Early last Sunday morning, March 15 (beware?), my wife and I went shopping at Wegmans, a large and eclectically stocked family owned east coast grocery chain. Normally packed with customers, we were early enough to avoid the heaviest crowds.
But not, as it turned out, early enough to find anywhere close to the usual overabundance of goods. And it wasn't just hand sanitizer, wipes, masks, and the like that were missing. Most fresh produce, baked goods - fresh and bagged - and pretty much the entire heated and fresh buffet food area were more reminiscent of the depression era, and/or Soviet Block times. And the customers were frantically dashing through the aisles with stricken looks on their faces. Motoring along in the power wheelchair shopping cart, I'm not sure how I appeared, but I think I felt okay. Maybe some contact tense?
Not having had caffein or breakfast yet, I was relieved to find prepared, packaged in little paperboard boxes, hot pastry sandwiches with eggs, cheese, bacon, etc. And most important, COFFEE!! And half and half! Upon exhausting my short list and myself (Dwan managing the long list), I breakfasted on the limited but ample fare. After finishing up that most excellent café elixir, I asked an employee where I might be able to find a toothpick. She kindly found one for me, which was offered and accepted in a pre covid, that is to say, a relaxed fashion. Though she looked a bit tired, and through a mildly continental accent (I have learned how inappropriate the question "where are you from" is, especially in our current dystopia), she seemed rather calm and warmhearted. Noting the seeming mad rush behind us - before us were only two other people in the normally packed dining area, at least two meters between them. Perhaps owing to my recent satiety and her calm weary, we chatted for a while and agreed that the avenues perhaps most important in the midst of this crisis might be peace, calm, and love. Sure, wash those hands, stay home if you can, but most important: smile. Reach out by phone, text, email.
And just the memory of this exchange still brings a smile to my face.
But what about the blog post title? My stepdaughter recently invented/shared the recipe for a Quarantini: one to three shots gin or vodka, one teaspoon honey, a twist of lemon, a slice of ginger; serve shaken or on the rocks. And I would add, follow with a bottle of Corona beer, a boilermaker of sorts for this moment in history! Remember to drink responsibly...
Cheers! And most important, smile!
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Saturday, October 20, 2018
SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS: ATTENTION CLASS!
Life lessons.
Just two days ago I had a third attempted surgical procedure on my tri-geminal nerve. Though it is a minor operation and out-patient, it involved general anesthesia. Unfortunately it was 'strike three.' If you have never experienced such pain as the disruption of this nerve can bring, consider yourself very, very fortunate. It is rightly referred to as the 'suicide illness' by some professionals, and though accurate, methinks this is a rather ill-advised moniker, it doth protest needlessly much, implying that suicide might be a solution.
The picture above, something of a 'red badge of courage' is a fairly pedestrian record of two IV attempts (the third on my other hand - shy of my life record of 5), and two bandages incurred from the day's procedure. The third, not pictured here, on my cheek. But I am not blogging this for the sake of pathos, or compassion.
Because I consider myself rather blessed, and full of gratitude to have this powerful sense of awareness, whether God given or naturally arising (is there a difference?), for all of life's vicissitudes. Though many of these have been quite hair-raising - losing a spouse to cancer, getting diagnosed with MS, having a son attempt suicide four times - looking back on them brings a warm sadness, the likes of which I might never have known.
Life experiences make up a patchwork of infinite love. Can we embrace it all?
Just two days ago I had a third attempted surgical procedure on my tri-geminal nerve. Though it is a minor operation and out-patient, it involved general anesthesia. Unfortunately it was 'strike three.' If you have never experienced such pain as the disruption of this nerve can bring, consider yourself very, very fortunate. It is rightly referred to as the 'suicide illness' by some professionals, and though accurate, methinks this is a rather ill-advised moniker, it doth protest needlessly much, implying that suicide might be a solution.
The picture above, something of a 'red badge of courage' is a fairly pedestrian record of two IV attempts (the third on my other hand - shy of my life record of 5), and two bandages incurred from the day's procedure. The third, not pictured here, on my cheek. But I am not blogging this for the sake of pathos, or compassion.
Because I consider myself rather blessed, and full of gratitude to have this powerful sense of awareness, whether God given or naturally arising (is there a difference?), for all of life's vicissitudes. Though many of these have been quite hair-raising - losing a spouse to cancer, getting diagnosed with MS, having a son attempt suicide four times - looking back on them brings a warm sadness, the likes of which I might never have known.
Life experiences make up a patchwork of infinite love. Can we embrace it all?
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
Good Appetite?
This piece, less some edits, first appeared 6 years ago.
Some hard 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 weekend meditation retreat at a yoga center in northern Virginia many 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 '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 (now late 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 redolent 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, seriously...? 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. 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, no 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 blog 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 - whether 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 could us right 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 kindness 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!
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Affirmative racial profiling?
You tell me.
I am not generally a big fan of fast food, but I do every now and than drive through and get some Taco Bell fare. Clearly not really Mexican - or even as close as Chipotle gets - but as a vegetarian, the options aren't too bad. For fast food at least.
I mention the drive through as that is generally what I can manage, particularly in these dog days of summer. So on top of the questionable content of the 'food', there is the added layer of bad karma I might generate for not even going inside, using those extra ounces of petrol idling, etc. I can be a rather harsh self-judge.
Now, I have always been quite impressed with the person who takes my order, and then at the window fills it. Admittedly, s/he did not have to prepare all the food items, mainly needing only to fill a cup with water or soda, ask whether I would like any sauce (yes please, 'fire'), fill the bag with my one or two items, napkins, sauce packets, a straw. Which is all rather prosaic, or mundane, any sorry sack of a teenager could manage it. Perhaps even I could.
But wait, here is the heroic part: while they are occupied physically filling my order, they are talking into their headsets to the next customer, saying things like 'welcome to Taco Bell', or 'is it correct on the screen?' Or, if dealing with difficult customers like me, having to write 'taco: substitute beans for meat', or who knows what kind of other special orders they get. Then have it ready soon after I drive up to the window, and take my payment, often a credit card, but otherwise count out the change. It has long fascinated me that a person can do this so seamlessly, and only rarely mess up the order. And since having to deal now with cognitive loss due to MS (and perhaps MA, middle age), I'm even more impressed. Meanwhile, these super heroes earn a hunger wage of the minimum or I hope something more.
Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury I wish to present to you my feeble attempts at social engineering to address the apparent (to me at least) injustice of workers earning such a (likely) low wage for such (to me at least) a challenging job. (Please note the three parenthetic qualifiers in that last sentence.) I tried offering a tip, but was told they can't take tips. My response? I would just hand it to them, saying it a 'gift' or 'a little something for you.' So far so good, you perhaps might agree. However, the reality of ethnic, gender, and racial politics will now raise its ugly head.
While I'm engaged in this tiny, possibly laughable, attempt of narrowing the enormous American wealth gap, it occurs to me that some gender and ethnic/racial groups are in even greater need of such intervention. How about that woman, maybe she is a mother or pregnant? (In general there is a strong correlation between the two, that is, being female, and...what's that, you got it?) Or, even if not, she faces an economy which pays her on average 70% of what a man would earn for the same work. Or, take that African American young man? He faces far more obstacles in finding gainful employment. Even a white ex-convict has better chances of getting called back for an interview than he, according to studies cited in my earlier blog post titled 'Dharma Brothers' about my experience teaching meditation at the DC jail. (I have since begun teaching at the Arlington Co. jail.) To say nothing of the perils of life in a country that almost criminalizes 'driving while black', or congregating 'menacingly' on street corners while non-white. Or, while smoking weed at the same rate as white Americans, but getting busted almost four times as often. (If you find this figure hard to believe, you can check out this article at http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/06/04/race-marijuana/2389677/
While some may consider USA Today to be an ultra liberal publication, this widely documented and unfair treatment of blacks and other minorities results in prisons hugely over populated by non-whites, earning the criminal justice system's moniker of the 'new Jim Crow.' And the non-white woman? I can only imagine the obstacles she faces, particularly if she is a mother.
Or NOT, as my wife - who is African American (which I mention only to give her opinion some wider cred than if she were 'white-privileged' like me) - has pointed out to me as I have described my little 'system' to her. That is, just by knowing somebody's race or ethnicity or gender can I have the least bit of knowledge what they face? Their own individual history? Of course not, I am dealing here in generalities, much as an affirmative action program might attempt to address the legacy of centuries of slavery, terrorism (the KKK, for example), segregation, substandard or so called 'separate but [not]-equal' schools, etc. Or, on the darker side of things, racial profiling by law enforcement based upon little more than stereotypes - and fear - of 'the other.' I would put my efforts more in line with the affirmative action, but the message I send might feel a bit more like a benevolent racial profiling.
For a short time I followed the metric of a dollar for the white employee, 2 for the white woman, three for the man of color, and four for the woman of color. Which usually meant that my 'non-tip' was more than my tab. After a short while this seemed to possibly send a potentially negative message. Especially if the employees ever mentioned among themselves the odd fellow who 'tips', and how much. Such as, 'what, he gave you that much? That jerk only gave me....' So now, I tip each employee 2 dollars, regardless of grouping, my short term dalliance with the race/ethnic/gender questions now over. Bottom line, if you work at Taco Bell, you need it.
But, may I ask the one or two of 'my followers' who have soldiered on all this way, just how far-fetched this exercise has been? Much ado about very little, to be sure. But on principle, had it any merit in your opinion?
I am not generally a big fan of fast food, but I do every now and than drive through and get some Taco Bell fare. Clearly not really Mexican - or even as close as Chipotle gets - but as a vegetarian, the options aren't too bad. For fast food at least.
I mention the drive through as that is generally what I can manage, particularly in these dog days of summer. So on top of the questionable content of the 'food', there is the added layer of bad karma I might generate for not even going inside, using those extra ounces of petrol idling, etc. I can be a rather harsh self-judge.
Now, I have always been quite impressed with the person who takes my order, and then at the window fills it. Admittedly, s/he did not have to prepare all the food items, mainly needing only to fill a cup with water or soda, ask whether I would like any sauce (yes please, 'fire'), fill the bag with my one or two items, napkins, sauce packets, a straw. Which is all rather prosaic, or mundane, any sorry sack of a teenager could manage it. Perhaps even I could.
But wait, here is the heroic part: while they are occupied physically filling my order, they are talking into their headsets to the next customer, saying things like 'welcome to Taco Bell', or 'is it correct on the screen?' Or, if dealing with difficult customers like me, having to write 'taco: substitute beans for meat', or who knows what kind of other special orders they get. Then have it ready soon after I drive up to the window, and take my payment, often a credit card, but otherwise count out the change. It has long fascinated me that a person can do this so seamlessly, and only rarely mess up the order. And since having to deal now with cognitive loss due to MS (and perhaps MA, middle age), I'm even more impressed. Meanwhile, these super heroes earn a hunger wage of the minimum or I hope something more.
Now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury I wish to present to you my feeble attempts at social engineering to address the apparent (to me at least) injustice of workers earning such a (likely) low wage for such (to me at least) a challenging job. (Please note the three parenthetic qualifiers in that last sentence.) I tried offering a tip, but was told they can't take tips. My response? I would just hand it to them, saying it a 'gift' or 'a little something for you.' So far so good, you perhaps might agree. However, the reality of ethnic, gender, and racial politics will now raise its ugly head.
While I'm engaged in this tiny, possibly laughable, attempt of narrowing the enormous American wealth gap, it occurs to me that some gender and ethnic/racial groups are in even greater need of such intervention. How about that woman, maybe she is a mother or pregnant? (In general there is a strong correlation between the two, that is, being female, and...what's that, you got it?) Or, even if not, she faces an economy which pays her on average 70% of what a man would earn for the same work. Or, take that African American young man? He faces far more obstacles in finding gainful employment. Even a white ex-convict has better chances of getting called back for an interview than he, according to studies cited in my earlier blog post titled 'Dharma Brothers' about my experience teaching meditation at the DC jail. (I have since begun teaching at the Arlington Co. jail.) To say nothing of the perils of life in a country that almost criminalizes 'driving while black', or congregating 'menacingly' on street corners while non-white. Or, while smoking weed at the same rate as white Americans, but getting busted almost four times as often. (If you find this figure hard to believe, you can check out this article at http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2013/06/04/race-marijuana/2389677/
While some may consider USA Today to be an ultra liberal publication, this widely documented and unfair treatment of blacks and other minorities results in prisons hugely over populated by non-whites, earning the criminal justice system's moniker of the 'new Jim Crow.' And the non-white woman? I can only imagine the obstacles she faces, particularly if she is a mother.
Or NOT, as my wife - who is African American (which I mention only to give her opinion some wider cred than if she were 'white-privileged' like me) - has pointed out to me as I have described my little 'system' to her. That is, just by knowing somebody's race or ethnicity or gender can I have the least bit of knowledge what they face? Their own individual history? Of course not, I am dealing here in generalities, much as an affirmative action program might attempt to address the legacy of centuries of slavery, terrorism (the KKK, for example), segregation, substandard or so called 'separate but [not]-equal' schools, etc. Or, on the darker side of things, racial profiling by law enforcement based upon little more than stereotypes - and fear - of 'the other.' I would put my efforts more in line with the affirmative action, but the message I send might feel a bit more like a benevolent racial profiling.
For a short time I followed the metric of a dollar for the white employee, 2 for the white woman, three for the man of color, and four for the woman of color. Which usually meant that my 'non-tip' was more than my tab. After a short while this seemed to possibly send a potentially negative message. Especially if the employees ever mentioned among themselves the odd fellow who 'tips', and how much. Such as, 'what, he gave you that much? That jerk only gave me....' So now, I tip each employee 2 dollars, regardless of grouping, my short term dalliance with the race/ethnic/gender questions now over. Bottom line, if you work at Taco Bell, you need it.
But, may I ask the one or two of 'my followers' who have soldiered on all this way, just how far-fetched this exercise has been? Much ado about very little, to be sure. But on principle, had it any merit in your opinion?
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Lullaby
Remember when we lay together
drifting off to sleep,
you always fell asleep first?
You might share a sleepy thought:
as in, “the flower is dancing,” maybe?
Then, holding your hand,
a twitch, a tug, or a startle,
perhaps one more,
and gently you’d melt into dreamland.
Leaving me, eventually, to follow.
Or now, sometimes, to insomnia,
something I couldn't understand then.
Sleep came easily to me, if not instant, like yours.
A friend might mention
hours awake from 3 to 5 a.m.
What was that about? I’d wonder glibly.
Just sit up and read, or meditate,
or even masturbate: carpe noctem.
But now the metastatic cancer,
this ‘carcinomatous meningitis:’
you’re so very tired, so sleepy all the time.
I sit here holding your hand while
you doze in the hospital bed,
more twitches, more sleepy thoughts.
This love, this life, this loss,
what is this all about?
Sitting here, I meditate – no, I resist: why here, why now?
Don’t leave me and our three boys
to this insomnia, this carcinomatous sadness,
to linger here in this endless moment.
But, if you go, hear me:
we will always love and cherish you,
you charmed and delicate dancing flower.
You will return to God, back into us;
you may wake up, and find,
that this bit of stardust
that seemed such an
important and unique and beautiful you;
we all felt it, we all still do.
You may wake from this dream dust,
for breathing you back in God must,
and come back home.
Just as these tears,
falling from these eyes,
will return to the clouds they fell from.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Dharma brothers
"Have a nice Friday at school son." "Thanks." "When you get home I'll probably be in jail." "Oh, that's right."
Okay, let me back up a sec.
The past three weeks I'd been completing the paperwork and training to be allowed to volunteer in the DC jail as a teacher of insight meditation. For several months I've been meeting with the group IOI, or 'Insight on the Inside,' whose mission is to lead such classes. These are volunteers who meet with inmates on a regular basis - usually incarcerated folks who have some interest in the concept. I say usually, because some classes have been made mandatory - presumably because they have proven somewhat popular. Or perhaps for other more practical reasons - e.g., the jail administrators might have wondered 'what do we do with the inmates who don't go to the class?' Don't know.
Anyway, before I go any further, I feel the need to speak to the issue of appellation, that is, what do you call the people who are incarcerated by the criminal justice system? Historically, they've been called convicts, detainees, prisoners, offenders. And even a few more pejorative terms. In recent times, the somewhat less judgmental term inmate is commonly used. IOI volunteers will often say residents, which some might consider a euphemism, as the term is usually associated with voluntary habitation. Regardless, for the purposes of the mission of IOI (as opposed to political correctitude), the question is relevant to determine which nomenclature would best foster that mission. That is, what term might help in pursuing the goal of teaching a set of practices which have helped us volunteers find some freedom from suffering in our own lives? Not a freedom from loss, pain, sorrow, grief, etc. Or freedom from incarceration. These are sadly facts of life. Rather, it is freedom from what Buddha called the 'second arrow' of suffering. How can we learn to stop inflicting on ourselves seemingly tireless and creative attempts to cogitate, replay scenarios, anguish and lament, etc.? Isn't the 'first arrow' quite enough?
As to the question of naming, my friend and mentor that first day, Carolyn, uses the term student. Of course, I thought: no need for euphemisms - after all, that's who they are in our relationship.
Students, which of course we all can be in all of our endeavors - and me obviously on this day of my first class with Carolyn. First we go to the Residential Substance Abuse and Treatment facility (RSAT), where jail residents who need it, get help with recovery. (Actually I was not allowed to bring my cane into other higher security facilities - without which, of course, I can't get too far. Won't go into this topic here, but the ADA does come to mind. . .). After putting my wallet, keys, coins, and other pocket litter in a locker, we passed through something like what you are familiar with at the airport, with a pat down at the end. Cleared to go, we follow a bit of a Get Smart maze to the 83rd floor. Actually it's the fourth floor according to the elevator readout, but apparently they make things a bit Orwellian or Kafkaesque to help thwart any potential jailbreaks. Or something like this. (Note to any nefarious plotters reading this: some of these descriptions, especially the numbers, have probably been changed in this post.)
We arrived in what appeared to be a common area, off of which we entered a room with five or so plastic chairs. We managed to get help from a couple students who'd already arrived, to round up a few other participants, and some more chairs. Our class of 9 was made up of eight African Americans and one white student.
This aside will take more than a parenthetic line, so I will boldly begin a new paragraph (or more). From what I've heard and read, this ethnic breakdown is more or less consistent with national incarceration rates in the U.S. Some regions have more Hispanics than others, but in general, people of color, especially blacks, are overwhelmingly overrepresented behind bars, resulting in whites being by far in the minority status. I don't say in correctional facilities, as for me - and for many others - the jury is still out on whether these places do much at all to 'correct' as opposed to simply punish. (Which opens up a whole new area for discussion and debate, which I won't pursue here.) Suffice it to say that, with stunning rates of recidivism (there are many variables, but some are approaching or well in excess of 50%), something really isn't working. Of course, it is our belief and hope that IOI can be a small part of the solution to such a giant problem.
The biggest issue at work, I believe, is the racially biased criminal justice system. Whether it's at the policy level - such as recent cases in Arizona or 'stop and frisk' in New York - or just the nature of 'color blind racism' which results in a much larger percentage of people of color getting arrested for drug use or possession, for example, even though their rate of drug use is the same as it is for whites. By the same token, ex-offenders seeking jobs are greatly disadvantaged according to many studies (including the one in this article - http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/17/nyregion/17felons.html?_r=0). The article says, "White men with prison records receive far more offers for entry-level jobs in New York City than black men with identical records, and are offered jobs just as often - if not more so - than black men who have never been arrested." Italics mine. Did you catch that? A white ex-convict is more likely to get job offers than blacks who have no such criminal background. I find this stunning - and deeply shameful in our theoretically post racial 'land of the free.'
All of this and more adds up to what some have called the 'new Jim Crow.' This of course refers to the system of laws and statutes which codified racism and apartheid in much of our country, particularly the south, prior to the adoption of the Civil Rights Act in 1964. Is the modern criminal injustice system the new Jim Crow? Looking at the shameful statistics, I'm inclined to agree. Though the man titularly at the helm of this great nation is African American, I think most of us know that racism is alive and well here. Recent Supreme Court cases have showcased how this struggle is far from over, and if anything is being actively pushed back toward a much darker time. Anyway, enough soap box for now.
So, the 11 of us sat in a room together. I was a tad nervous, but Carolyn assured me beforehand she'd do most of the talking, which she did - and quite well I will add. She's been doing this for four years already, and her composure, sense of ease, and self-effacing humor were infectious for all of us. Talk about a role model! There were a couple of short meditations, some easy stretching, and some discussion about what the students were experiencing - in the moment.
I'm not sure what I was expecting - hardened psycho-killers? - but I was blown away by the warmth, sincerity, intelligence, and interest of these guys. Not unlike my time in the Peace Corps, I walked away from our class with the feeling that I had learned far more than I could ever teach.
Outside again. I took the metro down to the Stadium/Armory station, where Carolyn had picked me up. Our class over, she now indicates the way back (she had another class to go teach). I saunter and hobble my way over the pavement and sidewalks asking occasionally for directions (every 150 paces or so, or some seemingly interminable distance). I call to a man as he climbs into his car, Friday after work, but he couldn't quite hear me over his radio, so gets out and comes over to me, and points, "there, right there, just to the left of that building." He reminds me of Ray Charles, short hair, Ray-Bans, a smile to melt any iceberg. I'm hearing him, believing him, and nodding, but not actually seeing what he's pointing at, as I am rather near sighted - fine up close, even reading, just have to wear glasses to drive - so keep them in my car, not in my shirt pocket. I thank him, bid him adieu and hobble on my way. By now I'm going really quite slow - even for me. Thirteen years into this hobbling meditation, and still it's rather challenging to avoid the second arrow. Ray, who went over to speak with a colleague, seeing now how excruciatingly slowly I'm moving across a wide grassy area, calls and offers me a ride. Knowing the long metro ride to come, walking through stations, etc., I am quite happy to accept. He offers to take me to the next metro station, or even all the way to metro center (where I would have to change trains). I disabuse him of such generosity, assuring him I'm fine from here. And besides, it's Friday, "you need to get on with your weekend, man!" He wishes me a blest day, and drives off.
And it is a rather long trip, the final 'insult' of which greets me after coming up the elevator at the Friendship Heights station (hallelujah, home at last!), only to see that I am at the far end and have a very long block to go to catch the bus that would take me the rest of the way home. I slump against the building to my left, and am hit with a sweet redolence wafting from the windows open for spring - 'Frozen Yo!' I'd never been there before, but just like Garrison Keillor's rhubarb pie, I consider whether this might be just the time for it.
And it is.
Okay, let me back up a sec.
The past three weeks I'd been completing the paperwork and training to be allowed to volunteer in the DC jail as a teacher of insight meditation. For several months I've been meeting with the group IOI, or 'Insight on the Inside,' whose mission is to lead such classes. These are volunteers who meet with inmates on a regular basis - usually incarcerated folks who have some interest in the concept. I say usually, because some classes have been made mandatory - presumably because they have proven somewhat popular. Or perhaps for other more practical reasons - e.g., the jail administrators might have wondered 'what do we do with the inmates who don't go to the class?' Don't know.
Anyway, before I go any further, I feel the need to speak to the issue of appellation, that is, what do you call the people who are incarcerated by the criminal justice system? Historically, they've been called convicts, detainees, prisoners, offenders. And even a few more pejorative terms. In recent times, the somewhat less judgmental term inmate is commonly used. IOI volunteers will often say residents, which some might consider a euphemism, as the term is usually associated with voluntary habitation. Regardless, for the purposes of the mission of IOI (as opposed to political correctitude), the question is relevant to determine which nomenclature would best foster that mission. That is, what term might help in pursuing the goal of teaching a set of practices which have helped us volunteers find some freedom from suffering in our own lives? Not a freedom from loss, pain, sorrow, grief, etc. Or freedom from incarceration. These are sadly facts of life. Rather, it is freedom from what Buddha called the 'second arrow' of suffering. How can we learn to stop inflicting on ourselves seemingly tireless and creative attempts to cogitate, replay scenarios, anguish and lament, etc.? Isn't the 'first arrow' quite enough?
As to the question of naming, my friend and mentor that first day, Carolyn, uses the term student. Of course, I thought: no need for euphemisms - after all, that's who they are in our relationship.
Students, which of course we all can be in all of our endeavors - and me obviously on this day of my first class with Carolyn. First we go to the Residential Substance Abuse and Treatment facility (RSAT), where jail residents who need it, get help with recovery. (Actually I was not allowed to bring my cane into other higher security facilities - without which, of course, I can't get too far. Won't go into this topic here, but the ADA does come to mind. . .). After putting my wallet, keys, coins, and other pocket litter in a locker, we passed through something like what you are familiar with at the airport, with a pat down at the end. Cleared to go, we follow a bit of a Get Smart maze to the 83rd floor. Actually it's the fourth floor according to the elevator readout, but apparently they make things a bit Orwellian or Kafkaesque to help thwart any potential jailbreaks. Or something like this. (Note to any nefarious plotters reading this: some of these descriptions, especially the numbers, have probably been changed in this post.)
We arrived in what appeared to be a common area, off of which we entered a room with five or so plastic chairs. We managed to get help from a couple students who'd already arrived, to round up a few other participants, and some more chairs. Our class of 9 was made up of eight African Americans and one white student.
This aside will take more than a parenthetic line, so I will boldly begin a new paragraph (or more). From what I've heard and read, this ethnic breakdown is more or less consistent with national incarceration rates in the U.S. Some regions have more Hispanics than others, but in general, people of color, especially blacks, are overwhelmingly overrepresented behind bars, resulting in whites being by far in the minority status. I don't say in correctional facilities, as for me - and for many others - the jury is still out on whether these places do much at all to 'correct' as opposed to simply punish. (Which opens up a whole new area for discussion and debate, which I won't pursue here.) Suffice it to say that, with stunning rates of recidivism (there are many variables, but some are approaching or well in excess of 50%), something really isn't working. Of course, it is our belief and hope that IOI can be a small part of the solution to such a giant problem.
The biggest issue at work, I believe, is the racially biased criminal justice system. Whether it's at the policy level - such as recent cases in Arizona or 'stop and frisk' in New York - or just the nature of 'color blind racism' which results in a much larger percentage of people of color getting arrested for drug use or possession, for example, even though their rate of drug use is the same as it is for whites. By the same token, ex-offenders seeking jobs are greatly disadvantaged according to many studies (including the one in this article - http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/17/nyregion/17felons.html?_r=0). The article says, "White men with prison records receive far more offers for entry-level jobs in New York City than black men with identical records, and are offered jobs just as often - if not more so - than black men who have never been arrested." Italics mine. Did you catch that? A white ex-convict is more likely to get job offers than blacks who have no such criminal background. I find this stunning - and deeply shameful in our theoretically post racial 'land of the free.'
All of this and more adds up to what some have called the 'new Jim Crow.' This of course refers to the system of laws and statutes which codified racism and apartheid in much of our country, particularly the south, prior to the adoption of the Civil Rights Act in 1964. Is the modern criminal injustice system the new Jim Crow? Looking at the shameful statistics, I'm inclined to agree. Though the man titularly at the helm of this great nation is African American, I think most of us know that racism is alive and well here. Recent Supreme Court cases have showcased how this struggle is far from over, and if anything is being actively pushed back toward a much darker time. Anyway, enough soap box for now.
So, the 11 of us sat in a room together. I was a tad nervous, but Carolyn assured me beforehand she'd do most of the talking, which she did - and quite well I will add. She's been doing this for four years already, and her composure, sense of ease, and self-effacing humor were infectious for all of us. Talk about a role model! There were a couple of short meditations, some easy stretching, and some discussion about what the students were experiencing - in the moment.
I'm not sure what I was expecting - hardened psycho-killers? - but I was blown away by the warmth, sincerity, intelligence, and interest of these guys. Not unlike my time in the Peace Corps, I walked away from our class with the feeling that I had learned far more than I could ever teach.
Outside again. I took the metro down to the Stadium/Armory station, where Carolyn had picked me up. Our class over, she now indicates the way back (she had another class to go teach). I saunter and hobble my way over the pavement and sidewalks asking occasionally for directions (every 150 paces or so, or some seemingly interminable distance). I call to a man as he climbs into his car, Friday after work, but he couldn't quite hear me over his radio, so gets out and comes over to me, and points, "there, right there, just to the left of that building." He reminds me of Ray Charles, short hair, Ray-Bans, a smile to melt any iceberg. I'm hearing him, believing him, and nodding, but not actually seeing what he's pointing at, as I am rather near sighted - fine up close, even reading, just have to wear glasses to drive - so keep them in my car, not in my shirt pocket. I thank him, bid him adieu and hobble on my way. By now I'm going really quite slow - even for me. Thirteen years into this hobbling meditation, and still it's rather challenging to avoid the second arrow. Ray, who went over to speak with a colleague, seeing now how excruciatingly slowly I'm moving across a wide grassy area, calls and offers me a ride. Knowing the long metro ride to come, walking through stations, etc., I am quite happy to accept. He offers to take me to the next metro station, or even all the way to metro center (where I would have to change trains). I disabuse him of such generosity, assuring him I'm fine from here. And besides, it's Friday, "you need to get on with your weekend, man!" He wishes me a blest day, and drives off.
And it is a rather long trip, the final 'insult' of which greets me after coming up the elevator at the Friendship Heights station (hallelujah, home at last!), only to see that I am at the far end and have a very long block to go to catch the bus that would take me the rest of the way home. I slump against the building to my left, and am hit with a sweet redolence wafting from the windows open for spring - 'Frozen Yo!' I'd never been there before, but just like Garrison Keillor's rhubarb pie, I consider whether this might be just the time for it.
And it is.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Who's steering this boat?
There is a parable I've heard in various Buddhish traditions called something like 'the empty rowboat.' In case it is new to you, let me tell it, now with my own small embellishments:
Imagine I climb into a fishing boat on a very early, cool, dark, and foggy morning, and untether from the dock. It is very quiet out, though some small chirping of crickets, and the murmur of the paddles dipping in the water are just enough noise to call attention to this deep silence, the earth not yet ready to awaken. Pushing off and rowing into the gentle stream, I'm thinking ahead to the morning's catch, scanning - with some difficulty in the darkness - to the lake some thousand yards downstream. Suddenly another craft coming from upstream rams into my starboard! I drop my oars and turn to face. . .what? An empty boat! Just as suddenly as my righteous indignation had formed, it vanishes.
Where did it go? While this scenario seldom if ever plays out in just this way, the story is told, in didactic fashion, to illuminate just how ready and willing we can be to put somebody in the boat, whenever something unfortunate might happen to us. Which is perhaps part of our human nature, our genetic inheritance, a stress response to get our blood pressure up, our pulse and breath quickened, in case we need to deal with the jaguar or rocky precipice we were just about to bump into. Perhaps.
But is there a way in such a moment to find the Buddha nature some believe stirs within every one of us? Perhaps even when there actually appears to be somebody in the boat? Can we just in the moment manage to step out of the instantaneous urge to take it personally? To blame someone else? Or even to blame oneself? In the case of blaming oneself, have we made ourselves the oarsman of the boat?
Before considering that last question (itself quite worthy of at least another blog post. . .), a question which may strike some as arcane, or even pointless - as in 'of course it's my boat (i.e. my fault),' whose else could it be? Let's look at a possible understanding of what an empty boat could mean. In the case of a random stranger, somebody who may have cut you off at a traffic signal, say, or darted ahead into your lane during rush hour. Whatever the specific detail, doesn't matter, point is, you felt harmed - or at least threatened - by an action. Perhaps you look at the yuppily-clad jerk in his BMW, see his Ray-Bans and Rolex, notice his tapping and fidgeting hands on the steering wheel, and instantly know his story - or imagine you do. We do not so readily guess that he is rushing across town to be with his wife in the ER having gone into emergency pre-term labor. Or a million other possible - if not probable - causes for his reckless driving. Doesn't matter, what we seem really adept at is instantly assuming malevolent intent, and quickly finding the 'evidence' to support it.
But, what would the Buddha do? Other than walk slowly, or ride a bike (judging mind, judging mind. . .), I imagine a response with compassion might wonder what could be eating that other driver? Not to say this is anything remotely relevant (he writes, oh so self-effacingly), but I recall once driving Miller to school one morning. After coming to a four way stop, from the street on our right, instead of waiting her turn (which would have allowed mine), the SUV driver just plowed right on through the intersection without stopping. After feeling the surge of reaction in my veins, I said aloud 'may you be free of suffering' as we watched her speed off. I recall a stressed and tortured look to her profile as she steadfastly glared straight ahead. To a certain extent, it was not empty words, I think there was some feeling of compassion. Miller expressed shock at my statement, and so we discussed some of the issues raised in this post. Do I normally do that? No, normally I would feel judgment arise, and just as often give voice to that, or just remain silent. These knee-jerk reactions are also in my comfort zone. Is it better to say the compassionate thing? I think it depends. If I'm feeling judgmental and speaking words of compassion, I think perhaps over the long term would not be very mentally healthy. Perhaps by simply noticing the surge in physiological stress response, and also the rising judgments and an urge to voice harsh words might be a start. Moment by moment, noticing the reaction unfold, and even commenting as it happens to a passenger or child. 'My goodness, that scared me, I wonder what's going on with her?' Is that any less true than 'what a stupid f-ing bitch'? Seems more relevant to me.
Just read a really long article my wife showed me about the fundamental differences that various cultures have in shaping what social scientists have considered 'normal' for the human brain, and what we come to accept as human nature: http://www.psmag.com/magazines/magazine-feature-story-magazines/joe-henrich-weird-ultimatum-game-shaking-up-psychology-economics-53135/ It's a great article, but quite long. Suffice it to say that what we consider to be human nature is very culturally specific and varied - even perhaps the physiological stress response, though the article didn't go there. I recall once as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nepal witnessing a villager working at a bridge project smash his thumb between a large hammer and the head of a sixteen penny nail. He calmly set the hammer down, looked at his hand held up in the air - there was a quarter inch split in the flesh and thumbnail - folded his thumb into his fingers, and set back to work, using his knuckles to hold the nails. Do I know of any Westerner who would not drop a massive F-bomb if this happened to them? Or instantly faint? I don't know, but this seems evidence to support the idea that, created equal or not, we surely don't all end up the same.
I think there are many other empty boats (possibly nothing but empty boats in this big lake, our world), but the closer they are to us - friend, co-worker, spouse, etc. - the more difficult it is to see their possible 'empty' nature. Next time your boss is spouting inanities at you, imagine instead a toddler standing behind a baby gate with a droopy diaper, having a tantrum, and perhaps you can come to see that he is a kind of empty rowboat after all, full up with a life of conditioning - and maybe you can take his diatribe just a little bit less personally. Might it be worth some inquiry?
Imagine I climb into a fishing boat on a very early, cool, dark, and foggy morning, and untether from the dock. It is very quiet out, though some small chirping of crickets, and the murmur of the paddles dipping in the water are just enough noise to call attention to this deep silence, the earth not yet ready to awaken. Pushing off and rowing into the gentle stream, I'm thinking ahead to the morning's catch, scanning - with some difficulty in the darkness - to the lake some thousand yards downstream. Suddenly another craft coming from upstream rams into my starboard! I drop my oars and turn to face. . .what? An empty boat! Just as suddenly as my righteous indignation had formed, it vanishes.
Where did it go? While this scenario seldom if ever plays out in just this way, the story is told, in didactic fashion, to illuminate just how ready and willing we can be to put somebody in the boat, whenever something unfortunate might happen to us. Which is perhaps part of our human nature, our genetic inheritance, a stress response to get our blood pressure up, our pulse and breath quickened, in case we need to deal with the jaguar or rocky precipice we were just about to bump into. Perhaps.
But is there a way in such a moment to find the Buddha nature some believe stirs within every one of us? Perhaps even when there actually appears to be somebody in the boat? Can we just in the moment manage to step out of the instantaneous urge to take it personally? To blame someone else? Or even to blame oneself? In the case of blaming oneself, have we made ourselves the oarsman of the boat?
Before considering that last question (itself quite worthy of at least another blog post. . .), a question which may strike some as arcane, or even pointless - as in 'of course it's my boat (i.e. my fault),' whose else could it be? Let's look at a possible understanding of what an empty boat could mean. In the case of a random stranger, somebody who may have cut you off at a traffic signal, say, or darted ahead into your lane during rush hour. Whatever the specific detail, doesn't matter, point is, you felt harmed - or at least threatened - by an action. Perhaps you look at the yuppily-clad jerk in his BMW, see his Ray-Bans and Rolex, notice his tapping and fidgeting hands on the steering wheel, and instantly know his story - or imagine you do. We do not so readily guess that he is rushing across town to be with his wife in the ER having gone into emergency pre-term labor. Or a million other possible - if not probable - causes for his reckless driving. Doesn't matter, what we seem really adept at is instantly assuming malevolent intent, and quickly finding the 'evidence' to support it.
But, what would the Buddha do? Other than walk slowly, or ride a bike (judging mind, judging mind. . .), I imagine a response with compassion might wonder what could be eating that other driver? Not to say this is anything remotely relevant (he writes, oh so self-effacingly), but I recall once driving Miller to school one morning. After coming to a four way stop, from the street on our right, instead of waiting her turn (which would have allowed mine), the SUV driver just plowed right on through the intersection without stopping. After feeling the surge of reaction in my veins, I said aloud 'may you be free of suffering' as we watched her speed off. I recall a stressed and tortured look to her profile as she steadfastly glared straight ahead. To a certain extent, it was not empty words, I think there was some feeling of compassion. Miller expressed shock at my statement, and so we discussed some of the issues raised in this post. Do I normally do that? No, normally I would feel judgment arise, and just as often give voice to that, or just remain silent. These knee-jerk reactions are also in my comfort zone. Is it better to say the compassionate thing? I think it depends. If I'm feeling judgmental and speaking words of compassion, I think perhaps over the long term would not be very mentally healthy. Perhaps by simply noticing the surge in physiological stress response, and also the rising judgments and an urge to voice harsh words might be a start. Moment by moment, noticing the reaction unfold, and even commenting as it happens to a passenger or child. 'My goodness, that scared me, I wonder what's going on with her?' Is that any less true than 'what a stupid f-ing bitch'? Seems more relevant to me.
Just read a really long article my wife showed me about the fundamental differences that various cultures have in shaping what social scientists have considered 'normal' for the human brain, and what we come to accept as human nature: http://www.psmag.com/magazines/magazine-feature-story-magazines/joe-henrich-weird-ultimatum-game-shaking-up-psychology-economics-53135/ It's a great article, but quite long. Suffice it to say that what we consider to be human nature is very culturally specific and varied - even perhaps the physiological stress response, though the article didn't go there. I recall once as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nepal witnessing a villager working at a bridge project smash his thumb between a large hammer and the head of a sixteen penny nail. He calmly set the hammer down, looked at his hand held up in the air - there was a quarter inch split in the flesh and thumbnail - folded his thumb into his fingers, and set back to work, using his knuckles to hold the nails. Do I know of any Westerner who would not drop a massive F-bomb if this happened to them? Or instantly faint? I don't know, but this seems evidence to support the idea that, created equal or not, we surely don't all end up the same.
I think there are many other empty boats (possibly nothing but empty boats in this big lake, our world), but the closer they are to us - friend, co-worker, spouse, etc. - the more difficult it is to see their possible 'empty' nature. Next time your boss is spouting inanities at you, imagine instead a toddler standing behind a baby gate with a droopy diaper, having a tantrum, and perhaps you can come to see that he is a kind of empty rowboat after all, full up with a life of conditioning - and maybe you can take his diatribe just a little bit less personally. Might it be worth some inquiry?
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