Uncertainty

There's a lot going on right now but it's difficult to know how to write about it here, at least without sounding like I'm whining.  I'm not  whining. No, really....

I am reminded by a loved  one that getting things out of my head is always helpful, no matter what. On the other hand, I don't want to feel as  if I am vomiting all  over these pages as a way of making myself feel better. Nonetheless, here goes:

• The nature of my work is changing. 


• My son and his wife are moving away. This is a good thing—she is going to graduate school—but Michigan is a long, long, long way from here.


• My mother has been  in a skilled nursing facility for several weeks getting IV antibiotics for a persistent infection. She's home now, but is still not entirely well. Both of my parents are just plain old. Meanwhile, my shoulder has been giving me trouble, making me feel as if I am getting there myself.


• My friend Debbi is dying.


• I have a coworker who's husband is going through much the same process that Debbi has, but he's only at the beginning.


• My relationship with my wife is shifting. Of course, this happens all the time, as anyone in a long-term relationship can attest. But the big changes are more noticeable and the big, noticeable changes come to pass when big events intervene.


• I have lots of committments to travel, pretty much entirely around my family. These are all good things—my parents, my brother's birthday, visiting my son and his wife (and their lovely kitties, to which I am both deeply attached and seriously allergic, an interesting combination). It is all very good and seriously stressful in aggregate.


• When I am stressed (no surprise here) I tend to eat to excess. As I have shared before, I am not an eat-the-whole-cake kind of overeater. To borrow from  the lexicon of alchoholism, I am a maintenance overeater, not a binger. Which has its downside in my ability to remain in denial about it while I am stuffing my face. And (this is key) my lack of discipline about my eating actually adds to my stress rather than relieving it. In the moment it feels good, but then the feeling  of chaos that comes with being so out of control just adds to the stress.


• OK, and this is the hardest one to write about: I just don't feel very connected to my fellow human beings. My communication with family, coworkers and friends is cursory and strained much of the time, when it happens at all. I yearn for more meaningful contact in my life and fly around trying to be all things to all people falling short (I mean, who wouldn't?)

I have nicknamed all this The Five D's: Distance, Dissolution, Disease, Disability, and Death. A cheery group. The point here is, though, that these happen to us all and happen all the time. We are all moving away from each other, if not geographically, then emotionally. We are also all moving toward each other; it is a shifting dance. Dissolution, Disease, Disability, Death—these are in the nature of what it is to be alive, at least if one does not die young. We must all face the dissolution of who we are today in order to become who we will be tomorrow. That it happens gradually for most of us is no proof against having to face the reality of it.

I know that much of what goes on with me is a lack of trust. My meditation group was talking about this just the other day. I don't trust easily and do so rarely. I have pretty good experiential proof that people are not trustworthy. Life itself is one patch of shifting sand after another; it's hard to even trust the ground upon which I stand. Which is the whole point! Yes, the Buddha would say, yes, now you've got it! Nothing is substantial, all is shifting, cloudlike, unable to support your weight. Lie back. There is nothing to do. Nothing to be. Nothing to become but free. It is enough.

Lost

Not sure where to begin. I feel so lost sometimes, as if the core if who I am gets called into question. I know I have written about this feeling a great deal lately. But this is, for me, the most profound of all experiences, this contrast between my reality as a being that does, after all, exist in some form (however ephemeral)  and the truth of the constantly dissolving, crumbling nature of that beingness.

Does this sound very foreign and strange? Contradictory and a little nuts? Yeah, it feels that way to me too, quite often. Yet it also feels more entirely truthful than the next largest truths there are. I want for things to be certain and comfortable, always. Yet because I desire the certainty, I cannot have the comfort; there's a Catch-22 for you! It's as if I had hitched my happiness to the sun always shining—at least once a day for half the day (or thereabouts) my hopes would be dashed.

My parents are old and becoming gradually less able to care for themselves. Contemplation of the inevitability of aging, decay, and death is one of the Buddha's primary instructions to us, an entry point to the holiest of understandings, that all things are of this nature, the nature to arise and pass away. We can understand this intellectually with great profundity, yet have no capacity to face the reality of it in the form of our own illness or injury, or the slow diminution that is the inexorable march toward the end of life as it is experienced by those we love. Because it is deeply uncomfortable, of course. Death is one thing, but gradual loss is quite another. Here's the Buddha's take on this, though: suffering is my resistance to the truth; the experience itself is entirely neutral.

Easy for him to say.

There is another factor in this situation with my parents: we cannot afford to provide them with everything that might make this journey as comfortable as it could be. This precipitates us into hard choices and difficult conversations no one wishes to contemplate.

So much comes down to humility, it seems to me. In the contemplation of the great mysteries, even in thinking of the smaller ones, the minor questions, an honest survey reveals how entirely helpless I am in the face of these forces. Not merely the forces of old age, disease and death, not just the forces of nature that destroy homes and lives, not only the forces of economies and injustice and misplaced societal priorities, no, even in the contemplation of the smallest realities of my existence I am almost entirely powerless to change things. I can choose which shirt I wear today and, perhaps (if I am willing to be uncomfortable) not to wear a shirt at all. But I can choose neither the nature of the body upon which I place the shirt nor the need it feels to be clothed. I cannot willy-nilly decide to disregard decades of conditioning and wear a dashiki instead, not with any level of comfort. I must humble myself to know that I am the sum total of the causes and conditions that brought me to this point. Far from being a free agent, I am at the mercy of that which led to this time in my existence. I must, in the words of the old phrase, "dance with him what brung me".

I am tired today, without any identifiable reason. I have goals and plans and schemes, but I am tired. I probably won't do most of what I had in mind. I must listen when my body tells me to halt. I need to make myself a steward of this body and this mind in order to move forward into a deeper understanding of what it means to have a body and a mind.

There is no easy solution to my parents' situation, of course. There are complexities piled on top of complications. Also to be considered is the fact that the grooves of the relationship between my parents were first laid down over 70 years ago when they first met and have been worn and deepened every day since. We may be as logical, sensible, rational, caring, loving, and reasonable as we wish, yet this will be no proof against these well-worn patterns of love between them. Because it is love, that's clear, even when (especially when?) they bicker or disagree or grow impatient.

I began this post by saying I was lost. And I am. But lostness is the truth of our lives. It is when we consider ourselves found that we are living most in delusion, if only because even if this feeling is true it cannot last. Where I have found myself will change, I will change, and once again I will be lost. We are all wanderers in this wilderness of being alive and human. It is not easy. But it sure beats the alternative. It is enough.

Overcome any bitterness that may have come because you were not up to the magnitude of the pain entrusted to you. Like the mother of the world who carries the pain of the world in her heart, you are sharing in a certain measure of that cosmic pain, and are called upon to meet it in joy instead of self-pity.

  Pir Vilayat Khan

11,000

I just got back from a vacation to that warm-weather hotspot that's all the rage, yes, that's right, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. You just don't know what you're missing....

Well, OK, yes, you do. It was cold and wet and windy. We went there to visit Kathy's family; she has twin sisters who were turning 50 and it was very important that we go there to remind them of just how old they had become. I know, how kind of us. Of course, they are seven years younger than we are, so the force of our needling rhetoric was somewhat lacking.

And I came down with a cold almost as soon as I got there. I never know whether to blame air travel or not. I used to think it was impossible to come into contact with a cold virus on the plane and get sick the next day, my thinking being that there had to be an incubation period of at least a few days involved here. But, at one point during my copious down time (it was a pretty bad cold), I looked it up on my smartphone and even the Centers for Disease Control says that you can show symptoms in as few as 12 hours after exposure to a rhinovirus. So...who knows? I have been pretty fortunate the past few years in not getting ill too often, but I couldn't dodge it this time.

On the other hand, it was great to be forced into a supine posture and to stay there. I sat in a recliner while others worked around me (we were staying in my late mother-in-law's house and cleaning it out so it can be sold in the spring). I love to supervise the work of others. And I know I needed the rest. I sure did go through a few boxes of Kleenex, though!

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The 11,000 of the title refers to the number of views this little blog of mine has gotten since I started a little over a year ago. I'm not bragging about that number, of course; I am acutely aware that there are many blogs that get ten times that many hits in a single day. But I find it fascinating to think so many people have at least clicked on a post to see what it's all about. Blogger keeps track of  many statistics on this stuff and it thrills me no end that among those 11,000, six were from Malaysia, eight from South Korea and 11 from India, among other places. What does someone from India make of what I have to say, I wonder? I wish a few of them wrote comments so I knew a bit more about them.

I also find it fascinating (and, frankly, a bit head scratching) to see which posts have garnered the most hits: Happy Day has gotten 99 so far, Return 56, Cafe Racer 52 and Living Without A Car an amazing 294 hits. Joyful has been looked at 334 times, Shaking Up the Snowglobe a mind-boggling 501. I note with interest that whereas Eightfold Path, Wise Action (Part I) was viewed 245 times, only 43 of those folks came back for Part II. I feel gratified that the introductory post If You're New Here has been viewed 128 times; I guess it must be helpful (though I have no idea if most of those folks took a look and then ran away as fast as they could). My very first post, No, Indeed He Wasn't, has gotten almost a third of the total number of views, 3062.

Ah, well, I know these numbers don't really mean much in the final analysis. Well, I suppose they mean something, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. People seem to be looking for things to give meaning to their lives and to bring them joy. I'm sure that many of those who came here are attracted to the idea of accepting their bodies as they are while simultaneously taking on their complex relationship to food. It is perhaps the most fascinating journey I have been on, I can say that for certain.

But where the numbers truly have little meaning is in how I intend to continue. I have only my own experience and my own perspective to guide me and to give meaning to what I write here. I have enjoyed the ride so far and intend to continue, even if this post only gets 20 hits. What the heck, that's 20 more people than usually listen to me when I'm saying something! 

The way out

What a difference a week can make! I am feeling very hopeful and strong today. I am content with my life and its course. What made this change? Many things, but I must say that perhaps the most important was for me to recall an aphorism I coined a few years ago: "The way out is down".

Whether we like it or not, the way out is down. When we are in despair or darkness, when we have to struggle just to make it through another day, we can strive to go up (cheer ourselves, turn to external pleasures to lift us up, try alcohol, drugs, sex, being with others, blame the circumstances or other people) but it doesn't work that way, as far as I can tell. We must have the courage to go down into the depths of that darkness to emerge on the other side victorious, to emerge into the light.

This is not  an original concept, by any means. Perhaps its most famous proponent is the poet Robert Bly, who writes and speaks about it quite a bit. His inspiration, in turn, is the world of myth and fairy tale, wherein the the hero or heroine goes down into the pit in order to find the light. This is one of the universals of storytelling. We know that Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and their coevals had to go into the darkness (of the forest, of the hearth, of the long sleep, etc.) before they could be redeemed. Hansel and Gretel could not be adults until they came through the woody exile imposed upon them by their stepmother (and what is that stepmother but an avatar of capricious fate, ever and again throwing us into the quagmire of our daily lives?). It may seem sick to cook the witch up in the oven intended for them, but mythopoetically, nothing else makes sense. The witch (which I suppose is a stand-in for our own insecurity) must be entirely destroyed before we can emerge to claim our birthright.

And we will never be the same people we were when we went into the shadow realm. Frodo Baggins was just never the same hobbit, though he was a wiser and kinder one, following his harrowing journey through darkness in many forms. Nor will I be, though that is perhaps what frightens me most. I don't relish the idea that I can and will change so thoroughly and that such a change is not within my power to choose. Yet resistance to that change is precisely what keeps us caught up in the circle of samsara, in the round of suffering that simply never ends if we don't learn the lessons available to us during such times of sorrow. Life IS change and to ride this rollercoaster is to be forever in the midst of it.

The first noble truth of the Buddha's path is that there is suffering (or, as modern translators seem to prefer, "there is dissatisfaction"). Our lives are such that the things which cause us to feel that something is amiss will happen over and over again. It's not a plot against us, it is just the way things are. Our car wears out or gets hit. We fall and break an arm. We lose a job. We divorce. A loved one dies. A cherished friendship does not last. We age. We grow ill. We face our own death. It happens. This is the stuff of life and the stuff that can lead to suffering, if we allow it to be.

But it doesn't have to be that way. We need to recall that the third noble truth is that there is an end to suffering. The fourth noble truth details the path out of suffering, but can be summarized in the simple word, "acceptance". If we can come to accept what comes our way as the reality of what is, our suffering will come to an end. This is not, I should emphasize, passivity. Often we should and even must take action to alleviate the suffering of ourselves and others, but acceptance must come first. Take a cancer diagnosis, for instance (though, to be clear, I do not now nor ever have had such a diagnosis). Though we may be angry, afraid, dejected and depressed by this, when we come to accept the diagnosis, we can find joy not only in the other aspects of our lives, but in the cancer itself. Hundreds of books (and even a few good ones) have been written about the wonderful teacher such a diagnosis can be. But it would be foolish to stop there. For most of us, in most situations, we will also want to use our newfound acceptance to guide us to study the disease and treatments for it, to realistically weigh our abilities and to do all we can to eradicate it. If we proceed in anger or fear, though, we do not give ourselves the benefit of the great wisdom that can arise with acceptance. And when the time comes when we must lay down our weapons and determine that the cancer will eventually take our lives, we can lie back in the arms of that acceptance to help us take the next step in our journey with love and calm. If we go through an experience such as that while railing bitterly against the unfairness of it all, we will not be able to harness the great peace of surrender.

She, dying

She is dying of a brain tumor and decided this week to throw in the towel; not in defeat (she is the reigning champion) but exhausted and realistic. She will be (has been) written up in medical journals for the twists and turns her disease has taken. Small comfort, if any. She never could do things the simple way.

When I heard from her about hospice, end-of-life care, all that, I wrote, "Funny, what wells up in me immediately upon reading this is that though I have acclimated myself fairly thoroughly to the process of your dying, there was one synapse that never closed: at the end of the process you will be dead. I had not gotten there yet, apparently." To which she replied, "There is that. And the universe of love I will leave you with. Don't break it. Don't lose it. And please share."

She was a dancer. Still is, but when we met she was all grace and poise and fluid motion. She is sharp of wit and tongue. She praises with the extravagance with which she damns. We have known each other more than 35 years. I was in love with her once and still love her deeply. We have not always been the best of friends (life and distance intruded, my own illness, my divorce, my anger and low self-esteem; now it all seems sordid and vain, silly, even, but felt like life and death at the time), but have never been less than true loves for all that.

Our children grew up far apart yet became close friends.

In truth, this feels like the end of her and not the beginning of some grand, new adventure. I love the idea of karma, of rebirth and grace, heaven even, more than I have faith in a hereafter. I have said for some time that I don't not believe in anything: ghosts, UFOs, fairies, elves, time travel, yeti, well-intentioned Republicans, Nessie, an afterlife, an end to war, the perfectability of a human life—I have seen precious little evidence of any of these, yet who am I to pass final judgment on things of which so many are convinced? After all, I believe in quarks, though those who have seen one are far outnumbered by those who have seen Bigfoot. But wishful thinking will not do when I think of her, think of her dying, think of her dead.

Did I mention she was a dancer?

Life when we met was thrilling and new, an adventure waiting to happen, pregnant with the possibility of glory, fame and fulfillment. We were vain and thrilled, the way only twenty-somethings can be, before reality and disappointment, then achievement of different joys and ultimate contentment took the place of our exuberance. We were young, attractive, restless, cocksure, judgmental, a little bit ruthless, and free.

Had we known about the future, about the child who died, my alcoholism, mortgages, jail, ailing parents, distances, struggles to survive and thrive, what would we have done? Laughed, no doubt. Said, "bring it on!" There was and is a fierceness in our hearts that dares the world to challenge us in ways we can't handle. It has done its best to do its worst and we are still standing.

And dancing.

Thanksgiving

Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude. Denis Waitley

I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder. Gilbert K. Chesterton

The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude. Friedrich Nietzsche

Gratitude is not, to the best of my knowledge, taught explicitly in the Buddhist texts. We are asked to be thankful to the Buddha, the dharma and the sangha, but it does not get much more specific than that. Yet the spirit of gratitude imbues much of what the Buddha taught. In his words on lovingkindness the Buddha said,

Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So, with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings;
Radiating kindness over the entire world.

It would be exceedingly difficult to carry out this precept if we were not grateful to those toward whom we had these feelings. Of course, this is most difficult to do with those we resent or dislike, but our gratitude toward them should be much greater than it is toward those we naturally love, for in extending love to them we are able to feel the power of the work we do to transform us and the world.

I admit to having an anxious heart; this is my nature. I find more to worry about than to console me. But in gratitude, in lovingkindness I find the ability to open my heart, the heart that has a tendency to close down when I am most anxious. So, as a reminder to myself, for these people and things I am most grateful:

♣ My parents, who not only gave me birth in this human form but nurtured and loved me and continue to nurture and love me.
♣ My wife, Kathy, who has put up with me, loved me, cherished me, corrected me, and been more patient than I deserve.
♣ My son, who is a beautiful soul and a loving man. What more could a father ask for his son but happiness? And he has that, too.
♣ My siblings, for their love and support. Individually we have struggled mightily over the years and each of us has made a great effort to be loving and kind to one another.
♣ All of my family for the love they have shown me and, when I had been gone from their lives for many years, welcomed me back with open arms.
♣ My many friends. For those who are far away I wish safe journeys. For those who are ill or suffering I also wish safe journeys.
♣ The comforts of my home. It is a true blessing to have a haven to which I can come for peace and serenity. It is warm, cozy and well-stocked! I treasure it.
♣ Being born into this human realm. It is, as the Buddha points out, the realm in which we are most able to investigate and make use of what is available in the world to learn.
♣ Having a body which is still functioning quite well and without too many complaints. Being able to use my body to learn who and what I am in the depths of my soul.
♣ Having a job and enough money to do all I need to do and some of what I wish to do. Especially in these economic times it is comforting to have employment that is not just adequate but which provides me with some joy.
♣ The teachings of the Buddha and other spiritual masters. I have been guided in the ways of freedom and have come to understand that nothing stands between me and that freedom but me. This is a great gift and a great challenge. The mountain is high but there is path.
♣  All teachers everywhere who share freely of what they know so the rest of us may benefit.
♣ Humor, grace, forgiveness, hope, charity, compassion, love, harmony, and all of the impulses of the heart that make life most worth living.
♣  All children everywhere for the joy they bring.
♣ Music in all its forms and wonder. I am particularly thankful today for Mozart, Bach, k.d. lang, Joni Mitchell, Brandi Carlile and Telleman.
♣ The ability to follow the precepts of non-harm, honesty, sexual integrity, loving speech and sobriety. I have not always been as able to live within these as I am now. I am very grateful for the willingness that made me more whole.
♣ All those who continue to struggle in confusion and pain. My heart opens to them and their suffering.
♣ All those who challenge and frustrate me for the opportunity they give me to practice what I have been taught.
♣  Those of you who read these words. May you thrive.
♣  All beings everywhere,

Wishing: in gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born--
May all beings be at ease!

     The Buddha's Words on Lovingkindness

Jacob's Children, Chapter Six

So it is that we return to the picture of Jacob dying in his bed. Dying is not what he thought he was doing and perhaps it is only in retrospect this can be said with assurance, but dying he was. His great heart could not pump much longer under the burden placed upon it and must give out. That he was brokenhearted in a less literal way was no less so.

Jacob had never been loved for himself alone by any woman or man. Neither had ever been in his bed, nor he in theirs. He was virgin, alone, beloved and tenderly cared for, but what he craved was passion; no, not the sexual experience itself (about which he felt little more than avid curiosity). Rather, a consuming connection of the heart to just one other was what he had never known and that which, he realized with overwhelming sadness, he would never know.

Unfortunately for Jacob, this grief made him all the more luminous, suffused his face with the glow of a martyr, made him seem to be standing in the sepulchral glow of a Renaissance painting of a saint. He couldn't help it, nor did he wish it, but it was so. Jacob knew what was whispered about him and it exasperated him, yet he never corrected the misguided people of the village and surrounding villages who considered him an icon, a saint, a martyr and a hero. He knew better, knew himself to be nothing more than a receptacle for pain, but knew also that their belief somehow sustained them and was loath to rob them of this small comfort.

For by now the astute reader will have guessed Jacob's secret, that some quirk of life had made him one who can channel the darkness of others' souls and convert it to energy which, in surplus, became the enormity reposing on this bed. Jacob chuckled to himself sometimes at the idea that he was even remotely a good man; if only all those poor benighted souls knew the truth, that he was more a privy for the off-loading of grief than a loving counselor. Never did it occur to him to think that his uncomplaining  acceptance of his lot, his willingness to shoulder this burden, to open the door of his home to any and all who sought him out could be thought of as a supremely unselfish act and worthy of praise. Such was his humility that he only thought of this as his role, his calling and his very function, a calling perhaps, after all, from God.

Due to the generosity of Sir Ambrose, who made provision in his will for the mother and child, a legacy which continued when Anna died, Jacob never held a job or learned a trade. He was always at home and always ready to hear woes. Men would come to him furtively, but in nearly as great a number as the women, and women flocked to him in droves. It was not so much the telling of the tale that kept them coming back time and again, but the fact that, unlike other forms of confession, telling a sorrow to Jacob caused it to be entirely lifted from one's soul. Quite a nice little party trick, Jacob often told himself with a wan smile.   

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Mariam was a young, childless widow who cared for Jacob quite often. Having few responsibilities at home, she was free to spend time at his. She was quite cheerful there, cleaned and cooked and bathed Jacob until everything and everyone shone. Mariam was one of those most grateful to Jacob, for her confession had been dark indeed: in the midst of one of his frequent rages she had wished her volatile, violent husband dead and the next moment, he was. Though Jacob tried to soothe her, tell her that it could not possibly be her doing, she was convinced of her guilt both in the act and in the elation she felt at the doing of it. Jacob had relieved her of these and she was filled with gratitude and yearned to be able to show him that.

Their conversations became quite intimate and though weeks in the discovering, eventually it became clear to Mariam that Jacob had never known the physical love of a woman. Though she still had enough modesty to blush in the doing of it, she took it into her mind to give this gift to him before he died. This she did. The sheer physics of the act can only be guessed at, for his mass was indeed prodigious, but managed it was. In the post-coital interlude, Jacob shared with Mariam his deepest secret, that which made him what he was. But she assumed this was the raving of a dying man and paid it little heed. Jacob slept then and was never lucid again. He died a few days later with a smile on his face.

Chapter Seven is here.

Jacob's Children, Chapter Two

(Chapter One is here).

But Jacob had not always been fat; oh, no. In fact he was born a scrawny little thing, all arms and legs and skin and bones. Though they had no sophisticated measures of such things back then, it seemed to Jacob's mother that he came into the world a month or so early, blue at first, then wailing feebly, sounding for all the world like a forlorn kitten.

Ah, and Jacob's mother, what of her? Her name was Anna, though her family name has been lost to the ravages of the past. She was a woman of the night, to be gentle in our terms, for we shall see that Anna is deserving of our gentleness. Hers was a story not so uncommon for her time: her mother died giving birth to her and Anna was the only child she ever bore all the way into life. Anna's father was a kind and good man and some years older than her mother. Though he was honest and sober and worked ever so hard when there was work to be had, he was hard-pressed to keep the two of them out of direst poverty. He gave to Anna as she grew a far greater portion of their food than he allowed himself; this kind practice weakened him, so when the influenza swept through the town this, combined with his advanced age and the ills attendant on being so very poor conspired to take him away into the arms of Death. Anna was 15 years old.

This was a time before there was any protection for the poor, before we became wiser and realized our obligation to those less fortunate (if such wisdom we have). Anna tried making a living in any way she could. She sold flowers on the street for a time, but the man who supplied her, sensing her naïveté, gave her the worst blossoms but charged her the same and was angry when she failed to sell them. She tried begging and was so delicate that she collected a fair amount but was cheated and robbed by others making their way on the streets. One day, she barely escaped being raped. As she was being shoved against a wall by a muscular, drunken man, too frightened to do much more than whimper, she suddenly felt the man slacken. He fell to the ground unconscious. Where the drunk man had been she saw a wiry, dark fellow with a cudgel in his hand. "He won't bother you any more, miss".

"Is he...dead?" stammered Anna.

The man appeared unconcerned. "Mmm. I don't believe so. I sincerely doubt anyone would miss him if he were, though." He kicked the inert form. "You could give him a good swift one if you like. He certainly deserves it."

Anna could only shake her head no. After a moment she said, "Thank you. I don't know what would have happened..."

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea." Anna blushed and the man grinned. "Name's Max."

"Thank you, Max," she fairly whispered, "thank you again".

Max tipped his hat. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, "Say, I was just headed off to dinner myself. Would you care to join me?"

"No, I...I couldn't, I...".

"Come now," he said, taking her arm, "you look as if you haven't had a square meal in a month of Sundays. A beautiful woman like you. Come. I will take care of you." And thus began Anna's new life.

(Chapter Three is here).

Boredom

I am seldom bored. There are always new sights, sounds, experiences, tastes, music, movies, books, and people for me to encounter. I have a vivid imagination which can take me places I have never been or that never existed. I love to write on just about any subject. I have family and friends with whom I can communicate in person or in some other way. I like listening to baseball on the radio. I love walking and solitude. I sit in meditation nearly every day (and Lord knows I could stand for that to be, if not boring, at least at little bit less filled with activity).

But lately I have been finding myself feeling that sensation of boredom creeping in, that dull, gray miasma of complaint. Everything seems the same, day in and day out. I do the same tasks, walk the same walks, eat the same food, sleep the same sleep, wake to the sameness of doing it all over again. Blah.

Boredom is a trick of the mind, though, an egoical request to constantly be entertained with bright colors and new experiences. I have often thought that the mind has the attention span of a three-year-old, though even children of that age can often find a single activity absorbing for longer than the mind usually can. Fortunately, I know better than to take boredom seriously. It is always a symptom rather than a problem. And we all know how very easily boredom can turn into an excuse to eat everything in sight.

The reality of life is that it is a constantly changing kaleidoscope of sensations, impressions, sights, sounds, smells, feelings, and surprising behavior by others (and sometimes by me!) When I feel boredom, I need only reflect on the first of the Buddha's teachings, that life is only suffering if I allow it to be.

I should mention that suffering is the most commonly used translation of the Pali word dukka . However, I have been told by those who have reason to know, that suffering is not a very precise rendering of this term. Unsatisfactoriness is one suggested version, but the one I prefer is Sylvia Boorstein's unappeasable need. This, to me, communicates the active yearning that is so much a part of the experience of dukka. If we always feel ourselves to be in need and if that need can never be appeased, we will indeed by in a constant state of suffering. As should be obvious by now (I hope I'm not belaboring the point), this is a matter of choice and is not inevitable. It would have been cruel of the Buddha to tell us that there was suffering and then to shrug and say, in essence, "Oh, well! Suck it up." Instead he told us that there was a way out of this unappeasable need, which is the Noble Eightfold Path.

But even the Eightfold Path is something of an overcomplication of the idea that, by refocusing our energies and harnessing them in the service of paying attention and being unfailingly kind, we need never be bored or dissatisfied again. While it is true that there are some situations that seem to carry suffering with them such as grief, pain, loss, illness, and death, even these can be turned to good account with the reflection that such is the circle of life, that all of these come to all of us, that it cannot be otherwise, and that true suffering would be to have even these painful things excluded from us, for then we would be something other than alive. One of the (only) aspects of the vampire lore that is so popular just now that I enjoy is the sheer ennui that is usually attached to living forever, being unable to die, and the boredom of imperviousness. Being undead is distinctly unlike being alive and in the end is grossly inferior to it.

Boredom, then, is a symptom. It is a symptom of giving in to the childlike ego, the craving mind, when it insists on being entertained. What consciousness knows is that the simple act of living in this moment is a miracle filled with miracles. There are galaxies beyond galaxies and subatomic particles that surpass our ability to comprehend the enormity of their tininess. Even at its quietest, life is a flow of sensations and experiences beyond measure. We can never step into the same river twice and boredom threatens to keep us from stepping into it even once. Dive in! It is going where you wish to go.

Self care

I have been trying hard not to get a cold for about a week and I used today to practice good self care. I got a massage, went to the art museum, to my favorite French grocery near Pike Place Market to get good cheese, rose mints (can't find them anywhere else) and a few other treats. Stayed home in the evening playing games with my wife and fiddling on the computer. A good day.

Yes, we all age

The ultimate outcome of living the life of an aspiring buddha is to recognize that everything is illusory, that what we view as permanent and lasting is actually ephemeral. In fact, even we ourselves are never fixed entities that can reliably be pointed to as "me" or "mine" (this, by the way, is essentially what is meant by the Buddhist concept of "no-self" in case you run across it. I will no doubt post on that subject another time, but don't let the somewhat mysterious sound of that concern you; it's not really all that complicated or weird. In any case...). I bring that up mainly to tell the story of a Zen master whose son died. When he was found weeping, his students asked if he had not told them that all life is illusory, therefore its passing is merely a part of the flow of the universe and not to be mourned. To which the teacher replied, "Yes, yes, that is true. But my son was such a very real illusion."

So, I recognize that there is nothing more normal then my 83 year old parents being fragile, forgetful, weak, and subject to being knocked off-kilter by just about any illness or other crisis, no matter how minor. Ah, but how real is the illusion I have of them as strong, capable, and invincible. They are, after all, my parents. Just so, it is perfectly reasonable that my 87-year-old mother-in-law should be seriously ill for the first time in her life. Why wouldn't she be? She's lucky to have escaped it this long, I suppose. But how real the illusion that she's still the woman I met 32 years ago (not long ago I realized with a shock that she was the age I am now when Kathy and I first started dating). All three have been pillars of my life, people who were simply always there and always to be relied on. Now, Kathy and I must be the reliable ones (along with our siblings and their mates, of course, and to an even larger extent than us because they live where our parents live).

I think what I'm getting at is that it is not such a difficult proposition to understand intellectually that people become ill, age, and die, but when it comes to my Mommy, well, I mean, she's my MOMMY, for God's sake! That's different. My father was an athlete when he was young and even into middle age maintained an active life. But today he got out of the car and looked as if he was going to collapse. He just plain looked old and feeble. Oh, there were logical explanations and easy short-term solutions; it was nothing serious, really, nothing a little snack and some rest couldn't cure. But it brought home to me again with such vividness that both of them are growing old and will some day no longer be here. How do I reconcile this feeling of loss with the realization of impermanence as I have come to know it with my head if not yet my heart?

I am convinced the answer lies in meditation. Though I have spoken of meditation only as a mode of concentration leading to mindfulness, if used skillfully it can also help us to understand questions such as that I raise above. A warning, though: this is not intellectualizing, philosophizing or otherwise trying to find answers. The nature of paradox is that it has no answer, for one thing. But, even more importantly, as long as we are trying to use our minds to answer the mind's questions, we will end up going in circles. What I have in mind (pun fully intended, of course) is using some of our time in meditation to focus on the question, but to just lay it out as if on an examining table and step back. We must resist the temptation to dissect the specimen or examine it, focusing the power of our concentrated minds on the question itself. This is very helpful, though it will yield no specific answers, or at least none that can be put into words. That this provides an enormous amount of comfort goes without saying. But it also leads us to insight, one of the highest aspirations for any practitioner of the teachings of the Buddha.

Off I go!

I am home sick again from work today, but still plan to fly out tonight to visit my parents and other family members in California; it has been planned for too long to let a cold get in my way. I went for a walk today, thinking it would make me feel better. It did, but it also wore me out, which leads me to know I really am sick. I hope I'm not too tired when I get to California.

Something about flying makes me anxious, but it really isn't the flying itself. I rather like the sensation of this enormous metal box lifting off the ground. I have yet to get over my incredulity that something that large can actually get into the air. It feels like a miracle every time. Maybe it is!

But the sense of disconnectedness from my secure little world couldn't be more stark than when I fly. I must get the the airport on time. I must expose all of my possessions and my person to examination. I must take my shoes and belt off (wait a minute, isn't that what they make you do in jail? Hmmm). I must divest myself of the tchotchkes and bric-a-brac from my pockets that in some part make me uniquely me. I am all but stripped bare. Then on the other side of security I must reassemble myself like C-3PO in the junkyard and take a seat for a long wait until it is time to shoehorn myself into my narrow seat and sit fetally for an hour and a half, wait for a shuttle to take me to my rental car, drive 45 minutes to my brother's house (arriving about three hours after my usual bed time) and flop into bed. What's to disorient me in that?

I think the value in this recitation is the recognition that I have defined a certain set of parameters as my "home" and when these are disrupted, I am no longer at home in my body or my head. I recall one Buddhist teacher (I can't recall now whom) who said, when asked if it would be good to get back home that he was always at home. This is something to aspire to.

The point in this blog, of course, is that I tend to eat my way through my anxiety, and I usually eat something or other from the time I hit the airport until I arrive at my brother's. It may just be those evil snack mixes they sell in the newspaper stands, or it may be a meal from a vendor, but (now that I think about it) I am pretty much eating something the whole time. So, my plan today: I will eat something before I leave, then I will buy a sandwich to eat on the plane (usually half is plenty) then, other than water and my ubiquitous cup of decaf I will eat nothing until breakfast tomorrow. Let's see what happens!

As I have said before about other such events, the point of this exercise is not to keep from eating, but to recognize just how often my eating is a way of evading something else, in this case my anxiety about the displacement I feel. When I come face to face with my demons, they lose their power.

To refuse to face them is to, literally and figuratively, feed them. Today I will not.

Illness

I am ill. This is as disorienting to the mind as it is disconcerting to the ego. I am ill. Only weaklings become ill. I must have done something wrong if I am ill. I am angry because I am not supposed to become ill. I take all these supplements, eat right, exercise, and still I become ill. I am ill. I am pissed.

As a child and young man, the Buddha was sheltered and kept from seeing any of what is bad in life. When he first left his father's house, the first surprise he encountered was an ill person. He had never seen one and (so the story goes) never been ill himself. This was the first pillar of his awakening, the realization that illness was possible. Illness began the opening of his awareness. Much later, after he achieved enlightenment, he noted that it is the nature of all beings to become ill, to age, and to die. Since he taught the unconditional acceptance of All That Is, one can assume that he meant for us to accept these truths, too. Great.

All right, I admit to overstating the case to make a point. Yes, I am annoyed that I am sick, but what is really causing me to suffer is the overlay of commentary on my illness. I am imperfect. My co-workers will be irritated or, worse yet, think I am faking it. I must have done something wrong to bring this on myself. And, simplest yet most deadly of all, I must struggle against this, to make it not so or make it go away. I must hate it. This is so very dangerous because it is a reflection of all the suffering in the world, which is brought about, in one way or another, because we cannot accept that life simply is as it is. (Even the suffering that is wholly due to the behavior of others can be attributed to this cause, as these selfish others are operating on false assumptions of entitlement to more than their fair share of resources or power, wellness or life). It is in our very nature to become ill. Period.

As for being believed, I do my very best to live a life of integrity, to be, as the Buddha advocated, entirely blameless. Of course, I cannot hit this high a mark, but I can strive to be this person through my actions. Being a man of integrity, when I say I am ill, I am believed. This is vitally important; I speak the truth almost always. If I find myself in a position where I cannot speak the truth, I choose not to speak. Except if there is a gun to my head, I can always choose not to speak. Another person's anger because I will not speak does not obligate me to speak. One of the results of my honesty is that I need not fear that others may think badly of me when I cannot work due to illness. But I need to be reminded of this because of those decades of doubt engendered by the teachings of parents and the skepticism of authority figures when I was ill. I also have some decades of acting irresponsibly to account for. But I am not that man now; I am this one. The Buddha once said, "The past should not be followed after and the future not desired; what is past is dead and gone and the future is yet to come." I am the man I am today and not the man I was yesterday; nor can I project who I will be in the future.

So I am ill. I will take pleasure in it where I can. I have needed some extra time to catch up on a few things, so I will do that. I will just sit and read some, a luxury I have been missing. Illness has also been an excuse to go hog wild with my food consumption, so I will monitor that closely and see where it leads, while still giving my body what it needs to recover. Above all, I will remember:

OK. I will.