, ghiardia, ameobic dysentary. These were just some of the endemic afflictions we had to face. However, that was 25 years ago. Maybe even the RPCV's among you now might prefer to take a break. If so, know that I managed to survive, and everybody is happy! But some of you intrepid souls might be willing to step further into the miasma with me, your noses pinched.

As my urge was secondary in nature (do the math), I glanced in the HC accessible stall: there the stench was stronger. Looked into the other stall, there was a spray bottle of some kind of cleaner next to the toilet. So, I decided maybe I can hold it after all. Secondary pressures tending to be less urgent than the primary kind. (Just in case anybody hasn't caught up with the math yet.) As I headed for the door, a couple of Giant employees entered, and told me that the smaller stall was clean, no worries.

Okay, time out, I have to end the story here. Of course there was more - including some graphic details I'm certain would compromise your delicate hygienic sensibilities and would leave too long a memory trail. And much heroic cleaning efforts by the employees while I sat in the neighboring stall. Listening to an occasional $#!* or, &@^^, what the #^!&?

But in the end, I was back upstairs shopping, hands thoroughly washed, and focussed once again on the front end of the GI tract. While checking out, my 'friend' Daya mentioned to the cashier something about the fellow with no pants. Daya is a Sinhalese man from Sri Lanka, with warm smiling eyes. We've exchanged pleasantries for many months. He sometimes boxes/bags, but mostly collects carts, and helps customers take their groceries to their cars. I think he practiced accounting or something back home. "Yes, cold weather for short shorts," I agreed.

I hope the man got home, showered and took a warm bubble bath. Picturing him, I felt the urge to help him off with his jacket, turn on the shower, and draw him a bath. Because here's the thing: there but for the grace of God go I. I've changed easily over 10,000 cloth diapers when my kids were babies, and many adult diapers and 'Depends' (a kind of pull-up) for my mother and spouse in their final months, days. And, in fact, incontinence is not an infrequent symptom of MS. Bladder urgency being the more common - and even I have dealt with that from time to time. Which is clearly TMI, so I'll say no more about that.

When I got home, the phone rang. I had left my wallet at the pharmacy counter. With some significant cash in it, as I had just been to the ATM. This sort of 'incontinence' - that is, forgetting and leaving something behind - may be more common, at least it is with me.

Each night, as part of my MS prayer, I repeat the words 'may loving-kindness prevail when the incontinental divide is bridged.' (In case you need it, let me 'draw you a diagram': I mean the divide, of course, between those able to always hold except when it is time to let go, and those who are not.)

Amen.

one-two-zero-two-zero-one-one

May your new year be rich and textured, with moments of peace and joy; and with the freedom to experience the sad or difficult times without undue aversion or suffering. That these instead can flow through you like ever changing weather patterns.

Resolution #1:

Learn 'Blackbird' – by the Beatles – on the guitar, to the point of fluency. And not just the chords. A guitar-playing Peace Corps friend showed me how to play from 'tabs.' These are a sort of musical notation for the guitar player, like me, who can’t really read music.

Resolution #2:

Learn Eva Cassidy's version of ‘Over the Rainbow' to the point that my fiancée's beautiful soprano will be accompanied, if not by an equally talented musician, at least by one who will not embarrass himself.

Resolution #3:

What the? Yes, you read that right, I am engaged to a lovely woman, Dwan Reece. And

we plan to have a tiny wedding service with just our teenaged children this summer. Her daughter Maya is 15. Exact date is as yet to be determined. Will let you know when it happens.

Some other news: Eli is a senior in high school. His grades haven't ever panned out, so he will be going to the nearby community college. Which may sound negative – but he is actually quite happy to be going to Montgomery College, and I'm sure that the school is a fine institution in its own right. He has yet to decide on a field of study. And if he does well for two years there, he will be eligible to transfer to the University of Maryland, or another state college. He plans to share an apartment near the campus with two friends also attending MC.

Spencer is a sophomore at the Canterbury School up in Connecticut. He continues to love dorm life, and sports, but is finding the academics more challenging this year. Send him your thoughts and prayers.

Miller is continuing to 'enjoy' Sidwell. The quotation marks indicate that every morning (almost) he tries to make a deal to get out of going to school – just this one day dad, please… But nearly every afternoon when I ask how his day was, he says 'good.' (Even today when he came home with a nearly broken toe from wrestling.) I think the point is, he's not a morning person. This year he has been to at least a half dozen Mitzvahs so far (either Bar or Bat), and looks quite handsome in a blazer, tie, slacks, and yarmulke.

Oh, and I've been thinking about going back to school - social work of some kind, or psychology. I am interested at this point in both clinical and research directions. Otherwise, I continue with my men’s group, meditation groups, and writers’ group, though the grief that my writing has focused on seems to be losing steam. Which is a good thing, the 'work' having been helpful.

The boys and I made it to Nepal this year, a pilgrimage long in coming. (If you are interested in more travelogue about this trip, you can read earlier posts in this blog, just scroll down to ‘The night bus from hell’ and read chronologically up. Trust me, the trip gets better…).

Peace and love, Peter and the boys

Now for some pictures:

Trip to Nepal

At my niece Emily’s wedding in July. (Note Miller’s studied ‘secret service’ look.)

Dwan and I at our engagement dinner.

Coda: It has been said that everlasting friends can go long periods of time without speaking and never question the friendship. These types of friends pick up like they just spoke yesterday, regardless of how long it has been or how far away they live, and they don't hold grudges. They understand that life is busy, but you will always love them.

Volunteer

I made it to the Wendt center a few weeks ago for a training on candlelight vigils, something the center will sponsor if requested. It was a very cold night, and it being rush hour, I took the metro. The center was supposed to be a half block from the Fort Totten metro stop in northeast, an area I'd never been to. I didn't know which way to turn, so I hailed a cab. The cab driver got lost looking for the place, and said that I didn't have to pay for the ride. We had to call, and get directions, and indeed, it actually turned out to be just a half block from the station. Riding shotgun was the cabbie's girlfriend. We had a nice conversation during the 10 minute trip. Turns out the cabbie was widowed 15 years before. Of course I paid for the ride. Take a breath, step into the cold.

One of the speakers, Kecia, a middle aged woman with straightened black hair, while handing out written instructions, noted that at least two volunteers would need to be present at a vigil, and that the police would need to be notified. She also handed out lists of precincts and their phone numbers. 'The crowds can number in the hundreds,' she tells us. Her plum red false fingernails extended a good inch past the end of her finger tips. Holding up a short white candle, maybe 1/2 inch diameter, she said, 'the center provides fifty candles, candle holders, and programs. You might want to call the family to suggest they bring more, if they expect a larger crowd.' She wore dozens of silver bangles on each arm, and dabbed with a tissue at the perspiration on her heavily made up face. She'd said in her introductory comments that public speaking makes her uncomfortable. Ten of us sat around three office style tables, set side by side in a square.

'Depending on who is being memorialized at the vigil - somebody involved with criminal activity perhaps, or a controversial politician - there may be trouble. Before getting started, be sure to introduce yourself to the police. If things should get tense, you may leave. Be sure that at least two volunteers remain. If you all decide to leave, be sure to tell the immediate family members, give them any remaining candles - and candle holders - [these are small round paper cutouts with perforated holes in the center] and tell the police.' She dabs at some more perspiration. 'In the eight years I have been with the Wendt center, only one vigil has gotten out of hand.'

I take off my jacket, sit back in my chair. I had no idea that vigils could turn ugly like this. But this is D.C. after all. We are told that the Center is asked to sponsor maybe a dozen vigils per year. I ask whether it would be okay to use my walker if I were to help at a vigil. I had a hard time imagining passing out candles, holders, programs, verbal condolences, etc. while walking with my cane. Oh, and the p.a. system consisted of a hand-held megaphone. Maybe three of me with canes could manage it. I am assured the walker would be fine. We are thanked, some leave while some others stand around afterwards chatting (or in my case waiting for the proffered ride back to the metro.) We step into the parking lot, and the bracing cold.

Pretty long wait for the next train. Fortunately I had worn our heaviest jacket. I say 'ours' as the boys and I trade off, Miller now rapidly approaching six feet tall. So I get on the train, and exit at Friendship Heights, our station, but come up the wrong exit, which lies a good half mile or more from home. It was a lovely walk, though quite cold. I traded off my bare hand using the cane with the pocketed one every fifty paces. I stopped by Chipotle to get a burrito and two quesadillas for the boys on the way.

I got an email a few days ago from Kecia asking for volunteers for a vigil downtown to be held tonight. The deceased was a homicide victim. I will go unless the predicted snowfall cancels the event.

p.s. i drove for over two hours in the snow and sleet, but never found the place. maybe time for a gps. or make sure to carpool next time.