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.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, May 7, 2011
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?
"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?
Monday, April 4, 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)