Challenge #5: Seen and Heard, A Continual Transmission
We speak of the path as being transmitted from teacher to student. But the universe transmits to us in many ways, nudges us through lovers, stumbles, laughter, sunflowers. What comes from that nudge may be an insight that makes us laugh or turns our life upside down. Share how the universe has nudged you. What was the spark? And what did it help you see?
Do the Work (Sarah Webb)
Some years ago, when I was first beginning to study Zen, I used to practice at a center in Portland, Oregon. I soon learned the teacher of that lineage was not to be my teacher. For one thing, she would only accept students who came to live at the monastery, and my husband was not interested in Zen. For another, she was not pleased with the existence of our Center and only visited it every couple of years. The students in it were welcome to visit the monastery, however; and I went down to California twice for sesshins.
The teacher was British and of High Anglican origin, and chanting was important in the practice. One time a priest who had come to teach us in Portland complained about the prosaic, ragged quality of our chanting. When I first attended sesshin at the monastery, I learned why he might make that comment. The chants at the monastery were like a fine choir with voices taking different parts--like Gregorian chant, someone told me. I wasn’t familiar enough with music to make that connection myself, but I responded to the sound. It was a big monastery, and the many voices seemed like ocean water, rushing and ebbing, soaring and falling. I don’t remember the words of those chants, whether they were similar to ones I heard later, except for one line, which comes to me sometimes when I sit: “Do the work within my heart.”
That phrase helps me step back when I’ve tied myself in a knot trying to do the work from the outside, trying to control it, to master my recalcitrant self. Ah, I think, I am not doing this work. I just need to let it happen.
The meaning of the phrase has changed a bit for me over the years. At first, with my Christian background, I thought of a spirit like the Holy Ghost, later something more nebulous but still an essence of a kind, the same voice that would speak my poems to me. Now I hold back from thinking of a being or a form. Who am I addressing? I wonder. Not a Buddha, not the Patriarchs, or even an inner guru, but more a growing. I grow like a tree, not by willing myself to grow but just naturally by manifesting roots and leaves--or in my case, body and mind. All I need to do is soften to it. And maybe not even that.
11-9-12
The teacher was British and of High Anglican origin, and chanting was important in the practice. One time a priest who had come to teach us in Portland complained about the prosaic, ragged quality of our chanting. When I first attended sesshin at the monastery, I learned why he might make that comment. The chants at the monastery were like a fine choir with voices taking different parts--like Gregorian chant, someone told me. I wasn’t familiar enough with music to make that connection myself, but I responded to the sound. It was a big monastery, and the many voices seemed like ocean water, rushing and ebbing, soaring and falling. I don’t remember the words of those chants, whether they were similar to ones I heard later, except for one line, which comes to me sometimes when I sit: “Do the work within my heart.”
That phrase helps me step back when I’ve tied myself in a knot trying to do the work from the outside, trying to control it, to master my recalcitrant self. Ah, I think, I am not doing this work. I just need to let it happen.
The meaning of the phrase has changed a bit for me over the years. At first, with my Christian background, I thought of a spirit like the Holy Ghost, later something more nebulous but still an essence of a kind, the same voice that would speak my poems to me. Now I hold back from thinking of a being or a form. Who am I addressing? I wonder. Not a Buddha, not the Patriarchs, or even an inner guru, but more a growing. I grow like a tree, not by willing myself to grow but just naturally by manifesting roots and leaves--or in my case, body and mind. All I need to do is soften to it. And maybe not even that.
11-9-12
The Guardian (Matthew Squires)
I am my only guardian.
All else will surely pass away
And shift and rearrange. It looks the same,
But everything has changed,
Its form like a thunderstorm
You could hide away or you could simply get
Washed out.
I think I’m getting washed out
Of that place where my mind would race,
Where my head would shake
When asked if I was real
Or a lie. It seems that I
Was trying too hard to become someone else.
I thought I was myself
How silly I had felt.
Being someone else
And now, if I may misquote Robert Frost:
If you want to get over something,
Then you've got to want to go through it.
Hear the song: http://soundcloud.com/matthew-squires/to-misquote-robert-frost
All else will surely pass away
And shift and rearrange. It looks the same,
But everything has changed,
Its form like a thunderstorm
You could hide away or you could simply get
Washed out.
I think I’m getting washed out
Of that place where my mind would race,
Where my head would shake
When asked if I was real
Or a lie. It seems that I
Was trying too hard to become someone else.
I thought I was myself
How silly I had felt.
Being someone else
And now, if I may misquote Robert Frost:
If you want to get over something,
Then you've got to want to go through it.
Hear the song: http://soundcloud.com/matthew-squires/to-misquote-robert-frost
Morning Meditation (Bruce Smith)
muted thunder of
stomachs in the zendo,
a steady rain outside
Originally posted at http://writelearning.wordpress.com
stomachs in the zendo,
a steady rain outside
Originally posted at http://writelearning.wordpress.com
Fukudo, Zafus, and Shadows (Oh, My) (Bruce Smith)
Great is the matter of birth and death.Three days a week, I get up at 5:30am. Voluntarily.
All is impermanent, quickly passing.
Awake! Awake! Each one.
Don’t waste this life.
The Austin Zen Center has ten regular programs each week, five of which begin at 6am. I’m not a morning person by nature, but given my choir schedule and the fact that I live barely two blocks from AZC, I’ve gotten into the habit of attending the morning sessions on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays.
Actually, I rather enjoy walking down the street in those pre-dawn moments. If the sky is clear, the moon and stars are quite visible. On those mornings, I always check to see where Orion is while treading as mindfully as possible down the pavement. It’s like being up in the middle of the night—a stolen moment while the rest of the world sleeps—only I’m relatively refreshed after seven or eight hours in bed.
On Mondays I serve as fukudo, which primarily involves striking the han with a wooden mallet. The loud, percussive blows I give this thick square of wood follow a set pattern, alerting all in the vicinity of the approaching start of zazen, or sitting meditation. The quote at the head of this post is written on the han itself, and speaks to the symbolic function of this ritual: to remind us of the transience of this life by calling to mind (or so I was told) the knocking of death on our hearts.
However, my intention with this post is less to take you through an AZC morning program than to relate two observations that came to me last Friday, during and after sitting. For context, it may help to envision the zendo, or meditation hall, as a spacious, rectangular room with zafus (cushions) on zabutons (mats) in a perimeter lining the walls. During zazen, practitioners sit on these zafus and face the wall (or outward, if the zabuton they occupy sits in the middle of the room).
While zafus share a common, rounded shape, they exhibit a surprising range of firmness and thickness, depending in part on whether they’re filled with plant fibers or buckwheat hulls. There are very few reserved spots in the zendo and so, upon entering, one must decide where to sit. I try not to put too much thought into this, but must confess that many times, I try to quickly assess which zafu is most likely to support my back and legs during the long periods of sitting.
The first of my twin epiphanies came during Friday’s second period of zazen. To preface this, I must add that the uniqueness of each moment becomes tangible when practicing zazen, as you always sit on a different zafu, with different people (and numbers of people) present. Sometimes the zendo is packed; sometimes there’s space on either side of your zabuton. If it’s morning, the sun will gradually rise during the program; this time of year, the sun sets during the evening session. At any given program the way you feel, whether your stomach is empty or full, your legs or back sore, your throat dry (or not), all varies. Even the walls are not as uniform or featureless as you might suspect, with bits of moulding, ventilation grates, and other marks distinguishing each blank vista.
Anyway, last Friday I was sitting in such a position that the angles of candlelight projected two silhouettes of myself on the wall before me. Yes, I thought: projections. Here I am, reminded that not only does the reality we conceive consist of projections, thin, flickering shadows: even in meditation, I can’t isolate a single projection of myself. (Of course, these thoughts didn’t arise in this exact narrative, or even in narrative form. What one does during zazen varies, depending on a variety of factors, but generally the idea is to observe the thoughts that arise and depart, rather than attempt to stop thinking altogether.)
My other mini-epiphany occurred during the period of soji, or temple cleaning, that concludes the morning program. On Friday, my task was to brush the zabutons and firm up the zafus. Working my way around the zendo, zafu by zafu, it struck me: there must be as much variation in the shapes and consistencies of these cushions as there are in the practitioners who sit on them, including each person’s mutability from one moment to the next. Again, it’s not really the point or purpose of soji, to gain insight: as with the overall practice, it’s rather about cultivating mindfulness in each moment, not learning any specific lesson.
Seeing multiple silhouettes or comparing zafus to people may not be the most profound of observations, but in my limited experience of Zen practice, this is something I enjoy: sensing connections, parallels, or overtones where previously none had been noticed. It’s one thing to read about being in the moment, and another—much more gratifying and centering—to actually experience it, however shallow or fleetingly.
Gassho, everyone.
(p.s. I actually had a third Zen moment while writing this post. Seconds before I was to click the “Publish” button, a rogue keystroke combination wiped out nearly an hour’s typing—like a 21st-century sand mandala, another unwanted reminder of transience. Ah, well: as they say, every moment is practice…)
Originally posted at http://writelearning.wordpress.com
Mindful (Quandra T. McGrue)
"The most precious gift we can offer anyone is our attention. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers."—Thich Nhat HanhI have practiced meditation and mindfulness since 2005. Not too long ago, I had an amazing experience with one of my students that deeply impacted my relationship to mindfulness. I usually have a particular practice for the day. The purpose of the practice is to keep me present. If I'm present, then I'm not wasting precious energy regretting the past or manipulating the future. My practices have included the following: reciting poems at the sound of a timer throughout the day, counting the number of times I do something kind for myself, setting good intentions towards others at various points, and whatever other random thing I think to do.
One week, I set the intention of seeing the nobility in others. I got this idea from Jack Kornfield. I interact with difficult personalities every day, and I wanted to redirect my focus. I set the intention to remember there's something admirable in everyone. At one point that week, I made a playful comment to my students. They laughed (as usual), but I noticed a particular student shift in his seat. Something about the way he shifted revealed an important insight. He was self-conscious. Underneath his tough exterior, he was painfully self-conscious.
This insight didn't come from a conversation, book, or student file. This insight was a direct result of my mindfulness practice. From that moment on, I treated that student with the understanding that he was much more fragile than he appeared. I didn't consciously change my communication with him. I never told him what insight I gained. I simply held this insight in mind during our interactions. All of the tension and resistance I felt from him immediately dissolved. I never had another problem with this student. To this day, when I ask for volunteers, for example, he's one of the first to raise his hand (not at all his prior custom).
This experience taught me a very important lesson: the insight I need rests quietly in my present experience. Whenever I doubt my practice, I think of this one experience. It had a profound impact on my appreciation for mindfulness.
Eureka! (Kim, Emma, & Bruce)
Kim: Today we were talking about entering the stream, and I realized (suddenly) that the stream is where we are. Even those who imagine themselves to be looking onto the stream are actually in the stream. In fact, maybe there is nothing but the stream. I wasn't able to say anything about this in the discussion group I was in. It wasn't my turn to talk. But as others spoke about being in or out of the stream it became clearer and clearer that believing that we aren't “in life” is like people in universities believing that they are in an Ivory Tower. It all happens wherever you are, whether you like it or not.
Bruce: When you guys mentioned the “eureka” theme, my mind immediately went to an unlikely epiphany I experienced while cleaning my cat's litter box. I'd recently returned home after tending to the ash and incense containers from various AZC altars, when something about the quiet, everyday task of scooping cat waste hit me like a flash. I'm hesitant to articulate exactly what happened, because this seems beneath or behind (or before) the realm of conscious thought. Still, some kind of correspondence between cleaning a sacred altar and sifting through cat litter became suddenly and powerfully apparent. Both activities call for focus and attention on the task at hand. And besides, doesn't Buddhism caution against discriminating between the sacred and the profane (and does it get much more profane than cat excrement)? For me, this incident offers a lesson about being fully present and practicing in every moment, and it suggests that awakening is more random than rational.
Emma: Have you two ever noticed how those moments of awakening, of opening, often have this tender quality to them? For me, they arise with such softness and compassion. Yes, Bruce, I agree that they aren't rational. I never have these kinds of realizations after thinking and thinking and thinking. I wonder about their randomness. They seem random. But I wonder. Perhaps we always plant the seed for them. We sit, we listen, we stay open (or at least try), and when the time is right, when we are ready to see, the realization comes, as if from nowhere.
I love how related your realizations are—that we're always on the path ("in the stream"), whether we're being chiden or cleaning up after the cat, that's it's all life, beautiful, terrible, extraordinary, ordinary life. My favorite awakenings are the ones that humble me, sometimes so much so that I'm dumbstruck. They happen when I’ve been rigid, strongly convinced I am right about something or better than or apart from. Out of this contracted, lonely way of being, I’m shown my place in the order of things, my absolute value in messy humanity.
Kim: I got into my car the other day and felt something crawling on the back of my neck. I brushed it off. “Wow. That was big,” I thought. I turned on my interior lights, but couldn't see anything, so I went on my way. Then today I started to get in my car and a rather giant spider had built a web in the front passenger seat. The foreboding creature was in the middle of the web, waiting for me. At first I thought I'd vacuum him to oblivion, but then I felt a little compassion for the scary beast and thought I'd use a broom to move him outside. Then I started to imagine that he'd jump off the broom back into the recesses of my car and kill me at some indiscreet moment. (Is there ever a discreet moment to die?)
So I vacuumed up the spider and his web. (Was it a he or she? I don't know) Then I opened up the shop vac and saw the poor little dead spider huddled along the bottom edge of the tank. He went from being a beautiful gold color to a very dark brown, after being covered with dust.
I went on my way, rushing to the Zen center to sit. Rushing to sit is always a fun contradiction. Next thing I knew, a car failed to stop at a stop sign and was a few inches from the side of my car. I saw time freeze as I made a sudden swerve and survived the near hit. “Ah ha!” I thought. “Payback for murdering the spider.”
I told my wife my theory about the near accident. “But you weren't in an accident. How is that payback?”
“I was given a pass. This time.”
Bruce: It's very interesting that you describe a near-hit, Kim, because I was just thinking about something I once heard on a Zen podcast. This person observed that enlightenment is accidental in the sense of striking us unexpectedly, when we're not looking. Yet while we can't aim for awakening, exactly, what we can do is make ourselves more "accident-prone" through regular, mindful practice. Also, I have to say that "rushing to sit" reminds me of the expression "hurry up and wait."
Emma, you remind me that my favorite poetry captures the miraculous in the mundane, the “extraordinary ordinary, ” as you put it. And you're probably right to suspect the randomness of these eureka moments. Maybe this is how we're able to redirect karma, by planting seeds. Still, in typical Zen fashion, it's not a direct process of creating Cause A in order to reap Benefit B: in that sense, “deliberate randomness” may be a reasonable way of framing it. Live mindfully, simultaneously cultivating skillful means and letting go, trusting that the moments of realization and opening will come.
Emma: Ooooohhh. I like “deliberate randomness,” Bruce. It reminds me of this drawing I've seen of a man fishing from a dock. Next to him is a basket. A fish from behind him is jumping out of the water into his basket. What a great image for deliberate randomness. We can set the stage (and fish our hearts out) and then let go of how, or even whether, the fish will actually come to us. Someone very dear to me once told me you can have everything you need if you're not attached to where it comes from. He said it during a time of many small and large awakenings for me, the beginning of my redirecting my attention from what I thought was going to make me happy (by force if necessary). Perhaps it was the death of my Bulldozer Nature, or at least my first notice that trying to force my life to be how I wanted not only wasn't working but was making me miserable.
My Zen practice is the first thing I've ever done where I've given myself permission to be gentle, to take it slow. Although I sometimes have the odd thought I'm not doing enough, or doing it “right,” (yesterday, I decided I wasn't reading enough), I feel I am being drawn to practice by a childlike sweetness and an adult desire for wholeheartedness. It is extraordinary to me that we come together to learn how to be present. It's an entirely different process unfolding. I like your story, Kim. How different to even ponder not killing the spider. That's what meditation reveals to us, right? The pauses, the awareness of the gap between urge and action. It gives us the time to notice that we have a choice whether we will respond or react.
Bruce: I can totally relate to Bulldozer Nature, as that was very much my M.O. for many years (not that I'm claiming to be totally beyond it now). Also, the gap between urge and action was exactly how I was describing the effects of meditation on myself to some friends about six months ago.
As for blending childlike sweetness and an adult desire for wholeheartedness, my experience suggests that children are sweet, yes, and authentic, but without desiring to be so, without having to think about it. They're also angry, impatient, and various other flavors of not-so-sweet: point is, they are whatever they are in any given moment, slipping into and out of mind/emotional states much more readily than most adults. So you know that statement attributed to Jesus about needing to be like little children in order to reach the kingdom of heaven? I think he was on to something with that.
Kim: A dog came up to me and sniffed my pant leg. Satisfied, he walked away. Did he smell the dog that I'd been with? Did he think, “Oh, he was around a dog that smelled like . . .” As I watched the sniffer, I was particularly interested in that point at which the sniff made sense. He was so abrupt at that certain point, as if saying, “Ah ha, I know who he's been with.” We move from being an input device to a central processing system. We think, “I have the data. Now I know.” That, for me, is “eureka.”
(Note: Bruce Smith's blog: http://writelearning.wordpress.com Kim Mosley's blog: http://blog.kimmosley.com More posts like this: http://emmakimdialogue.blogspot.com )
Sun-faced Buddha, Moon-faced Buddha (Mike McCarty)
In this journey whatever happens to us is something that should happen. Life has a way of teaching us complete composure … if we listen.
A few weeks ago I was struck with a sudden illness, an overnight onset of severe arthritic pain, sometimes so severe that I couldn’t walk. I was anemic and lost twelve pounds in one week. Hospitalized, fear of the unknown began to invade my thoughts. The many blood samples given, scans and tests administered, along with the various specialists called in, they all became characters to some internal tragic drama concocted in my mind.
In this moment of weakness instead of turning from the illusion of all the drama swirling around me I turned to levity to mask my confusion. I said within myself, I will have comedy and not drama. I posted a photo on a popular social networking site of my torso arms extended crucified with IV’s in both arms. The responses from friends included many get wells and thinking of you, but one held a cure; not for the immediate wellness of my body, but for the wellness of my mind. It was from Kim (ever the teacher), and it simply stated: “Sun faced Buddha, Moon faced Buddha.”
The Sun-faced Buddha is supposed to live for one thousand eight hundred years. And the Moon-faced Buddha lives only one day and one night. And so, when I am sick, I am like the Moon-faced Buddha, and when I am healthy, I am like the Sun-faced Buddha. But neither the Sun-faced Buddha nor the Moon-faced Buddha has any special meaning because there is no difference; whether ill or healthy we must be disciplined enough to seek a calm body and mind experience, and be able to listen with enough concentration to experience insight into the nature of our existence.
This is my body; I embrace both it and the experience it brings. So, don't worry about my health … “Sun-faced Buddha, Moon-faced Buddha.”
Another Lesson (Allee Blatner)
Another lesson around a litter box: A now and forever moment?
One of my joys in the teachings in Buddhism is how practical they are.
And on reflection, how profound.
I recently visited my son and his family who have two cats.
Arising after my grandsons had left for school, I noticed the uncleaned litter box.
The night before, I listened as the two boys negotiated who would clean the litter box and who would feed the cats. The one who promised to clean the box before school ... forgot.
As I looked at the litter box, the teaching-by-a-rule-book part of me thought,
“He will really learn a lesson when he gets home this afternoon.”
However at the same moment, my heart viewed the situation and comprehended the reality, “The cats have no clean place to deposit their waste during the day.”
I automatically scooped out the box and replaced it with clean litter.
Later when my son noticed and thanked me, I stopped to reflect on my action.
The simple truth of the situation had come with such ease and clarity.
All of this happened by “the viewer” shifting to my heart.
In meditation I practice “getting my head out of the way” and then
it happened naturally when I was faced with an ordinary decision.
The action of “no thought” seems simple and profound.
I was the one who learned a lesson that day ...
perhaps about Buddha's teaching on compassion.
Challenge #4
http://twentytwowords.com/2012/05/08/the-rebel-and-the-buddhist-monk/ (click on the link to see a picture of the rebel and the monk. Who is the rebel? Who is the monk?)
Rebel or monk—is there a place in Zen for rebels as well as monks? Maybe we need to fall down out of our grand rebellion and be ordinary. Or maybe we need to shake things up—drive out complacency and inertia with the cayenne of bright revolt. Let your inner rebel or your inner monk speak.
Send your contributions to Kim Mosley at mr@kimmosley.com before 6/15/12.
Rebel or monk—is there a place in Zen for rebels as well as monks? Maybe we need to fall down out of our grand rebellion and be ordinary. Or maybe we need to shake things up—drive out complacency and inertia with the cayenne of bright revolt. Let your inner rebel or your inner monk speak.
Send your contributions to Kim Mosley at mr@kimmosley.com before 6/15/12.
Alan the Rebel-Monk (Katherine Moore)
“I am a total jerk.”
“Yes you are! You put your foot in your mouth with that one!”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You just had to share some of that enlightened Derek philosophy.”
“Anita, how is Alan a monk? He goes and visits this church or a temple or what-have-you in the old steak house next to the liquor store and then three weeks later he’s telling me he’s a monk. What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well according to your wisdom, it means he either can’t deal with normal life and has to lock himself away in a temple or he’s on an ego trip trying to prove how morally superior he is to everyone.”
“Yeah, thanks for the heads up. I wouldn’t have said that to him if I would have known he taken monk vows.”
“I think they are called precepts. And I am sorry. It was wrong of me. I just really wanted to see the look on your face when Alan broke the news. And I’m sorry again, but it was totally worth it! You just sat there with your mouth hanging open in shock!”
“I don’t even know why this surprises me. We are talking about Alan, the guy who ran away with the carnival last summer. In all reality, this is more normal. Instead of getting a phone call from Indiana that the carnie folk haven’t paid him in a month and he has no money to get home, I’m just going to get a phone call from the old Black Angus that he needs a ride home since he no longer drives and it’s raining.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic. This could be good for him. He’s given up drinking and smoking and eating meat. Maybe he’s just trying to change his life for the better.”
“He’s changing too much at once. He’s setting himself up for failure. Moreover I really think if you take a vow to not drive, you shouldn’t be asking me for a ride back to your house.”
“Oh stop. It’s not like you were put out. He only lives a few minutes away.”
“Exactly! If you took a vow to not drive, walk home! That’s all I’m saying. . . Besides Alan is doing this both because he has a problem dealing with the real world and because he wants to act morally superior over other people. So it’s not like my philosophy is wrong.”
“I don’t think that’s it. I think he really wants to make life changes and he’s found a support group to help him through that change.”
“At the Black Angus Temple? Next to the liquor store? Give me a break. That is not a religious group. Those are modern day non-profit squatters.”
Anita laughs at this and says, “I really don’t know what to think about the temple he’s joined. He seemed to rebel against religion so strongly in the past. Why he would embrace religion or more specifically this group of people at this point in his life does confuse me.”
“Well . . . I would be worried that this was a cult out to get all Alan’s life savings, but then I know Alan doesn’t have any money. So I guess they just like his company.”
“Oh our Alan. Always doing some crazy thing. He keeps us on our toes.”
“Great. Our rebel monk. Can’t wait to see how this plays out.”
“Yes you are! You put your foot in your mouth with that one!”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You just had to share some of that enlightened Derek philosophy.”
“Anita, how is Alan a monk? He goes and visits this church or a temple or what-have-you in the old steak house next to the liquor store and then three weeks later he’s telling me he’s a monk. What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well according to your wisdom, it means he either can’t deal with normal life and has to lock himself away in a temple or he’s on an ego trip trying to prove how morally superior he is to everyone.”
“Yeah, thanks for the heads up. I wouldn’t have said that to him if I would have known he taken monk vows.”
“I think they are called precepts. And I am sorry. It was wrong of me. I just really wanted to see the look on your face when Alan broke the news. And I’m sorry again, but it was totally worth it! You just sat there with your mouth hanging open in shock!”
“I don’t even know why this surprises me. We are talking about Alan, the guy who ran away with the carnival last summer. In all reality, this is more normal. Instead of getting a phone call from Indiana that the carnie folk haven’t paid him in a month and he has no money to get home, I’m just going to get a phone call from the old Black Angus that he needs a ride home since he no longer drives and it’s raining.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic. This could be good for him. He’s given up drinking and smoking and eating meat. Maybe he’s just trying to change his life for the better.”
“He’s changing too much at once. He’s setting himself up for failure. Moreover I really think if you take a vow to not drive, you shouldn’t be asking me for a ride back to your house.”
“Oh stop. It’s not like you were put out. He only lives a few minutes away.”
“Exactly! If you took a vow to not drive, walk home! That’s all I’m saying. . . Besides Alan is doing this both because he has a problem dealing with the real world and because he wants to act morally superior over other people. So it’s not like my philosophy is wrong.”
“I don’t think that’s it. I think he really wants to make life changes and he’s found a support group to help him through that change.”
“At the Black Angus Temple? Next to the liquor store? Give me a break. That is not a religious group. Those are modern day non-profit squatters.”
Anita laughs at this and says, “I really don’t know what to think about the temple he’s joined. He seemed to rebel against religion so strongly in the past. Why he would embrace religion or more specifically this group of people at this point in his life does confuse me.”
“Well . . . I would be worried that this was a cult out to get all Alan’s life savings, but then I know Alan doesn’t have any money. So I guess they just like his company.”
“Oh our Alan. Always doing some crazy thing. He keeps us on our toes.”
“Great. Our rebel monk. Can’t wait to see how this plays out.”
The Choice (Michael McCarty)
Between the rebel and the monk, it seems the choice, at least for me, is one of expediency. In my lifetime I have been both; though, in looking back, it is difficult to fully distinguish between the two. That line of separation has blurred somewhat, not because of passing time, but because of a greater awareness.
Yes, while I was in the moment, I owned the perception of what I thought was a clear distinction between the two and I embraced each with equal and separate excess. As a rebel I tested boundaries, pushing the line as far as possible indulging in eccentric behavior ... and as a monk I explored the paradigm of self-centricity through detachment. The rebel in me sought truth in contrast, in terms of black and white ... and the monk in me sought truth in homogeneity, in infinite shades of grey.
As I look back now I can relate to the concept of adaptive strategy relative to those instances of excess as expedient means. You’ve heard the expression, “The end justifies the means.” At first impression the phrase has an admitted Machiavellian slant. But consider, as a path to enlightenment, a process involving the pragmatic use of various means. One means may not represent the best or most enlightened choice but it may lead to a place where other means may be employed. There is however this caveat; one must always opt for more desirable means as they become apparent. The rebel becomes the monk and the monk becomes the “Rebel” Monk. The implication is that even if each excess was not ultimately “true” in the highest sense, each may still be considered a valid and expedient path in the sense that each path inched closer to true realization anyway.
In time you come to see that discrimination is an illusion. That, the rebel and the monk are not necessarily separate paths leading in opposite directions; but in fact can be unified steps within a single stride. As one cohesive process, and as unified in the Rebel Monk, they include the right paradigm of non-discrimination, non-separation, the absence of a pair of opposites and unity of a pair of opposites, and ultimately freedom from duality. From an artistic viewpoint: the process of the Rebel and the Monk reminds me of Chiaroscuro, an Italian term which literally means “light-dark” where three-dimensional volume is suggested by the value gradation of color and the analytical division of light and shadow shapes—often called shading. The contrast created by line (as representation of the Rebel) creates shape but the graduating homogeneity of shadow (as representation of the Monk) gives shape its recognizable form. Even so, the resulting image is only a mirror of reality and is, alas, an illusion itself.
Yes, while I was in the moment, I owned the perception of what I thought was a clear distinction between the two and I embraced each with equal and separate excess. As a rebel I tested boundaries, pushing the line as far as possible indulging in eccentric behavior ... and as a monk I explored the paradigm of self-centricity through detachment. The rebel in me sought truth in contrast, in terms of black and white ... and the monk in me sought truth in homogeneity, in infinite shades of grey.
As I look back now I can relate to the concept of adaptive strategy relative to those instances of excess as expedient means. You’ve heard the expression, “The end justifies the means.” At first impression the phrase has an admitted Machiavellian slant. But consider, as a path to enlightenment, a process involving the pragmatic use of various means. One means may not represent the best or most enlightened choice but it may lead to a place where other means may be employed. There is however this caveat; one must always opt for more desirable means as they become apparent. The rebel becomes the monk and the monk becomes the “Rebel” Monk. The implication is that even if each excess was not ultimately “true” in the highest sense, each may still be considered a valid and expedient path in the sense that each path inched closer to true realization anyway.
In time you come to see that discrimination is an illusion. That, the rebel and the monk are not necessarily separate paths leading in opposite directions; but in fact can be unified steps within a single stride. As one cohesive process, and as unified in the Rebel Monk, they include the right paradigm of non-discrimination, non-separation, the absence of a pair of opposites and unity of a pair of opposites, and ultimately freedom from duality. From an artistic viewpoint: the process of the Rebel and the Monk reminds me of Chiaroscuro, an Italian term which literally means “light-dark” where three-dimensional volume is suggested by the value gradation of color and the analytical division of light and shadow shapes—often called shading. The contrast created by line (as representation of the Rebel) creates shape but the graduating homogeneity of shadow (as representation of the Monk) gives shape its recognizable form. Even so, the resulting image is only a mirror of reality and is, alas, an illusion itself.
Rebel-Monks (Bruce Smith)
What we are called to, I think, is life as rebel-monks. At least, this has long been a powerful draw for me when it comes to this both/and, neither/nor tradition called Zen: that it straddles, bridges, melts, and blows up dichotomies such as rebel versus monk. We who practice are rebels in swimming against the cultural mainstream, straying from the herd of convention, coloring outside the lines of our conditioning. Yet we also require the discipline, community, and contemplativeness of monks in order to transform rebellion into growth and positive action. We wage an ordinary, daily revolt, wrestling with conceptions and direct experience, bodies and minds, time and space. Are we rebels? Are we monks? Who are we when we sit and face the wall, and just breathe?
All is Well (Quandra T. McGrue)
This month’s topic reminds me of a discussion I had with myself one night. I asked myself if people are inherently good or bad. Since I let go of religion, I hadn’t figured out how to answer this question. I felt frustrated because I thought a reasonable argument could support either viewpoint. I wanted an answer but had no real basis on which to choose the right answer. Then, I thought about how I act when I’m assuming the people around me are inherently good. The issue, I decided, isn’t whether either position is right. I have since chosen to believe people are inherently good because it motivates better behavior on my part. I think I am a better person when I’m trusting the goodness in others.
That said, I think I would apply a similar thought process to this idea of whether there’s a place for the rebel and the monk in Zen. I think the question of whether there’s a place for either is moot because periodically one or the other will surface. Once either role has surfaced, its presence has already affirmed its place. In response, I need to muster the highest level of awareness and wisdom I can. I need to attend to the rebel or monk that’s here, now. Either one rises because it needs my attention, or it’s pointing me to something that needs my attention. My compassionate attention. It’s helpful to practice compassionate presence with whatever arises. It’s not a matter of one role being intrinsically appropriate. Every experience or state can serve awakening to the extent I’m present with it. Any state, in my practice, is less harmful to the extent that I cultivate compassion along with my sense of presence.
I like the quote at the end of Kosho’s email signature: “It’s not outside. It’s not inside. It’s not both inside and outside. It’s not neither outside nor inside. Everything’s a mess, yet all is well.” (Ezra Bayda)
That said, I think I would apply a similar thought process to this idea of whether there’s a place for the rebel and the monk in Zen. I think the question of whether there’s a place for either is moot because periodically one or the other will surface. Once either role has surfaced, its presence has already affirmed its place. In response, I need to muster the highest level of awareness and wisdom I can. I need to attend to the rebel or monk that’s here, now. Either one rises because it needs my attention, or it’s pointing me to something that needs my attention. My compassionate attention. It’s helpful to practice compassionate presence with whatever arises. It’s not a matter of one role being intrinsically appropriate. Every experience or state can serve awakening to the extent I’m present with it. Any state, in my practice, is less harmful to the extent that I cultivate compassion along with my sense of presence.
I like the quote at the end of Kosho’s email signature: “It’s not outside. It’s not inside. It’s not both inside and outside. It’s not neither outside nor inside. Everything’s a mess, yet all is well.” (Ezra Bayda)
Love, Souls, Rebellion, Refuge: A Dialogue (Kim Mosley & Emma Skogstad)
Kim: Emerson said, "A true friend is one soul in two bodies." I heard this in a movie last night, but it was said a little differently, and it made me think of the two men holding hands. The guy in the movie said that his Polish grandmother had said that when two bodies touch, their souls become one. The woman (who at that point was quite antagonistic) said that Emerson had said that, not his granny. So what is going on with these guys, anyway?
Emma: I see a lot of love—love manifesting as a cigarette-smoking bad-ass, as a sultry monk. It's all the same love, overflowing. They walk like allies, two kids against the world. They hold hands to remind each other of something.
Kim: I think "remind" is important—that they've had a connection for some time.
"Against" is important to me too—that their connection separates them from a world that may not be as warm and friendly.
So I told my wife the Emerson quote and she said that he was wrong, that it is more like a multi-colored marble (“it” being the soul) that happens when people touch.
So what is this soul thing, anyway, which Buddhists don't buy? And what is the relationship of these guys?
And why does the photo hit us right in the heart?
Emma: It does hit us right in the heart, doesn't it? I think that's because it so perfectly presents the intimacy we're all looking for: that deep, all-the-way-down-to-the toes feeling of being known. Everything is revealed (look at that shoulder!); nothing is rejected.
They walk like they have a secret—something perfect and beautiful that belongs to both of them and none of us. Maybe it's that they're lovers on their way to a make-out session. Whatever it is, I want it.
I think soul is a word God gave poets so they could talk about this kind of love. Hands being held, limbs intertwined, words whispered . . . that's all good. But souls meeting . . . that's happening somewhere else entirely. Souls meet in the ocean of being. I think Buddhists might be okay with that.
So who's right, your wife or Emerson? What do you think these kids are up to?
Kim: Eric Fromm talked about "dual egotism" as a negative thing, where we get so close to someone we lose who we are. I think that was my wife's objection to the idea of the bodies having one soul. Emerson was being a little more romantic about it that she is.
I don't see them off to a make-out session. That didn't enter my mind. But a little homophobic element may have made me squirm a little—I can't quite remember what I felt when I first saw it.
Imagine if we were all one giant marble with each of us having our own swirl. That's the meaning for me of "not one, not two." Emerson was doing a little hyperbole, don't you think?
I'm now looking again at the picture. The rebel is holding the monk's hand (not the other way around). The monk is looking at the photographer. The shirt says AC/DC Black Ice. Here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Ice_(album)) is more than you want to know about that group. AC/DC used to be a reference to people who would do it with either sex, but I'm not going to jump to that conclusion. Theravada monks can touch people of the same sex.
Those are bike gloves the rebel is wearing. Maybe they are part of his toughness. I now remember that I thought they were brothers. There is a chain hanging from the rebel's right hand. Why?
Holding hands in a market makes some sense since it is so easy to lose someone.
Now, back to the soul. I heard the word "consciousness" as what moves to another when we die. I think that is more fluid and less permanent than a soul. It would change by the moment.
So why does one photograph touch our heart while another doesn't?
Emma: I liked your wife's image of us as swirls in a marble. Intimacy is meeting in the places of our samenesses and our differences. We don't connect with everyone, right? The sameness isn't enough--there's something about a few special swirls that makes our hearts sing. It's the same with art to a certain extent—what resonates with me is not necessarily going to rock your world.
But some photographs do seem to captivate in a universal way—I'm thinking of the Afghan girl (http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2002/04/afghan-girl/index-text). That child's angry, riveting eyes . . . Maybe we more clearly see ourselves in the photographs that touch our hearts.
The AC/DC kid's got a whole rebel thing going—I think the t-shirt and chain are just a part of that. He's maintaining an image. I guess the monk is, too, in his own way. If you put your curser over the source image, it says “An Odd Couple—Buddhist Brothers.”
It's curious to me how much I wanted them to be lovers. I think part of it is conditioning that says that kind of love can come only from a romantic partner. But I think too, it was coming from a deep longing for anyone in love to be able to hold hands anywhere in the world and stare down a camera with that much certainty. "Yes, I'm in love. What are you going to do about it?" kind of thing.
Pure consciousness is fluid, yes, ever responding. Consciousness allows for complete transformation, moment to moment. It is freedom from everything we think we are. Consciousness doesn't need to be "saved" from anything. It just is. Souls let us think we can exist forever, but there's a heavy price to be paid for that kind of certainty: we don't get to keep changing and growing and exploring. Souls could be that fluid, too, if only we'd be brave enough to let them. Letting go of the idea that we're not forever is scary.
Kim: I know that photo of the Afghan girl. I heard the photographer talk about it. He was surprised how it touched so many people.
I wish that we'd have more people holding hands who come from different places, like Republicans and Democrats, Jews and Muslims (though that is happening a little), etc.
In ancient Greece supposedly the intimate relationships were between men and boys, and marriage was for different purposes. I wonder to what extent that is true today—not necessarily between men and boys, but between friends. I sense that friends often have a greater intimacy than husbands and wives. A psychologist William Glasser said it was because we don't criticize our friends (because we'll lose them as friends) but we'll criticize our family. He also said, "Caring for but never trying to own may be a further way to define friendship."
Look at the withholding of judgment that must have taken place for the odd couple to exist. No one is right or wrong. They both are who they are.
D.H. Lawrence wrote in a letter, "I am glad that you are in love. That is the right way to be—happy and in love, and if there are friends to help the love along—tant mieux (so much the better)." That letter was on the cover of a book of his letters that I found when I was 18. It stuck.
Emma: Yes, I suppose different relationships have different purposes. I don't know if it matters, ultimately. I have found the deepest, most profound love open up in unlikely relationships, most certainly not where I wanted or expected it to come. But when love is flowing, truly flowing, it just flows everywhere. It's just love all around, life saturated in love. There's even space to dislike people, to be angry with them, perhaps even to hate them for a while, but the love keeps flowing. When that happens, it doesn't matter what opened up the source, what turned on the tap, so to speak. The tap's just on, and the love is there. When I'm contracted, when I can't feel my own love, I have all these ideas—that there are certain relationships for this and that, that this kind of relationship is more important than that kind (hence the wanting the Buddhist kids to be in love). When I'm opened up and present, it doesn't matter. I don't need to own anyone or have anyone be any certain way.
I'm not claiming to live in this space, but it's nice to visit.
I love these young men. I hope their love provides them with an occasional sanctuary from the world for a very long time.
Kim: Yes, this for me is what "taking refuge in the sangha" is about—a place to open your heart.
Challenge #3
Dogen said, "Do not follow the ideas of others, but learn to listen to
the voice within yourself." Listen to the voice within yourself. What does
it say?
the voice within yourself." Listen to the voice within yourself. What does
it say?
Listening (E.L. Tessier)
"You hear them."
"Hear what?"
"Cut it out."
"No, really. Hear what?"
"The voices, stupid."
"What do they say?"
Trey glowered at me, clearly exasperated that I was maintaining the myth so many other people persecuted him with—that only he could hear the voices. But it was true. We only seemed to occupy a single reality. There were two, and his had the fuller soundtrack.
"Hear what?"
"Cut it out."
"No, really. Hear what?"
"The voices, stupid."
"What do they say?"
Trey glowered at me, clearly exasperated that I was maintaining the myth so many other people persecuted him with—that only he could hear the voices. But it was true. We only seemed to occupy a single reality. There were two, and his had the fuller soundtrack.
Turn towards, not away. (Peter Einhorn)
Turn towards, not away.
Embrace!
Awareness of the noise,
Like a Klieg light,
Helps me see clearly.
Or is it a mirror?
Perhaps...
The ideas come from outside
But reach something inside
Not all, but part.
Like the eagle
On the back of a quarter.
It is there, always there
That voice in me
Telling me that I am what they say,
That things are as they will.
Ego!
It isn’t the ideas of others
But the voice in me accepting
That must be seen through.
I hear you frightened voice.
I see you.
I love you.
You are me.
Not all, but part.
And I love you, scared child.
Embrace!
Awareness of the noise,
Like a Klieg light,
Helps me see clearly.
Or is it a mirror?
Perhaps...
The ideas come from outside
But reach something inside
Not all, but part.
Like the eagle
On the back of a quarter.
It is there, always there
That voice in me
Telling me that I am what they say,
That things are as they will.
Ego!
It isn’t the ideas of others
But the voice in me accepting
That must be seen through.
I hear you frightened voice.
I see you.
I love you.
You are me.
Not all, but part.
And I love you, scared child.
Listen (Emma Skogstad)
It will become so clear,
the voice that will arise
out of the whirling din,
free from the children whispering,
“Stay silent and safe”;
the teenagers swearing, laughing, cynical;
the jeering crowds roaring,
“Who do you think you are?”
Out of all that noise, this voice
Will be soft and certain:
“You are you,” it will say.
“Befriend everything.”
In words, in longing,
in a solitary quiver
deep within the body,
this voice will urge you on,
deeper and deeper
into your own messy humanity,
prodding you into grace and foolishness,
into heartbreaking misunderstandings
and merciful intimacy with your senses,
mud between your toes,
the soft hands of another on your hands.
It won’t direct you to bliss
or moral perfection, this voice,
but it will guide you in the direction
of your own authentic life,
where you will listen, ever attentive,
for reminders from the one that loves you.
the voice that will arise
out of the whirling din,
free from the children whispering,
“Stay silent and safe”;
the teenagers swearing, laughing, cynical;
the jeering crowds roaring,
“Who do you think you are?”
Out of all that noise, this voice
Will be soft and certain:
“You are you,” it will say.
“Befriend everything.”
In words, in longing,
in a solitary quiver
deep within the body,
this voice will urge you on,
deeper and deeper
into your own messy humanity,
prodding you into grace and foolishness,
into heartbreaking misunderstandings
and merciful intimacy with your senses,
mud between your toes,
the soft hands of another on your hands.
It won’t direct you to bliss
or moral perfection, this voice,
but it will guide you in the direction
of your own authentic life,
where you will listen, ever attentive,
for reminders from the one that loves you.
Puzzle (Mike McCarthy)
Notice the misplaced pieces of the puzzle’s border next to Kennedy’s image? They are supposed to fit on the opposite side where indeed there are similarly mismatched pieces. I have found that the more complex the puzzle, the greater the possibility the die has repeated itself. Though the continuity of the image may not be the same, the shape and fit of an individual piece or pieces suggests a different but equal and perhaps even greater validity. I keep this framed puzzle in my office to remind me of that small still voice that is resolved to alter our cookie cutter image of reality.
Challenge #2: Crossing the Stream
Challenge: There’s a stream to cross and a raft to get us there. We look to the other side with longing as we stand in an arid land. We step on the raft, become stream-enterers, pole with diligence. A day may come when the green of that far land rises up on every side.
I am thirsty
(Emma Skogstad)
I am thirsty, a pebble,
Stooped and lonely bones
And stone.
I am parched and longing and gone.
I am eating a mango,
Sweet, my life tastes sweet
And meaty.
Communion: fruit drips down my chin.
I am stepping off the raft,
There are no waters
Between the arid and the lush places—
Between thirsty and sated.
There is only a spasm and then expansion,
Forgetting and then remembering,
Distraction and then presence,
Then and then now.
Stooped and lonely bones
And stone.
I am parched and longing and gone.
I am eating a mango,
Sweet, my life tastes sweet
And meaty.
Communion: fruit drips down my chin.
I am stepping off the raft,
There are no waters
Between the arid and the lush places—
Between thirsty and sated.
There is only a spasm and then expansion,
Forgetting and then remembering,
Distraction and then presence,
Then and then now.
I tried to cross the river
(Heather Martin)
Many times, over many years, I tried to cross the river. I had heard and read about the wonders of the other side: the trees straight and tall, the flowers vibrant and scented, the sky far more open than the tiny mind can conceive. The river was so wide that I could see only hazy outlines, but this only made me want to cross more.
When I tried, I would often find myself walking for days and weeks only ankle deep, and the opposite shore never came closer. I tried the kinds of boats other people told me had worked, but they leaked or sank or swirled endlessly in stinking eddies.
Determined, I came across the path to a new spot that I had heard rumors about. I started walking. Soon, very soon, the water was up to my knees. Elated, I rested rarely. The water got higher. As it rose to my waist it got swifter, and I became afraid. I tried to turn back in panic, but I had lost all sense of direction. My feet lost the bottom, I tumbled, and was carried away. I reached for anything to save myself. Some lunatic shouted to me to let go, but I didn't have the luxury of deciding to listen or not - every branch and hand was torn from my grasp in short order. I fought as long as my body would obey me, which was much longer than I would have thought. I had strength I did not know before, amazing strength to hold on to tiny branches with broken fingers, but it was not enough to change anything. I made my best effort even for a long time after I had not a single fiber of muscle left.
I thought about all the people who had drowned before me, and felt a deep kinship with them. I admired both their efforts not to drown, and their acceptance of it happening. How sad, I thought, and how mighty. How beautiful.
And I gave up with my whole heart.
I woke on the shore, soaking wet. I was so thrilled and relieved to be present, anywhere, that for a moment I didn't notice that I was at what seemed to be a narrow place in the river. I could easily see both shores from that one spot. The trees, the flowers, and the sky were shockingly lovely, but absolutely ordinary, and quite obviously precisely the same on both sides of the water.
I laughed and laughed, and still do not know whether I crossed or not.
When I tried, I would often find myself walking for days and weeks only ankle deep, and the opposite shore never came closer. I tried the kinds of boats other people told me had worked, but they leaked or sank or swirled endlessly in stinking eddies.
Determined, I came across the path to a new spot that I had heard rumors about. I started walking. Soon, very soon, the water was up to my knees. Elated, I rested rarely. The water got higher. As it rose to my waist it got swifter, and I became afraid. I tried to turn back in panic, but I had lost all sense of direction. My feet lost the bottom, I tumbled, and was carried away. I reached for anything to save myself. Some lunatic shouted to me to let go, but I didn't have the luxury of deciding to listen or not - every branch and hand was torn from my grasp in short order. I fought as long as my body would obey me, which was much longer than I would have thought. I had strength I did not know before, amazing strength to hold on to tiny branches with broken fingers, but it was not enough to change anything. I made my best effort even for a long time after I had not a single fiber of muscle left.
I thought about all the people who had drowned before me, and felt a deep kinship with them. I admired both their efforts not to drown, and their acceptance of it happening. How sad, I thought, and how mighty. How beautiful.
And I gave up with my whole heart.
I woke on the shore, soaking wet. I was so thrilled and relieved to be present, anywhere, that for a moment I didn't notice that I was at what seemed to be a narrow place in the river. I could easily see both shores from that one spot. The trees, the flowers, and the sky were shockingly lovely, but absolutely ordinary, and quite obviously precisely the same on both sides of the water.
I laughed and laughed, and still do not know whether I crossed or not.
The Film Maker, the Murdered Boy, and a Socratic Dialogue
(Katherine Moore)
“I think it's baby steps to creating a new way to think about race and
economy in St. Louis (as you've pointed out), and it's very important
to show how the local and federal government play into this vicious
cycle of 'flight and blight' and see how we've been encouraged to
stimulate the economy through racist belief systems.” --- Morton
wrote in an email to me
"I really wanted to research all the dynamics that went into the
phenomenon of white flight in Spanish Lake," Morton said in a recent
telephone interview from Los Angeles. "I came away convinced that this
is not an issue of race but of class and opportunities." --- Moron
quoted on stltoday.com
“A lot of it is class. A lot of it is politics. Race is one dynamic,
but the appearance of the transition does seem cultural. It does seem
like it is a racial thing.” --- Morton on KTVI
“I told you not to trust the guy.”
“You did.”
“He just says whatever he thinks people want to hear.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He tells you that our economy is built on a racist system and he
tells The Post that this ain’t a race thing?”
“He didn’t exactly say the economy was built on a racist system. I
think it was me who said that.”
“That’s why he’s saying something similar to you now. Not because he
believes it, but because he knows that’s what you believe.”
“I don’t think I ever actually said that to him though.”
“Oh for the love of God! Your Facebook is not private!”
“That’s true.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We do. People who talk out both sides of their mouths are jerks.”
“All human beings are inconsistent. And besides, we don’t understand
the nature of the inconsistency.”
“Give me one reason why one would say radically different things like
that.”
“Maybe he is being misquoted by The Post.”
“You’re more comfortable calling The Post guy a liar than calling
Morton two-faced?”
“Six of this. Half a dozen the other. I’m just recognizing
possibility.”
“Fine. What about when he was talking to Randi Naughton?”
“He said race was one dynamic. I agree with that.”
“No. He said it SEEMED like a racial thing.”
“It doesn’t seem like a racial thing to you?”
“He means that it SEEMS like a racial thing, but.”
“But it’s a class and politics thing?”
“If The Post writer isn’t a lair, yeah.”
“Ugh. It’s not like I can do anything about it really. I’m actually
more pissed off at this Rob Levy guy anyway.”
“Who?”
“The writer from The Beacon. You see what he wrote about our home?
Apocalyptic ghost town. American dream to American scream. Gag me with
flamboyant language . . . Look how good my writing is. I use 10 letter
words and make clever rhymes. My overly-dramatic language doesn’t
negatively affect an entire community at all.”
“There’s 11 letters in Apocalyptic.”
“Whatever.”
“Did you ever ask Morton about the inconsistency?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked him what consequences might arise or not arise by framing the
issue away from racism. If one focus on class and/or lack of
opportunity as ‘the problem’, how might the outcome differ from one in
which racism is the focus of ‘the problem?’”
“What’d he say?”
“He never responded.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“I can’t fault him. I haven’t answered all my emails yet either. . . I
have been asking other people the same question though.”
“Who?”
“Erica Huggins.”
“Seriously?”
“She told me that I should ask the question of the film maker and take
things from there.”
“That’s obvious. Why’d you ask her? Seems random.”
“Perspective. See how someone outside of myself would answer the
question. See if maybe I was missing something important.”
“And Erica Huggins knows about Spanish Lake because?”
“I thought she might know something about how racism gets talked about
that maybe I wasn’t considering. Plus she just seems like a kind
person.”
“Who else did you ask?”
“Some ladies on the panel after the Pruitt-Igoe Myth movie.”
“What they say?”
“The first woman to respond was like, ‘It’s a race thing! You saw the
people in the film!’ There was old footage of white people saying
things like, ‘I moved here because it was a white neighborhood. I
don’t want to live here if it gets black quite frankly.’ An older
woman on the panel began to disagree. This upset the first lady who
said something to the effect of, ‘No! We hide behind politics! We hide
behind ideas of economy!’ The older woman spoke up and said that this
did nothing to address the structural issues of the Pruitt-Igoe
buildings . . . which is probably true . . . Then the politician lady
talked about how lots of people made their careers off Pruitt-Igoe.
She mentioned some PhD’s famed study as an example. All the panelists
scoffed at the mention of his name. She said that by-and-large the
people who profited off Pruitt-Igoe were not African-American people.
She also said that the people of Pruitt-Igoe raised funds to do their
own study or to make their own documentary or something like that.”
“You going to make your own documentary?”
“Buy me a camera. We’ll find out.”
“You ever answer your question for yourself?”
“Yes and no. I’m still processing. I think about the question a lot.
Especially lately with Trayvon’s smiling face staring at me every time
I open my laptop. I think he is an example of the consequence of down-
playing how racism affects the make-up of communities. People are
afraid of Spanish Lake. It’s so dangerous. All these gangsters and
thugs walking around in groups. All these dark-skinned people living
together in a concentrated area. We live in an urban ghetto according
to some and they are scared to come here. And yet this boy walks
through a really nice gated community and gets kill. So what are you
talking about? It makes me angry that white people don’t address the
racism issue more openly. That’s why I’m watching Morton’s words so
closely. I don’t want him to down-play the racism. I don’t want it to
be about just class and lack of opportunity because that’s leaving out
a huge part of things.”
“What about Zimmerman. You think they will arrest him?”
“Yeah. I don’t think he will be found guilty of anything. I remember
Laurence Powell. Somehow this guy seems less scary than Powell.”
“Seems less or SEEMS less, but. . .”
“Beat a man repeatedly with a stick. Shoot an unarmed boy. Six of
this. Half a dozen of the other. But somehow with Zimmerman, I
empathize with him more. He was paranoid. He had fear. He was scared
of a hooded dark-skinned teenager he didn’t recognize. He trailed the
kid even after 911 told him to stop. That was wrong. . . But
somehow . . . That he had this irrational fear . . . it’s the same
fear in many people around us. Zimmerman could have been any one of a
number of people we know. Any one of those people would have been just
doing their best to protect us. Irrationally protecting us.”
“I figured you’d be the first to blast Zimmerman.”
“I too am inconsistent. Today I feel more melancholy than angry. On an
angry day, I probably would bash Zimmerman.”
“What does it all matter anyway? Nothing’s going to change.”
“You don’t believe in the Promised Land?”
“No. I’m not MLK and you’re not MLK. Neither one of us are ever going
to change anything. So why bother?”
“I can’t believe like you. I have to believe differently just to get
out of bed in the morning. I believe we can cross that stream.”
“Stream?”
“Yes . . . I quote, ‘There’s a stream to cross and a raft to get us
there. We look to the other side with longing as we stand in an arid
land. We step on the raft, become stream-enterers, pole with
diligence. A day may come when the green of that far land rises up on
every side.’”
“What’s that from?”
“I have no idea. Sounds Buddhist though doesn’t it.”
“Interesting. . . You’re going to have to give me a good reason to do
anything and that reason can’t be to end racism. I don’t believe that
will ever happen.”
“How about revenge?”
“My interest is peaked.”
“Well, I’m still hating on Rob Levy. I think messing with him would
bring satisfaction.”
“Cyber hack The Beacon?”
“What? No! I was going to say flood his email with lots of positive
images of Spanish Lake.”
“And there goes my interest in your lame revenge plot.”
economy in St. Louis (as you've pointed out), and it's very important
to show how the local and federal government play into this vicious
cycle of 'flight and blight' and see how we've been encouraged to
stimulate the economy through racist belief systems.” --- Morton
wrote in an email to me
"I really wanted to research all the dynamics that went into the
phenomenon of white flight in Spanish Lake," Morton said in a recent
telephone interview from Los Angeles. "I came away convinced that this
is not an issue of race but of class and opportunities." --- Moron
quoted on stltoday.com
“A lot of it is class. A lot of it is politics. Race is one dynamic,
but the appearance of the transition does seem cultural. It does seem
like it is a racial thing.” --- Morton on KTVI
“I told you not to trust the guy.”
“You did.”
“He just says whatever he thinks people want to hear.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He tells you that our economy is built on a racist system and he
tells The Post that this ain’t a race thing?”
“He didn’t exactly say the economy was built on a racist system. I
think it was me who said that.”
“That’s why he’s saying something similar to you now. Not because he
believes it, but because he knows that’s what you believe.”
“I don’t think I ever actually said that to him though.”
“Oh for the love of God! Your Facebook is not private!”
“That’s true.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We do. People who talk out both sides of their mouths are jerks.”
“All human beings are inconsistent. And besides, we don’t understand
the nature of the inconsistency.”
“Give me one reason why one would say radically different things like
that.”
“Maybe he is being misquoted by The Post.”
“You’re more comfortable calling The Post guy a liar than calling
Morton two-faced?”
“Six of this. Half a dozen the other. I’m just recognizing
possibility.”
“Fine. What about when he was talking to Randi Naughton?”
“He said race was one dynamic. I agree with that.”
“No. He said it SEEMED like a racial thing.”
“It doesn’t seem like a racial thing to you?”
“He means that it SEEMS like a racial thing, but.”
“But it’s a class and politics thing?”
“If The Post writer isn’t a lair, yeah.”
“Ugh. It’s not like I can do anything about it really. I’m actually
more pissed off at this Rob Levy guy anyway.”
“Who?”
“The writer from The Beacon. You see what he wrote about our home?
Apocalyptic ghost town. American dream to American scream. Gag me with
flamboyant language . . . Look how good my writing is. I use 10 letter
words and make clever rhymes. My overly-dramatic language doesn’t
negatively affect an entire community at all.”
“There’s 11 letters in Apocalyptic.”
“Whatever.”
“Did you ever ask Morton about the inconsistency?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked him what consequences might arise or not arise by framing the
issue away from racism. If one focus on class and/or lack of
opportunity as ‘the problem’, how might the outcome differ from one in
which racism is the focus of ‘the problem?’”
“What’d he say?”
“He never responded.”
“Of course he didn’t.”
“I can’t fault him. I haven’t answered all my emails yet either. . . I
have been asking other people the same question though.”
“Who?”
“Erica Huggins.”
“Seriously?”
“She told me that I should ask the question of the film maker and take
things from there.”
“That’s obvious. Why’d you ask her? Seems random.”
“Perspective. See how someone outside of myself would answer the
question. See if maybe I was missing something important.”
“And Erica Huggins knows about Spanish Lake because?”
“I thought she might know something about how racism gets talked about
that maybe I wasn’t considering. Plus she just seems like a kind
person.”
“Who else did you ask?”
“Some ladies on the panel after the Pruitt-Igoe Myth movie.”
“What they say?”
“The first woman to respond was like, ‘It’s a race thing! You saw the
people in the film!’ There was old footage of white people saying
things like, ‘I moved here because it was a white neighborhood. I
don’t want to live here if it gets black quite frankly.’ An older
woman on the panel began to disagree. This upset the first lady who
said something to the effect of, ‘No! We hide behind politics! We hide
behind ideas of economy!’ The older woman spoke up and said that this
did nothing to address the structural issues of the Pruitt-Igoe
buildings . . . which is probably true . . . Then the politician lady
talked about how lots of people made their careers off Pruitt-Igoe.
She mentioned some PhD’s famed study as an example. All the panelists
scoffed at the mention of his name. She said that by-and-large the
people who profited off Pruitt-Igoe were not African-American people.
She also said that the people of Pruitt-Igoe raised funds to do their
own study or to make their own documentary or something like that.”
“You going to make your own documentary?”
“Buy me a camera. We’ll find out.”
“You ever answer your question for yourself?”
“Yes and no. I’m still processing. I think about the question a lot.
Especially lately with Trayvon’s smiling face staring at me every time
I open my laptop. I think he is an example of the consequence of down-
playing how racism affects the make-up of communities. People are
afraid of Spanish Lake. It’s so dangerous. All these gangsters and
thugs walking around in groups. All these dark-skinned people living
together in a concentrated area. We live in an urban ghetto according
to some and they are scared to come here. And yet this boy walks
through a really nice gated community and gets kill. So what are you
talking about? It makes me angry that white people don’t address the
racism issue more openly. That’s why I’m watching Morton’s words so
closely. I don’t want him to down-play the racism. I don’t want it to
be about just class and lack of opportunity because that’s leaving out
a huge part of things.”
“What about Zimmerman. You think they will arrest him?”
“Yeah. I don’t think he will be found guilty of anything. I remember
Laurence Powell. Somehow this guy seems less scary than Powell.”
“Seems less or SEEMS less, but. . .”
“Beat a man repeatedly with a stick. Shoot an unarmed boy. Six of
this. Half a dozen of the other. But somehow with Zimmerman, I
empathize with him more. He was paranoid. He had fear. He was scared
of a hooded dark-skinned teenager he didn’t recognize. He trailed the
kid even after 911 told him to stop. That was wrong. . . But
somehow . . . That he had this irrational fear . . . it’s the same
fear in many people around us. Zimmerman could have been any one of a
number of people we know. Any one of those people would have been just
doing their best to protect us. Irrationally protecting us.”
“I figured you’d be the first to blast Zimmerman.”
“I too am inconsistent. Today I feel more melancholy than angry. On an
angry day, I probably would bash Zimmerman.”
“What does it all matter anyway? Nothing’s going to change.”
“You don’t believe in the Promised Land?”
“No. I’m not MLK and you’re not MLK. Neither one of us are ever going
to change anything. So why bother?”
“I can’t believe like you. I have to believe differently just to get
out of bed in the morning. I believe we can cross that stream.”
“Stream?”
“Yes . . . I quote, ‘There’s a stream to cross and a raft to get us
there. We look to the other side with longing as we stand in an arid
land. We step on the raft, become stream-enterers, pole with
diligence. A day may come when the green of that far land rises up on
every side.’”
“What’s that from?”
“I have no idea. Sounds Buddhist though doesn’t it.”
“Interesting. . . You’re going to have to give me a good reason to do
anything and that reason can’t be to end racism. I don’t believe that
will ever happen.”
“How about revenge?”
“My interest is peaked.”
“Well, I’m still hating on Rob Levy. I think messing with him would
bring satisfaction.”
“Cyber hack The Beacon?”
“What? No! I was going to say flood his email with lots of positive
images of Spanish Lake.”
“And there goes my interest in your lame revenge plot.”
Rafter Held in Suspected Intelligence-gathering Mission
(E. L. Tessier)
HOUSTON -- A man poling a raft on Buffalo Bayou was spotted yesterday by an alert motorist, reported to police and arrested in what authorities suspect was an attempt to gauge the response time of local law enforcement.
The barefoot rafter wore a saffron robe and had a shaved head. Police would not comment on his appearance, saying only that they have entered specifics of the incident into a database containing information about terrorist organizations around the world.
The rafter asked his attorney to issue a statement. Police initially barred its publication, saying it might contain code that could endanger national security. A federal judge overrode the gag order on First-Amendment grounds, paving the way for the statement’s release late last night.
“Every single being, even those who are hostile to us, is just as afraid of suffering as we are, and seeks happiness in the same way we do,” the statement said. “Every person has the same right as we do to be happy and not to suffer. So let's take care of others wholeheartedly.”
E.L. Tessier is the pen name of a writer who practices meditation at the Houston Zen Center with the guidance of Abiding Teacher Gaelyn Godwin.
In the Stream
(Sarah Webb)
My hands cup
beneath the surface.
Minnows flit in the bowl
amber inside my fingers
amber against my legs
amber sliding downstream.
I meant to cross this river
reach the trees whose tops
flare yellow in the sun.
Pole hard, I said.
But though these hands are calloused
it is more than a matter of effort
and I find myself here
in the soft water
where minnows brush.
3-24-12
Let's get it straight ...
(Kim Mosley)
Let's get it straight,
or maybe
crooked.
We all want to be
on the other side,
where there aren't
any beer cans
or plastic
bags.
And this ain't no
metaphor. The
other side is not
in the city or on the
moon.
It is about water,
and really about
Nirvana, that place,
so very far away
that we don't even
see it
when we look
in the
mirror.
Metaphors are like bridges ...
(Mike Mccarthy)
Metaphors are like bridges, they give us a link where we can safely cross a stream to the far bank without letting go of the near and more familiar bank. They are like an exercise in consciousness which enables us to imagine the other side without the necessity of getting our feet wet. I find that I can run back and forth across that bridge I create because it remains still and fixed and permanent in my construct of reality.
But there is another truth, “you cannot step twice into the same stream”, and in getting our feet wet we experience the impermanence of our metaphors, we see that everything changes and nothing remains still.
Yet, the more things change the more they become familiar …
But there is another truth, “you cannot step twice into the same stream”, and in getting our feet wet we experience the impermanence of our metaphors, we see that everything changes and nothing remains still.
Yet, the more things change the more they become familiar …
I am earnest.
(Contributed: Michael Uebel)
Hui k'o, the second patriarch of Ch'an, cut off his left arm as a demonstration of his earnestness to cross.
A ship in response
(Eric Travis)
When presented with this challenge, my muddled mind conjures a ship in response. It's the one that Suzuki-roshi said life is like setting sail on when you know it's going to sink. Maybe this raft doesn't. Drowning doesn't seem to be the type of stream-entering referred to here. And with the next thought, I wonder if there's no raft at all and if the green land and the arid land are the same, and have different levels of precipitation.
Another stream of thought starts with the raft as our practice. In my darker moods, I think I'm too stupid to do more than sit on the shore and just stare at the raft. "Yep, there it is." Other times, I'm convinced that I'm on it and I could happily propel myself along forever. Both notions are transient.
Thinking lets one know the raft is there, but can prevent one from whole-heartedly casting off, completely confident that the raft floats.
Specific image from about a week ago: my friend stands in the canoe on the tranquil lake, practicing casting with his fly fishing rod and reel. He does this in the midst of chronic pain, unconcerned about catching anything. He said, "It's probably too late in my life to get very good at fly fishing, but I'd like to get better at it."
Another stream of thought starts with the raft as our practice. In my darker moods, I think I'm too stupid to do more than sit on the shore and just stare at the raft. "Yep, there it is." Other times, I'm convinced that I'm on it and I could happily propel myself along forever. Both notions are transient.
Thinking lets one know the raft is there, but can prevent one from whole-heartedly casting off, completely confident that the raft floats.
Specific image from about a week ago: my friend stands in the canoe on the tranquil lake, practicing casting with his fly fishing rod and reel. He does this in the midst of chronic pain, unconcerned about catching anything. He said, "It's probably too late in my life to get very good at fly fishing, but I'd like to get better at it."
Crossing the Stream
(Maku Mark Frank)
I set out to cross the stream once long ago.
Or maybe it was yesterday.
Funny, time can be like that.
I remember gazing at the other side –
The grassy lowlands beckoning,
The cool, green forest foothills
Rising gently into snowcapped glory…
I remember wondering of the sights up there –
Above the clouds,
Beyond all worldly cares.
Oh, how I longed to tread that path unseen!
Sloping toward sunlit transcendence...
But first I had to cross that stream.
I found a raft of four logs lashed together,
Hidden in the reeds there, half submerged.
And though the vessel’s simple nature had me wondering,
That I could see the other side left me assured.
And so I poled my humble raft into deep waters
With thoughts already soaring high above.
And it was clear that I’d gone way too far to turn back
By the time I felt the current’s tug.
Down, down, down the river took me
Till I’d have gladly kissed the ground on either side,
Past sleeping beachside towns and sweeping bayous,
And out into the ocean deep and wide.
Then just as my raft’s lashings were unraveling
And I was wondering what worse fate I could have met
The wind and waves began to rise up
And the sun began to set.
There was a time I thought myself much stronger
With ample will and strength in store,
But down, down, down those waters pulled me
Till I could fight their power no more.
And as I sank into the blackness
I could think of nothing but that shore
From which I’d gazed up at those snowfields
Feeling in need of something more.
And so I died to all I’d once been.
I died as well to all my dreams.
And as I settled on the ocean floor,
I died to every separate thing.
For one last breath I viewed existence,
For one last cold and watery sigh –
Upon the bottom of the ocean
Immersed within a star-filled sky…
There was a time when crossing to the other side
Still seemed as real as each new breath,
Way back when sun and moon, and stream and tide
Were as distinct as life and death,
Before that death to all illusion
There upon the ocean floor,
Before realizing that just this moment
Is the long sought after other shore.
Or maybe it was yesterday.
Funny, time can be like that.
I remember gazing at the other side –
The grassy lowlands beckoning,
The cool, green forest foothills
Rising gently into snowcapped glory…
I remember wondering of the sights up there –
Above the clouds,
Beyond all worldly cares.
Oh, how I longed to tread that path unseen!
Sloping toward sunlit transcendence...
But first I had to cross that stream.
I found a raft of four logs lashed together,
Hidden in the reeds there, half submerged.
And though the vessel’s simple nature had me wondering,
That I could see the other side left me assured.
And so I poled my humble raft into deep waters
With thoughts already soaring high above.
And it was clear that I’d gone way too far to turn back
By the time I felt the current’s tug.
Down, down, down the river took me
Till I’d have gladly kissed the ground on either side,
Past sleeping beachside towns and sweeping bayous,
And out into the ocean deep and wide.
Then just as my raft’s lashings were unraveling
And I was wondering what worse fate I could have met
The wind and waves began to rise up
And the sun began to set.
There was a time I thought myself much stronger
With ample will and strength in store,
But down, down, down those waters pulled me
Till I could fight their power no more.
And as I sank into the blackness
I could think of nothing but that shore
From which I’d gazed up at those snowfields
Feeling in need of something more.
And so I died to all I’d once been.
I died as well to all my dreams.
And as I settled on the ocean floor,
I died to every separate thing.
For one last breath I viewed existence,
For one last cold and watery sigh –
Upon the bottom of the ocean
Immersed within a star-filled sky…
There was a time when crossing to the other side
Still seemed as real as each new breath,
Way back when sun and moon, and stream and tide
Were as distinct as life and death,
Before that death to all illusion
There upon the ocean floor,
Before realizing that just this moment
Is the long sought after other shore.
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