Hello Readers,
Some of you may have noticed fewer posts these past several months. During a 2 1/2 hour meditation this morning, where I gained tremendous clarity on a number of things, I realized that it is time to close Metaminute. I am fortunate to have writing inspiration, yet, Metaminute is not the venue to which I'm now called. I will be returning to poetry and working within creative writing for the first time. Beyond this, I believe the blog fulfilled its personal goal--to sustain me, and share with others, this spiritual path upon which I found myself. I learned a great deal during this time, and I learned even more over recent weeks. Thank you for reading, for your comments, and for providing this platform. Perhaps another time will come for Metaminute. Until then, I look forward to reading your blog entries and following you offline.
Be well,
R.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Monkey
This is an excerpt from Chogyam Trungpa's Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. This chapter addresses "The Six Realms" which is an analogy for samsara, the first noble truth about life's difficulty. This particular part resonated with me at the moment:
"How can the monkey get out of this seemingly endless, self-contained cycle of imprisonment? It is in the human realm that the possibility of breaking the karmic chain, or th circle of samsara arises. The intellect of the human realm and the possiblity of discriminating action allow room to question the whole process of struggle. There is a possibility for the monkey to question the obssession of rleating to something, of getting something, to question the solidity of the words that he experiences. To do this, the monkey needs to develop panoramic awareness and transcendental knowledge.
Panoramic awareness allows the monkey to see the space in which the struggle occurs so that he can begin to see its ironical and humorous quality. Instead of simply struggling, he begins to exprience the struggle and see its futility. He laughs through the hallucinations. He discovers that when he does not fight the walls, the are not repulsive and hard but are actually warm, soft, and penetrable. He finds thathe does not have to lseap from the five windows or break down the walls or even dwell upon them; he can step through them anywhere. That is why compassion, or karuna, is describes as "soft and noble heart." It is a communication process that is soft, open, and warm.
The clarify and precsion of transcendental knowledge allow the monkey to see the walls in a different way. He begins to realize that the world was never outside of himself, that is was his own dualistic attitude, the separation of 'I' and 'other,' that created the problem. He begins to understand that he himslef is making the walls soid, that he is imprisoning himself through his ambition. And so he begins to realize that to be free of his prison he must give up his ambition to escape and accept the walls as they are."
"How can the monkey get out of this seemingly endless, self-contained cycle of imprisonment? It is in the human realm that the possibility of breaking the karmic chain, or th circle of samsara arises. The intellect of the human realm and the possiblity of discriminating action allow room to question the whole process of struggle. There is a possibility for the monkey to question the obssession of rleating to something, of getting something, to question the solidity of the words that he experiences. To do this, the monkey needs to develop panoramic awareness and transcendental knowledge.
Panoramic awareness allows the monkey to see the space in which the struggle occurs so that he can begin to see its ironical and humorous quality. Instead of simply struggling, he begins to exprience the struggle and see its futility. He laughs through the hallucinations. He discovers that when he does not fight the walls, the are not repulsive and hard but are actually warm, soft, and penetrable. He finds thathe does not have to lseap from the five windows or break down the walls or even dwell upon them; he can step through them anywhere. That is why compassion, or karuna, is describes as "soft and noble heart." It is a communication process that is soft, open, and warm.
The clarify and precsion of transcendental knowledge allow the monkey to see the walls in a different way. He begins to realize that the world was never outside of himself, that is was his own dualistic attitude, the separation of 'I' and 'other,' that created the problem. He begins to understand that he himslef is making the walls soid, that he is imprisoning himself through his ambition. And so he begins to realize that to be free of his prison he must give up his ambition to escape and accept the walls as they are."
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
About Contradiction: Indian/Not Indian
Fritz Scholder came to mind, for some reason, during my Indian Law class this morning. I saw an exhibit over the summer of his work. I really like his style, vision. More so, I like his complexity as an artist and person. His work reminds an audience about their our own contradictions in all of its bold color and vividness.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
More on Multiverse
I am a fan of multiverse, even alluding to it in the previous post. Family Guy breaks it down in its own Family Guy way:
http://www.hulu.com/watch/98264/family-guy-road-to-the-multiverse
http://www.hulu.com/watch/98264/family-guy-road-to-the-multiverse
To Know
This week, I learned, that some things are just between me and God.
Earlier last month, I felt a lot of anxiety from my brain to my body. Stress swarmed around me like a cloud, even if I absorbed only a portion. I felt imbalanced, from too much work, and too little non-work. When I began noticing that I missed certain aspects of myself, I set to "re-organize" things. I believe that there are an infinite number of opportunities and ways to exist in the world in the same way some scientists believe that there is infinite space, time, and other phenomenon. I had to create a different way of existing, and part of this required me to create more space for spirit.
Spirit really asks little of me in my relative life. It only asks me to be. I had found this difficult in the recent past, particularly around thoughts. I was always thinking, and sometimes, I tell myself: "Stop." I am slowly growing better at being quiet. Quiet invites silence, under which I can surrender. Silence, I've found, is my best mode of listening, because, Universe offers me instructions when I listen. September was an exceptional month for Spirit; October for mind. But this week, I had to slow my mind to see everything else.
My life "re-organization" at the end of October entailed less space for thinking, and more space for thriving. I made schedule changes; I made priority-changes; I made pacing-changes. All of this was helpful. But there was a neglected area: I had to re-align my mind to reach my spiritual dysphoria. I interpreted this instruction after two weeks.
What I noticed during the month was that I was internally reacting to "new-news." Information that I learned that seemingly changed a situation one way or another. The funny thing, though, is that not a thing had changed--only my perception changed. My mind had turned to see things as challenging, difficult, or negative. In sangha, we call this outcome a "story." We construct other thoughts based upon a false thought about a condition of a form (an element which makes up other things). I had successfully dismantled stories before but I had never witnessed it in the making. I did so because mindfulness training had allowed me to slow my mind. I saw my mind receiving information, reacting to it, and piling on other thoughts to make sense of it. When I noticed this, I began pressing a "self-destruct" button in my brain. Power off. I did this by saying, "Everything's changed, nothing's changed." I'd recite this until the story disappeared. It's proven to be a helpful mindfulness tool, and a tool that has allowed me to dismantle an incredible harmful story that I had recited over recent months.
The story is this: I feel fundamentally misunderstood. Strangers make assumptions about me. Family respects, though, cannot comprehend me. Even dear friends, in certain areas of my life, must take leaps of faith. I actually was thinking this week, as I do from time to time, maybe I should leave law school to become a monk or nun (it doesn't much matter to me these days). I seriously contemplate this idea, among others, every so often. Folks don't get it, which is well. What is sometimes difficult is feeling like you are on a perpetual island, even distant from the ones you trust and love. There are many moments where I feel loved, but few where I am understood.
This is how I have chosen to exist during this lifetime. This may change, and change many times over. It may not. What God has been telling me, and I have not appreciated until recently, is that it just is. There is no loneliness when you see the universal reflection. And, when I am confused about this part of the path, I simply need to listen. I cannot, and should not, explain this way of existing.
It's between me and God. And, from there.
Post Script: To put this entry into a little more context -
"The spiritual path does not go that way. It is a lonely, individual path."
Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism, Chogyam Trunpa
Earlier last month, I felt a lot of anxiety from my brain to my body. Stress swarmed around me like a cloud, even if I absorbed only a portion. I felt imbalanced, from too much work, and too little non-work. When I began noticing that I missed certain aspects of myself, I set to "re-organize" things. I believe that there are an infinite number of opportunities and ways to exist in the world in the same way some scientists believe that there is infinite space, time, and other phenomenon. I had to create a different way of existing, and part of this required me to create more space for spirit.
Spirit really asks little of me in my relative life. It only asks me to be. I had found this difficult in the recent past, particularly around thoughts. I was always thinking, and sometimes, I tell myself: "Stop." I am slowly growing better at being quiet. Quiet invites silence, under which I can surrender. Silence, I've found, is my best mode of listening, because, Universe offers me instructions when I listen. September was an exceptional month for Spirit; October for mind. But this week, I had to slow my mind to see everything else.
My life "re-organization" at the end of October entailed less space for thinking, and more space for thriving. I made schedule changes; I made priority-changes; I made pacing-changes. All of this was helpful. But there was a neglected area: I had to re-align my mind to reach my spiritual dysphoria. I interpreted this instruction after two weeks.
What I noticed during the month was that I was internally reacting to "new-news." Information that I learned that seemingly changed a situation one way or another. The funny thing, though, is that not a thing had changed--only my perception changed. My mind had turned to see things as challenging, difficult, or negative. In sangha, we call this outcome a "story." We construct other thoughts based upon a false thought about a condition of a form (an element which makes up other things). I had successfully dismantled stories before but I had never witnessed it in the making. I did so because mindfulness training had allowed me to slow my mind. I saw my mind receiving information, reacting to it, and piling on other thoughts to make sense of it. When I noticed this, I began pressing a "self-destruct" button in my brain. Power off. I did this by saying, "Everything's changed, nothing's changed." I'd recite this until the story disappeared. It's proven to be a helpful mindfulness tool, and a tool that has allowed me to dismantle an incredible harmful story that I had recited over recent months.
The story is this: I feel fundamentally misunderstood. Strangers make assumptions about me. Family respects, though, cannot comprehend me. Even dear friends, in certain areas of my life, must take leaps of faith. I actually was thinking this week, as I do from time to time, maybe I should leave law school to become a monk or nun (it doesn't much matter to me these days). I seriously contemplate this idea, among others, every so often. Folks don't get it, which is well. What is sometimes difficult is feeling like you are on a perpetual island, even distant from the ones you trust and love. There are many moments where I feel loved, but few where I am understood.
This is how I have chosen to exist during this lifetime. This may change, and change many times over. It may not. What God has been telling me, and I have not appreciated until recently, is that it just is. There is no loneliness when you see the universal reflection. And, when I am confused about this part of the path, I simply need to listen. I cannot, and should not, explain this way of existing.
It's between me and God. And, from there.
Post Script: To put this entry into a little more context -
"The spiritual path does not go that way. It is a lonely, individual path."
Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism, Chogyam Trunpa
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Crying Light - Living In Between
"Let I
Shy cry
Under the light
Let I
Cry sight
A child at night
I can
Have courage
To receive your love
I can
Step steps
Follow my blind
Inside
My self
The secret grows
My own
Shelter
Agony goes
I was born to adore you
As a baby in the blind
I was born to represent you
To carry your head into the sun
To carve you face into the back of the sun" - The Crying Light, Antony and the Johnsons
To explain this feeling of living in-between, let me return to an August post. In August, a dear friend invited me to The Church of Two Worlds, a spiritualism church in Washington DC. Spiritualism is a Christian school that believes in mediumship to connect with other spiritual beings and God. My father was raised as a Christian Science, which is distinct from spiritualism, but it falls within a tradition that teaches God's omnipresence. Many of his beliefs have passed onto me. In the August post about receiving the dharma that you need (i.e. you will always be taken care of if you are willing to receive) I described the latter half of the service in which the minister conveyed messages from spirits onto audience members. It was quite the experience. I had two messages conveyed to me--both powerful--but there is a particular one with meaning that I did not fully appreciate until now. The medium said, "Your ancestors are rooting for you. Don't give up. There's light ahead."
A couple of weeks later I joined a friend in a regular Saturday morning sitting meditation. Only two of us practiced that morning so we had a chance to deeply share our sit with each other when we finished. We got onto the topic of a book that she had read, called Many Lives, Many Masters, a several-decade old book written by a psycho analyst's past-life regression experience with a patient. I believe that reincarnation is the continuation of life and life-force energy, and I have my an understanding of previous lives of my own. I borrowed the book, reading it in a single day. I was simply blown away. For at least two reasons. On one hand, I was beginning to see how spiritualism, phenomenonalism, magic, and other systems of thought to which I think glean universal insight blend together. On the other hand, the book thrust me into a condition which Buddhists call "absolute truth," or a spiritual existence, apart from our day-to-day existence. This is far from any degree of enlightenment. It's more like a SuperAwareness where you feel more adept in surveying deeper truths while also being present-minded. I have felt more detached over the past several weeks for this reason.
Many Lives described seven spiritual realms in which we ascend as we re-discover our true nature as One Spirit. I thought that the number of seven realms was intriguing because seven is a celebrated number in numerology and other traditions. So, as I've contemplated, and lived through, my practice during September, I have thought less about "right," "wrong," "good," "bad," but instead I have asked: what will contribute toward spiritual development? What is the spiritual (not worldly) lesson here? This re-orientation, different way of thinking, is making a lot of sense to me at the moment.
I continue to work with my energy-worker who observes my brighter aura all of the time (which reaffirms my belief that I am on the correct path). I have since started another book about Atlantis which is re-introducing me to occultism, a broader school than spiritualism that recovers "hidden knowledge" through psychic-ism, shamanism, mediumship, meditation, etc. I believe, like many occultists do, that we all have these gifts of being as we discover more about our true capacities. This is, in part, why I value reiki so much, and why I believe that it came into my life when it did. I'm reminded that it is all here.
I am thinking more about mysticism, herbal medicine, and all of the "alternatives" to conventional Western well-being. Tomorrow I will attend Pathway's Natural Living Expo with another dear friend who has accessed chakra-cleansing. There is a lot to learn in a single lifetime!
I will say, for friends and readers, who are skeptical that there are different ways to understand what this all is. I could not accept reincarnation until very specific details about a past life were conveyed to me during my first year of college were recited to me, almost verbatim, in April 2008. I could not explain it otherwise. Since, I've had many more experiences, but these ideas have also resurfaced more subtly. In holistic organizing, for example, we call, and thank our ancestors for their guidance, before we embark on our work. I often do this in spaces dominated by Black-folks or Southern-folks. For many of us the "presence" of spirits supplies our strength and courage. This is also true in numerous other traditions and spaces. All I can offer is that an openness may expose you to a lot of things, but never, nothing more than you can handle.
Receiving our own crying light.
*http://www.pathwaysmagazineonline.com/Pathways%20Online/expomainpage.html
Shy cry
Under the light
Let I
Cry sight
A child at night
I can
Have courage
To receive your love
I can
Step steps
Follow my blind
Inside
My self
The secret grows
My own
Shelter
Agony goes
I was born to adore you
As a baby in the blind
I was born to represent you
To carry your head into the sun
To carve you face into the back of the sun" - The Crying Light, Antony and the Johnsons
To explain this feeling of living in-between, let me return to an August post. In August, a dear friend invited me to The Church of Two Worlds, a spiritualism church in Washington DC. Spiritualism is a Christian school that believes in mediumship to connect with other spiritual beings and God. My father was raised as a Christian Science, which is distinct from spiritualism, but it falls within a tradition that teaches God's omnipresence. Many of his beliefs have passed onto me. In the August post about receiving the dharma that you need (i.e. you will always be taken care of if you are willing to receive) I described the latter half of the service in which the minister conveyed messages from spirits onto audience members. It was quite the experience. I had two messages conveyed to me--both powerful--but there is a particular one with meaning that I did not fully appreciate until now. The medium said, "Your ancestors are rooting for you. Don't give up. There's light ahead."
A couple of weeks later I joined a friend in a regular Saturday morning sitting meditation. Only two of us practiced that morning so we had a chance to deeply share our sit with each other when we finished. We got onto the topic of a book that she had read, called Many Lives, Many Masters, a several-decade old book written by a psycho analyst's past-life regression experience with a patient. I believe that reincarnation is the continuation of life and life-force energy, and I have my an understanding of previous lives of my own. I borrowed the book, reading it in a single day. I was simply blown away. For at least two reasons. On one hand, I was beginning to see how spiritualism, phenomenonalism, magic, and other systems of thought to which I think glean universal insight blend together. On the other hand, the book thrust me into a condition which Buddhists call "absolute truth," or a spiritual existence, apart from our day-to-day existence. This is far from any degree of enlightenment. It's more like a SuperAwareness where you feel more adept in surveying deeper truths while also being present-minded. I have felt more detached over the past several weeks for this reason.
Many Lives described seven spiritual realms in which we ascend as we re-discover our true nature as One Spirit. I thought that the number of seven realms was intriguing because seven is a celebrated number in numerology and other traditions. So, as I've contemplated, and lived through, my practice during September, I have thought less about "right," "wrong," "good," "bad," but instead I have asked: what will contribute toward spiritual development? What is the spiritual (not worldly) lesson here? This re-orientation, different way of thinking, is making a lot of sense to me at the moment.
I continue to work with my energy-worker who observes my brighter aura all of the time (which reaffirms my belief that I am on the correct path). I have since started another book about Atlantis which is re-introducing me to occultism, a broader school than spiritualism that recovers "hidden knowledge" through psychic-ism, shamanism, mediumship, meditation, etc. I believe, like many occultists do, that we all have these gifts of being as we discover more about our true capacities. This is, in part, why I value reiki so much, and why I believe that it came into my life when it did. I'm reminded that it is all here.
I am thinking more about mysticism, herbal medicine, and all of the "alternatives" to conventional Western well-being. Tomorrow I will attend Pathway's Natural Living Expo with another dear friend who has accessed chakra-cleansing. There is a lot to learn in a single lifetime!
I will say, for friends and readers, who are skeptical that there are different ways to understand what this all is. I could not accept reincarnation until very specific details about a past life were conveyed to me during my first year of college were recited to me, almost verbatim, in April 2008. I could not explain it otherwise. Since, I've had many more experiences, but these ideas have also resurfaced more subtly. In holistic organizing, for example, we call, and thank our ancestors for their guidance, before we embark on our work. I often do this in spaces dominated by Black-folks or Southern-folks. For many of us the "presence" of spirits supplies our strength and courage. This is also true in numerous other traditions and spaces. All I can offer is that an openness may expose you to a lot of things, but never, nothing more than you can handle.
Receiving our own crying light.
*http://www.pathwaysmagazineonline.com/Pathways%20Online/expomainpage.html
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Being Faithful
Last night, I revisited a conversation that I had with a sangha friend about faith several weeks ago during a 20-minute walk from the school to the bus stop.
My friend read a Buddhist book that suggested that we do not need faith if we, instead, know the truth. Both of us were struck by the idea. I did not understand at the time. Is this correct? Does truth set one free from faith? The question stayed in one of my consciousnesses until yesterday. As I walked through complete darkness, I saw that faith is vital to our being, and most of all, to our spiritual awakening.
When I say "faith" I do not mean a leap of it. I think about the way from one point to another, from knowledge to truth. There are a great many things that I do not yet know, and there is a vastness, a quality of being, that I do not yet know to be true. Truth, alone, does not sustain me, as I wake up each morning to ask "today, am I willing to be transformed in the service of my work?"* I believe that faith is the vessel, carrying us between the distance of our understanding to true understanding.
A confession: I often do not reflect on my last name anymore. But, last night, I examined its meaning to me. I suppose that being faithful is beyond firm loyality or commitment, it is persistence along the path.
It is an elegant surrender to Universe.
*I credit this beautiful intention to my most dear change-making group, Southerners on New Ground (SONG).
My friend read a Buddhist book that suggested that we do not need faith if we, instead, know the truth. Both of us were struck by the idea. I did not understand at the time. Is this correct? Does truth set one free from faith? The question stayed in one of my consciousnesses until yesterday. As I walked through complete darkness, I saw that faith is vital to our being, and most of all, to our spiritual awakening.
When I say "faith" I do not mean a leap of it. I think about the way from one point to another, from knowledge to truth. There are a great many things that I do not yet know, and there is a vastness, a quality of being, that I do not yet know to be true. Truth, alone, does not sustain me, as I wake up each morning to ask "today, am I willing to be transformed in the service of my work?"* I believe that faith is the vessel, carrying us between the distance of our understanding to true understanding.
A confession: I often do not reflect on my last name anymore. But, last night, I examined its meaning to me. I suppose that being faithful is beyond firm loyality or commitment, it is persistence along the path.
It is an elegant surrender to Universe.
*I credit this beautiful intention to my most dear change-making group, Southerners on New Ground (SONG).
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Mistakes
"In this sense, the word generosity is the ideal translation of dana, because generosity shares the same root word as generation: the causing to be, the procreative force." - Buddha Is As Buddha Does, Lama Surya Das.
I make and notice my mistakes all of the time. In fact, I fail everyday. I make the wrong choice; I say hurtful words; I damage my body; I see, in hindsight, that I've missed an opportunity. So it is :) Mistakes are a very important part of my life that I hardly write about on this blog. The primary reason that I can write about spiritual lessons at all is attributed to my mistakes. Failure is on my mind because today I made an intentional mistake. It was the wrong choice, yet I made it to benefit from the gift of wisdom that it offered. As years go by it is harder for me to distinguish success from failure.
The above quotation is from a book that I found on Clearance at the bookstore by well-known American Tibetan Lama, Surya Das. It is about the Bodhisattva Vow, a commitment to walk the path of awakening. A Boddhisattva embraces ten transformative practices (paramitas or "perfections"): generosity, ethics, patience, heroic effort, mindfulness, wisdom, skillful means, spiritual aspirations, higher accomplishments, and awakened awareness. Many of us who strive to live ethical lives implicitly make such a vow. I have not formally done so, until now.
Interestingly, the practice is by way of perfections. Living the good life requires, above all, constant failure. It, then, breaks through our outer and inner selves, to re-discover our Buddha-nature. It seems that the paramitas are themselves means to awakening--generosity can also be failure by another name--the mistake of learning selflessness in a tangible self-oriented world. A cause to be (human).
I make and notice my mistakes all of the time. In fact, I fail everyday. I make the wrong choice; I say hurtful words; I damage my body; I see, in hindsight, that I've missed an opportunity. So it is :) Mistakes are a very important part of my life that I hardly write about on this blog. The primary reason that I can write about spiritual lessons at all is attributed to my mistakes. Failure is on my mind because today I made an intentional mistake. It was the wrong choice, yet I made it to benefit from the gift of wisdom that it offered. As years go by it is harder for me to distinguish success from failure.
The above quotation is from a book that I found on Clearance at the bookstore by well-known American Tibetan Lama, Surya Das. It is about the Bodhisattva Vow, a commitment to walk the path of awakening. A Boddhisattva embraces ten transformative practices (paramitas or "perfections"): generosity, ethics, patience, heroic effort, mindfulness, wisdom, skillful means, spiritual aspirations, higher accomplishments, and awakened awareness. Many of us who strive to live ethical lives implicitly make such a vow. I have not formally done so, until now.
Interestingly, the practice is by way of perfections. Living the good life requires, above all, constant failure. It, then, breaks through our outer and inner selves, to re-discover our Buddha-nature. It seems that the paramitas are themselves means to awakening--generosity can also be failure by another name--the mistake of learning selflessness in a tangible self-oriented world. A cause to be (human).
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A Year of Mindfulness
A year ago, about this time, I was so excited about my new life direction. New energy, new prospects, new surroundings. Today, I am still embracing change, as I approaching my second-year of law school, and I am excited about this moment, if not law school itself (for reasons which seem evident to any lawyer).
At our POC sangha this month, we reflected on how mindfulness changed our lives. I appreciated the question because it had been some time that I contemplated my past practice, leading up to this point. At the turn of the year, I made commitment to mindfulness, so that I could be less future-oriented and more present-minded. I've come some way. I visited my previous blogs from August 08 - July 09 so consider insights, lessons, and observations.
In August,
-I learned how to surrender to silence. Practice of "letting go."
-I observed how my identities have evolved, changed, and replaced themselves during my lifetime. Impermanence.
-I wrote a poem about love's re-discovery. Practice of metta.
In September,
-I noticed that Dharma (truth) is everywhere. Fourth Noble Truth; the path toward freedom.
-I paused to witness the beauty of autumn, my favorite season. Four Immeasurable Minds; compassion and equanimity.
In October,
-I posted a picture that I'd drawn of a heart-opening and a deeply-moving quote about the foundation of love. Mindfulness.
-I reflected on the miracle of meditation and contemplative stillness to create peace. Skillful Concentration; one-pointedness concentration.
-I wrote about finding home. Skillful thinking.
-I discussed my own failures regarding sex-positivity and harmful consumption. Skillful action.
In November,
-I described the power of remembering, as inspired by James Baldwin. Own Buddha-nature and karma.
-I posted a friend's writing about America's historical election. Three refuges; building sangha.
-I reflected on spiritual terrorism on National Transgender Remembrance Day. Third Noble Truth; cessation to suffering is possible.
-I wrote an open letter to other left-visionaries. Three Doors of Liberation; aimlessness.
-I was reminded about inter-connectedness after seeing Milk. Three Doors of Liberation; emptiness (selflessness).
In December,
-I re-visited my own body-relationship after a body-meditation. Mindfulness meditation.
-I contemplated family-inherited struggles and how I will serve as a vessel for breaking-free. Prajnaparamita (understanding).
-I committed to a more simple lifestyle. Skillful action.
In January,
-I documented my southern road trip to see family in Georgia & Alabama. Skillful effort.
-I shared my first silent retreat experience where I committed to mindfulness.
-I celebrated Martin Luther King Jr.'s spirit and legacy. Four Immeasurable Minds; compassion and equanimity.
In February,
-I recounted the incredible struggle to defend my True Sangha. First Noble Truth; life is suffering.
-I shared my thoughts about "giving" after a Baha'i Devotional. Danaparamita; generosity.
-I honored a younger, wise friend of mine with a poem. Six paramitas; "perfect wisdom."
In March,
-I divulged my challenges with skillful speech and how sacred pausing helped my skillfness. Skillful speech.
-I reveled about "little people" after visiting my friend, Catherine's, first-graders. Buddha-nature, continuity/reincarnation, beginner's mind.
In April,
-I observed Dr. Seuss' lessons about compassion. Four Immeasurable Minds.
-I claimed Buddha as my life co-pilot. Fourth Noble Truth; a way toward freedom.
-I recalled my abandoned beliefs about permanence. Three Doors of Liberation; impermanence and signlessness (seeing beyond the surface).
In May,
-I wrote a poem about my abandoned attachment to always being happy. Third Noble Truth; desire as suffering.
-I wrote about the power of reiki and healing. Fourth Noble Truth; a path toward freedom.
-I expressed gratitude about living among community (of all life) after visiting a neighborhood garden. Four Immeasurable Minds; lovingkindness and joy.
In June,
-I used a nature metaphor to share about difference and belonging. Kshantiparamita (capacity to receive, bear and transform pain).
-I described how I re-discovered joy once I understood my parents' addictions. Four Immeasurable Minds; joy.
In July,
-I came upon the dharma that I needed on holisitic work and honoring self. Skillful Livelihood.
-I posted a poem that I wrote for a dear friend about the Oneness of mind, heart, and soul. Three Doors of Liberation; signlessness.
In August,
-I came upon another dharmic lesson: how to turn away from fear. Practice of "letting go."
Really, each of these lessons, is ultimately the same lesson--another step away from greed, delusion, and fear. I am incredibly thankful for the spiritual growth over the past two years, and I see endless possibilities at the end of another moment, another year.
This will be the Year of Concentration. If mindfulness is a transformation of heart, concentration is a transformation of mind.
I'll see y'all along the way.
At our POC sangha this month, we reflected on how mindfulness changed our lives. I appreciated the question because it had been some time that I contemplated my past practice, leading up to this point. At the turn of the year, I made commitment to mindfulness, so that I could be less future-oriented and more present-minded. I've come some way. I visited my previous blogs from August 08 - July 09 so consider insights, lessons, and observations.
In August,
-I learned how to surrender to silence. Practice of "letting go."
-I observed how my identities have evolved, changed, and replaced themselves during my lifetime. Impermanence.
-I wrote a poem about love's re-discovery. Practice of metta.
In September,
-I noticed that Dharma (truth) is everywhere. Fourth Noble Truth; the path toward freedom.
-I paused to witness the beauty of autumn, my favorite season. Four Immeasurable Minds; compassion and equanimity.
In October,
-I posted a picture that I'd drawn of a heart-opening and a deeply-moving quote about the foundation of love. Mindfulness.
-I reflected on the miracle of meditation and contemplative stillness to create peace. Skillful Concentration; one-pointedness concentration.
-I wrote about finding home. Skillful thinking.
-I discussed my own failures regarding sex-positivity and harmful consumption. Skillful action.
In November,
-I described the power of remembering, as inspired by James Baldwin. Own Buddha-nature and karma.
-I posted a friend's writing about America's historical election. Three refuges; building sangha.
-I reflected on spiritual terrorism on National Transgender Remembrance Day. Third Noble Truth; cessation to suffering is possible.
-I wrote an open letter to other left-visionaries. Three Doors of Liberation; aimlessness.
-I was reminded about inter-connectedness after seeing Milk. Three Doors of Liberation; emptiness (selflessness).
In December,
-I re-visited my own body-relationship after a body-meditation. Mindfulness meditation.
-I contemplated family-inherited struggles and how I will serve as a vessel for breaking-free. Prajnaparamita (understanding).
-I committed to a more simple lifestyle. Skillful action.
In January,
-I documented my southern road trip to see family in Georgia & Alabama. Skillful effort.
-I shared my first silent retreat experience where I committed to mindfulness.
-I celebrated Martin Luther King Jr.'s spirit and legacy. Four Immeasurable Minds; compassion and equanimity.
In February,
-I recounted the incredible struggle to defend my True Sangha. First Noble Truth; life is suffering.
-I shared my thoughts about "giving" after a Baha'i Devotional. Danaparamita; generosity.
-I honored a younger, wise friend of mine with a poem. Six paramitas; "perfect wisdom."
In March,
-I divulged my challenges with skillful speech and how sacred pausing helped my skillfness. Skillful speech.
-I reveled about "little people" after visiting my friend, Catherine's, first-graders. Buddha-nature, continuity/reincarnation, beginner's mind.
In April,
-I observed Dr. Seuss' lessons about compassion. Four Immeasurable Minds.
-I claimed Buddha as my life co-pilot. Fourth Noble Truth; a way toward freedom.
-I recalled my abandoned beliefs about permanence. Three Doors of Liberation; impermanence and signlessness (seeing beyond the surface).
In May,
-I wrote a poem about my abandoned attachment to always being happy. Third Noble Truth; desire as suffering.
-I wrote about the power of reiki and healing. Fourth Noble Truth; a path toward freedom.
-I expressed gratitude about living among community (of all life) after visiting a neighborhood garden. Four Immeasurable Minds; lovingkindness and joy.
In June,
-I used a nature metaphor to share about difference and belonging. Kshantiparamita (capacity to receive, bear and transform pain).
-I described how I re-discovered joy once I understood my parents' addictions. Four Immeasurable Minds; joy.
In July,
-I came upon the dharma that I needed on holisitic work and honoring self. Skillful Livelihood.
-I posted a poem that I wrote for a dear friend about the Oneness of mind, heart, and soul. Three Doors of Liberation; signlessness.
In August,
-I came upon another dharmic lesson: how to turn away from fear. Practice of "letting go."
Really, each of these lessons, is ultimately the same lesson--another step away from greed, delusion, and fear. I am incredibly thankful for the spiritual growth over the past two years, and I see endless possibilities at the end of another moment, another year.
This will be the Year of Concentration. If mindfulness is a transformation of heart, concentration is a transformation of mind.
I'll see y'all along the way.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
"You Will Get the Dharma You Need" Act Two: Freedom from Fear
I intended to write this entry three weeks ago after an uninhibited weekend trip where I began to discover the thread which runs through pageanism, Buddhism, and domination/submission spirituality. In fact, the Act One teaser made a glib reference to "Buddhism & BDSM." But, as we know, plans are fragile expressions, so I find myself, nearly three weeks later describing this month's lessons on fear. It is only a short leap, however, between pain and persistence, and during these recent days, my blind fear pushed me to enter fearlessness--a formless, peaceful place.
My defeat over fear began in June. I experienced a psychic sea-change, meaning, I felt a new air surrounding me. In a way that one might notice a subtle shift in time or space when waking up the morning after a major life event. Things are simply different. This is how I felt the month of June. I acted "out-of-character." I tried seemingly random new things (kayaking, foods, people). I made choices that I would have never before considered. I shed those heavy self-imposed limitations with every decision. Life became particularly fun. And, remarkably, I didn't think too much about it.
My sea-change washed into an erotic July community camp-out. My dear high school friend signed us up for an all-gender, all sexuality, all-sexual explorative weekend in a remote West Virginia campground. (I playfully warned friends to send a search team if I did not return.) Ethan described his experience on his blog. As for myself, I can only describe our time there as living in an alternate universe where outside conventions were not at all assumed or even preferred. Leather sex-games took place next to eating areas; bearded, full-breasted people wandered fully exposed; and pagean gods/goddesses were often evoked for guidance. I noticed: the strangest place I had ever known, also transformed into a momentary home.
Fittingly, the first workshop we attended, called Honor and Service, explored the spiritual aspects in a domination and submission lifestyle. This lifestyle calls for a dominant to essentially own a submissive, a form of voluntary slavery, toward a purpose to experience total intimacy. A "sub" finds selflessness by several means, including surrendering his/her identity to a dominant--no personal thoughts/feelings, no separate decision-making, no independent personality from the submissive role. A "dom," in turn, is governed by a noble ethic to best serve the "sub." If a sub is to surrender to a dom, a dom is to surrender to Universe (or in the workshop's case, a pagean God). Power's absoluteness did not destroy or corrupt either participant, rather, it shaped the karmic power of their indistinguishable being. A formula resembling, Humility plus Compassion equals a spiritual partnership. I came to understand.
Later in the day, like most others, I abandoned my proclivities by the dirt roadside. I flounced about outside during a thunderstorm, I leafed through available pornography, and, without too much reservation, I stripped off my clothes for Saturday evening. What use did I have for them, anyway? I was elsewhere--perhaps a place called freedom.
A place to which I returned this week. It was long and complicated, but what I will offer are the sanguine words of a Spiritualist minister who advised me last weekend: "It's OK. Take a chance. Even if it's not OK, it will be fine." Because simplicity are empowered by context, these words were the most consoling words that I could have then heard. He offered me clarity. I accepted.
He further offered me this: I was unaware of my own power through which I would discover all the answers to my deepest questions, if only I meditate. In other words, all I needed to do is ask myself. His words, thrown upon the sea-change, thrust me into fearlessness. Once he offered me the possibility to be powerful, I gave myself permission.. Why be afraid if I could hold the worst-to-happen, and better yet, I was able to transform it, seeing it clearly into its true nature. Indeed, the worst happened the previous week. On Saturday, the day before the sermon, I removed the distractions--I embraced the heaviness--I examined experience for knowledge--and I was here, receiving advice. I accepted and I let go.
In hindsight, I see that "doing new things," "worrying less," and "breathing more," were synonyms for surrender. It isn't hands-in-the-air desperation nor is it a grinding ambivalence. It's merely being OK. A silent strength that runs in your veins. So, on Tuesday, while on the bus, I realized that I was no longer afraid. I suppose this is fearlessness. It feels good and most of all, it feels like a transformative change. Exactly the dharma that I needed.
My defeat over fear began in June. I experienced a psychic sea-change, meaning, I felt a new air surrounding me. In a way that one might notice a subtle shift in time or space when waking up the morning after a major life event. Things are simply different. This is how I felt the month of June. I acted "out-of-character." I tried seemingly random new things (kayaking, foods, people). I made choices that I would have never before considered. I shed those heavy self-imposed limitations with every decision. Life became particularly fun. And, remarkably, I didn't think too much about it.
My sea-change washed into an erotic July community camp-out. My dear high school friend signed us up for an all-gender, all sexuality, all-sexual explorative weekend in a remote West Virginia campground. (I playfully warned friends to send a search team if I did not return.) Ethan described his experience on his blog. As for myself, I can only describe our time there as living in an alternate universe where outside conventions were not at all assumed or even preferred. Leather sex-games took place next to eating areas; bearded, full-breasted people wandered fully exposed; and pagean gods/goddesses were often evoked for guidance. I noticed: the strangest place I had ever known, also transformed into a momentary home.
Fittingly, the first workshop we attended, called Honor and Service, explored the spiritual aspects in a domination and submission lifestyle. This lifestyle calls for a dominant to essentially own a submissive, a form of voluntary slavery, toward a purpose to experience total intimacy. A "sub" finds selflessness by several means, including surrendering his/her identity to a dominant--no personal thoughts/feelings, no separate decision-making, no independent personality from the submissive role. A "dom," in turn, is governed by a noble ethic to best serve the "sub." If a sub is to surrender to a dom, a dom is to surrender to Universe (or in the workshop's case, a pagean God). Power's absoluteness did not destroy or corrupt either participant, rather, it shaped the karmic power of their indistinguishable being. A formula resembling, Humility plus Compassion equals a spiritual partnership. I came to understand.
Later in the day, like most others, I abandoned my proclivities by the dirt roadside. I flounced about outside during a thunderstorm, I leafed through available pornography, and, without too much reservation, I stripped off my clothes for Saturday evening. What use did I have for them, anyway? I was elsewhere--perhaps a place called freedom.
A place to which I returned this week. It was long and complicated, but what I will offer are the sanguine words of a Spiritualist minister who advised me last weekend: "It's OK. Take a chance. Even if it's not OK, it will be fine." Because simplicity are empowered by context, these words were the most consoling words that I could have then heard. He offered me clarity. I accepted.
He further offered me this: I was unaware of my own power through which I would discover all the answers to my deepest questions, if only I meditate. In other words, all I needed to do is ask myself. His words, thrown upon the sea-change, thrust me into fearlessness. Once he offered me the possibility to be powerful, I gave myself permission.. Why be afraid if I could hold the worst-to-happen, and better yet, I was able to transform it, seeing it clearly into its true nature. Indeed, the worst happened the previous week. On Saturday, the day before the sermon, I removed the distractions--I embraced the heaviness--I examined experience for knowledge--and I was here, receiving advice. I accepted and I let go.
In hindsight, I see that "doing new things," "worrying less," and "breathing more," were synonyms for surrender. It isn't hands-in-the-air desperation nor is it a grinding ambivalence. It's merely being OK. A silent strength that runs in your veins. So, on Tuesday, while on the bus, I realized that I was no longer afraid. I suppose this is fearlessness. It feels good and most of all, it feels like a transformative change. Exactly the dharma that I needed.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Way
The mind reveals the way of the world,
Separating the real from the non-real,
Without the mind, we would not know what to do
To be grateful for the wisdom that it sees.
The heart reveals the way of balance,
Separating indulgence from need,
Without the heart, we would be lost in our lives,
To be grateful for the care that it offers.
The spirit reveals the way of truth,
Separating craving from our nature,
Without the spirit, we would remain enslaved to our mind and heart,
To be grateful for the peace that it creates.
Change continuously separates our selves,
From mind, heart, and spirit,
Yet in our practice—our way forward,
Each remains as One,
Friday, July 24, 2009
the beautiful struggle
I finished an inspiring memoir this week from which this entry is its namesake. It is the story of Ta-Nehisi Coates, a young man who was nearly swallowed by black Baltimore-city slums, during the 80s crack epidemic, and under the hands of his Black Panther father.
I wanted to share a long excerpt from my favorite chapter (chapter 4, pp. 107-111), "to teach those who can't say my name." This chapter is when Ta-Nehisi begins to discover himself, amidst the hard street-game, family turmoil, and his own father's ideological shadow. He was the type of young brother who was groping in the dark for meaning in his personal and social identities. At this point in his life, Ta-Nehisi found hip-hop, a door for him to unearth forgotten words and melodies of his spirit.
He lays it down:
"I took Consciousness because there was nothing else, no other sorcery to counter death for suede, leather, and gold. My father bet his life on change. For the glory of ex-cons, abandoned mothers, and black boys lost, he had made peace with his end. I was a coward, mostly concerned with etting from one day to the next. How could I square my young life with this lineage? What would I say to the theology of my father, which held that the Conscious Act was wroth more than sex, bread, or even drawn breath?
There were no answers in the broader body, where the best of us went out like Sammy Davis and spoke like there had never been war. I will avoid the cartoons--the hard rocks loved Billy Ocean, Luther was classic, and indeed, I did sit in my seventh period music class eyeing Arletta Holly and humming "Lost in Emotion." But you must remember the era. Niggers were on MTV in lipstick and curls, extolling their exotic quadroons, big-upping Freed Astaire, and speaking like the rest of us didn't exist. I'm talking S-culrs and sequins, Lionel Richie dancing on the ceiling. I'm talking the corporate pop of Whitney, and Richard Pryor turning into the toy. Was the Parliament had never happened, like James Brown had never hit. All our champions were disconnected and dishonored, handing out Image Awards, while we bled in the streets.
But now the word turned Conscous, De La refused to scowl and Stetsaonic shouted across the Atlantic gap. First, Chuck, then KRS, and then everywhere you looked MCs were reaching for Garvey's tricolor, shouting across the land, self-destruction was at an end, that the logic of white people's ice had failed us, that the day of awareness was now.
Across the land, the masses fel away to the gospel. Old Panthers came out in camoflage to salute Chuck D. Cold killers would get a taste of 'Raise the Flag,' drop their guns, and turn vegan. Brothers quoted Farrakhan with wine on their breath. Harlots performed salaat, covered their blond french rolls in mud cloth and royal kente. Dark girls slashed their Apollonia poters, burned their green contacts, cut their hair, threw in braids. Gold was stashted in teh top dresser drawer. The fashion became your father's dashik, breads, and Africa medallions...
At first I felt the words of otehrs pulsing through me--my reforming brother, the esotric allusions of the God, the philosophy of KRS-One--and in truth, in many years of trying, I never completely touched my own. My hand was awkward; and when I rhymed, the couplets would not adhere, punch lines crashed into bar, metaphors were extended until they derailed off beat. I was unfit, but still I had at it for days, months, and ultimately years. And the more ink I dribbled onto the page, the more I felt the blessing of the Jedi order of MCs. I wrote every day that summer, rhymed over B-side instrumentals, until my pen was a Staff of the Dreaded Streets (plus five chance to banish fools on sight) and my flow, though flicted and disjointed, a Horn of Ghetto Blasting. The words were all braggadocios, but when done with the recital, even though I was alone, I felt bigger.
I'd walk outside, and my head was just a little higher, because if you do this right, if you claim to be that nigger enough, though you battle only your bedroom mirror, there is a part of you that believes. That was how I came to understand, how I came to know why all these brothers wrote and talked so big. Even the Knowledged feared the streets. But the rhyme pad was a spell book--it summoned asphalt elementals, elder gods, and weeping ancestors, all of whom had your back. That summer, I knew what Fruitie was trying to say, that when under the aegis of hip-hop, you never lived alone, you never walked alone."
The hip-hop generation thanks you.
I wanted to share a long excerpt from my favorite chapter (chapter 4, pp. 107-111), "to teach those who can't say my name." This chapter is when Ta-Nehisi begins to discover himself, amidst the hard street-game, family turmoil, and his own father's ideological shadow. He was the type of young brother who was groping in the dark for meaning in his personal and social identities. At this point in his life, Ta-Nehisi found hip-hop, a door for him to unearth forgotten words and melodies of his spirit.
He lays it down:
"I took Consciousness because there was nothing else, no other sorcery to counter death for suede, leather, and gold. My father bet his life on change. For the glory of ex-cons, abandoned mothers, and black boys lost, he had made peace with his end. I was a coward, mostly concerned with etting from one day to the next. How could I square my young life with this lineage? What would I say to the theology of my father, which held that the Conscious Act was wroth more than sex, bread, or even drawn breath?
There were no answers in the broader body, where the best of us went out like Sammy Davis and spoke like there had never been war. I will avoid the cartoons--the hard rocks loved Billy Ocean, Luther was classic, and indeed, I did sit in my seventh period music class eyeing Arletta Holly and humming "Lost in Emotion." But you must remember the era. Niggers were on MTV in lipstick and curls, extolling their exotic quadroons, big-upping Freed Astaire, and speaking like the rest of us didn't exist. I'm talking S-culrs and sequins, Lionel Richie dancing on the ceiling. I'm talking the corporate pop of Whitney, and Richard Pryor turning into the toy. Was the Parliament had never happened, like James Brown had never hit. All our champions were disconnected and dishonored, handing out Image Awards, while we bled in the streets.
But now the word turned Conscous, De La refused to scowl and Stetsaonic shouted across the Atlantic gap. First, Chuck, then KRS, and then everywhere you looked MCs were reaching for Garvey's tricolor, shouting across the land, self-destruction was at an end, that the logic of white people's ice had failed us, that the day of awareness was now.
Across the land, the masses fel away to the gospel. Old Panthers came out in camoflage to salute Chuck D. Cold killers would get a taste of 'Raise the Flag,' drop their guns, and turn vegan. Brothers quoted Farrakhan with wine on their breath. Harlots performed salaat, covered their blond french rolls in mud cloth and royal kente. Dark girls slashed their Apollonia poters, burned their green contacts, cut their hair, threw in braids. Gold was stashted in teh top dresser drawer. The fashion became your father's dashik, breads, and Africa medallions...
At first I felt the words of otehrs pulsing through me--my reforming brother, the esotric allusions of the God, the philosophy of KRS-One--and in truth, in many years of trying, I never completely touched my own. My hand was awkward; and when I rhymed, the couplets would not adhere, punch lines crashed into bar, metaphors were extended until they derailed off beat. I was unfit, but still I had at it for days, months, and ultimately years. And the more ink I dribbled onto the page, the more I felt the blessing of the Jedi order of MCs. I wrote every day that summer, rhymed over B-side instrumentals, until my pen was a Staff of the Dreaded Streets (plus five chance to banish fools on sight) and my flow, though flicted and disjointed, a Horn of Ghetto Blasting. The words were all braggadocios, but when done with the recital, even though I was alone, I felt bigger.
I'd walk outside, and my head was just a little higher, because if you do this right, if you claim to be that nigger enough, though you battle only your bedroom mirror, there is a part of you that believes. That was how I came to understand, how I came to know why all these brothers wrote and talked so big. Even the Knowledged feared the streets. But the rhyme pad was a spell book--it summoned asphalt elementals, elder gods, and weeping ancestors, all of whom had your back. That summer, I knew what Fruitie was trying to say, that when under the aegis of hip-hop, you never lived alone, you never walked alone."
The hip-hop generation thanks you.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
"You Will Get the Dharma You Need" - Act One
I have to credit this wonderful catch-phrase to a Buddhist podcast I recently discovered called "Buddhist Geeks." The name is especially endearing because, well...I am pretty close to Geek. Please--don't take this news too hard.
I've sat next to the saying last week. I've held it and examined it. Poked and prodded; pushed and pulled. Spun it around, even. And upon inspecting it, I realized: I like it a lot. The saying reminds me of another one with which I was raised: God will not give you more than you can handle. With our open hands, we are given our share.
Then, a few days later, I read this passage from Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, between the main character, 9-year old Oskar and his father before bedtime:
"So I said, 'Obviously, but why is there gravity?'
He said, 'What do you mean why is there gravity?'
'What's the reason?'
'Who said there had to be a reason?'
'No one did, exactly.'
'My question was rhetorical.'
'What's that mean?'
'It means I wasn't asking it for an answer, but to make a point.'
'What point?'
'That there doesn't have to be a reason.'
'But if there isn't a reason, then why does the universe exist at all?'
'Because of sympathetic conditions.'" (emphasis added)
We exist because of sympathetic conditions--what a beautiful expression. I am beginning to appreciate what both expressions mean.
I have a job for every year that I have contemplated my long-term work-life this summer. Two and a half jobs for two and a half thinking years. It is a different question than a "career-choice," "jobs I should find," or "a way to make money." I want to know how this: given my power to choose, how will work be incorporated into my day-to-day life? I had no significant insight for two and a half years.
I asked myself about meaningful work--how can I best employ my talents and skills into the work that I do? My strengths lie in conceptual analysis suited for brainy sort of work but also, I am physical strong and efficient, a combination suited for moving and organizing things. It has taken me as long to discover what I do well, only to discover that any one of us has the capacity to learn any skill with persistent discipline and a wise approach.
Next, I asked myself about fulfilling work--which kinds of work aligns my spirit, heart, and mind? This answer is complicated by the skills and talents that I identified, until I understood that my fulfillment entirely depended on the last question.
What kinds of work were skillful in a spiritual sense--whether my chosen work were ethical. At the very least, I had not engaged in unethical work (to my knowledge). I confronted the dilemma about choosing the most skillful work--whether my chosen work inflicted the least harm and advanced the most virtue. Community-organizing, for example, "serves"; on the other hand, I learned that it may not be the kind the work that lends itself to "professionalization." I organized to find and strenghten community for which I discovered that earning a living changed the nature of it. I still cannot carve the words, yet I knew that I was unfulfilled.
Multiple jobs may drive some people out of their minds. As fragile as our minds are, it is exactly what I need. It does not follow that we should have single jobs that define who we are. We are and offer many different things so our work should reflect our complex selves. It is interesting that we assume that our work should be reduced into a single paid-job that often defines who we are or our life station. What a story.
Sympathetic conditions are the result of the Universe arranging itself for our best understanding. Conditions have arisen to tell me that I need work-lives--materially compensated or not--that further the Dharma. What will this look like? Probably legal-work, physical labor, spiritual offerings, to sustain "freelance" writing. The possibilities are as wide as this Universe of ours, as I try to re-tell my own work story.
More lessons from the Invisible Truth-Telling Hand in Act Two on bondage, domination/submission, sado-masochism (BDSM) and Buddhism.
I've sat next to the saying last week. I've held it and examined it. Poked and prodded; pushed and pulled. Spun it around, even. And upon inspecting it, I realized: I like it a lot. The saying reminds me of another one with which I was raised: God will not give you more than you can handle. With our open hands, we are given our share.
Then, a few days later, I read this passage from Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, between the main character, 9-year old Oskar and his father before bedtime:
"So I said, 'Obviously, but why is there gravity?'
He said, 'What do you mean why is there gravity?'
'What's the reason?'
'Who said there had to be a reason?'
'No one did, exactly.'
'My question was rhetorical.'
'What's that mean?'
'It means I wasn't asking it for an answer, but to make a point.'
'What point?'
'That there doesn't have to be a reason.'
'But if there isn't a reason, then why does the universe exist at all?'
'Because of sympathetic conditions.'" (emphasis added)
We exist because of sympathetic conditions--what a beautiful expression. I am beginning to appreciate what both expressions mean.
I have a job for every year that I have contemplated my long-term work-life this summer. Two and a half jobs for two and a half thinking years. It is a different question than a "career-choice," "jobs I should find," or "a way to make money." I want to know how this: given my power to choose, how will work be incorporated into my day-to-day life? I had no significant insight for two and a half years.
I asked myself about meaningful work--how can I best employ my talents and skills into the work that I do? My strengths lie in conceptual analysis suited for brainy sort of work but also, I am physical strong and efficient, a combination suited for moving and organizing things. It has taken me as long to discover what I do well, only to discover that any one of us has the capacity to learn any skill with persistent discipline and a wise approach.
Next, I asked myself about fulfilling work--which kinds of work aligns my spirit, heart, and mind? This answer is complicated by the skills and talents that I identified, until I understood that my fulfillment entirely depended on the last question.
What kinds of work were skillful in a spiritual sense--whether my chosen work were ethical. At the very least, I had not engaged in unethical work (to my knowledge). I confronted the dilemma about choosing the most skillful work--whether my chosen work inflicted the least harm and advanced the most virtue. Community-organizing, for example, "serves"; on the other hand, I learned that it may not be the kind the work that lends itself to "professionalization." I organized to find and strenghten community for which I discovered that earning a living changed the nature of it. I still cannot carve the words, yet I knew that I was unfulfilled.
Multiple jobs may drive some people out of their minds. As fragile as our minds are, it is exactly what I need. It does not follow that we should have single jobs that define who we are. We are and offer many different things so our work should reflect our complex selves. It is interesting that we assume that our work should be reduced into a single paid-job that often defines who we are or our life station. What a story.
Sympathetic conditions are the result of the Universe arranging itself for our best understanding. Conditions have arisen to tell me that I need work-lives--materially compensated or not--that further the Dharma. What will this look like? Probably legal-work, physical labor, spiritual offerings, to sustain "freelance" writing. The possibilities are as wide as this Universe of ours, as I try to re-tell my own work story.
More lessons from the Invisible Truth-Telling Hand in Act Two on bondage, domination/submission, sado-masochism (BDSM) and Buddhism.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
By Another Name
I am one of those people who receives a Google Alert whenever my name appears on the worldwide web. Sometimes, I receive "old" alerts or previously posted material that undergoes a URL or other technical change. Today I received one of those "old" alerts on a college op-ed I wrote for the former left-wing magazine I co-founded with Julian called the W&M Progressive. I must have written this spring semester, junior year (2006) in the days when I was going to be a sociologist. It reminded me of the Tavis Smiley podcast I listened to this morning on the housing crisis impact on communities of color--the theme of old racism by a new name.
Understanding 'Standardized Racism' by Richael Faithful
If I cannot serve any other purpose at William and Mary than combating subtle racism, I might consider myself extremely useful. It is usually the implicit signs which make me a self-conscious black student at this majority institution, however, occasionally, I am impressed to witness the silent pervasiveness of intellectualized racism on campus. This form of racism is the only acceptable type at the College, which is equally encouraging and menacing.
But recently, I was struck by claims in the final Remnant issue article which discussed “SAT Diversity.” Although I have reached the point of not dignifying many of their arguments, I found this particular argument threatening because it seemed reasonable on its surface. In other words, it seemed believable even though it was starving of facts, and lacked sufficient clarity. I was afraid other people would actually believe this, so I wanted to respond to the article while pointing out how many of these arguments reveal prejudicial attitudes—a normalized type of intellectual racism, which I call “standardized racism”.
Standardized racism is an originally coined term for overstatements about the implications of the widely known black-white test score gap. The Remnant article hyperbolized the issue by claiming that lower SAT scores of some black students necessarily make them less qualified applicants. That’s bogus. Let us briefly review the black-white test score gap topic, popular explanations, and how this reasoning is inappropriately linked to affirmative action.
The test score gap represents patterns of minority under-achievement and continues to be a well-documented phenomenon. African-Americans currently score lower than European Americans on vocabulary, reading, and mathematic tests, as well as on tests that claim to measure scholastic aptitude and intelligence. This gap appears before children enter kindergarten and persists into adulthood. However, when scores are comparable, figures show that blacks are more likely to complete college than whites (a subject we will discuss later)1.
The body of literature shows that often urban and rural students, regardless of race perform worse than suburban students. When race is factored in, blacks still under-perform across the board, especially poor blacks, and those who live in the South. The desegregation of the American public school system drew attention to a significant gap between the achievements of black and white students. As concern over this gap increased, various interventions were attempted to raise black students’ test scores. Some progress was made over the years, but the differences were not eradicated. 2.
New data on the achievement gap between black and white high school students in desegregated, suburban, middle-class schools add to the complexity of the issue3. These results imply that social class is not an adequate explanation for the achievement gap. The black-white achievement difference remains a defining mark of racial inequality in public education today. These are not controversial claims.
Nevertheless, how we assemble the complex puzzle to explain this under-achievement and its meanings has spurred pluralistic, and sometimes, contentious discussion (although, the truth of the matter probably borrows from a combination of theories.) Some of the most popular are the stereotype threat theory, economic/social/human/cultural capital deficiency theory, organization theory, and effects of de-segregation theory. Regardless of explanations, consistent patterns of minority test under-performance, particularly on the SATs has alerted red flags for educators. The conclusion: by no means alone can the SAT be a standard for college preparedness (nor has it ever been for that matter.)
One of the fundamental shortcomings of the Remnant article was its failure to qualify the importance of standardized tests in the admissions process. John Williams exposes this over-attribution by explaining that “the problem with such fears [that blacks with low test scores replace “qualified” whites] is that they inadequately reflect ways colleges and universities actually operate, and overlook the existence of race discrimination. Where admissions standards are concerned, it is by no means clear that admissions officers at white campuses consider a SAT score of 750 as a minimum acceptable standard. In fact, considerable disagreement exists among college admission professionals, and many public institutions which were previously segregated do not consider a minimum SAT score for any student, a relevant fact to bear over, SAT officials argue strongly that SAT scores should be used along with other indicators for adequately projecting college performance. Using them to establish minimum standards involves using them incorrectly.”
Yet small, selective colleges and universities (which tend to be the only institutions that practice affirmative action; see Source of the River citation below)4 have minimum standards—which all seriously considered applicants must meet. This refutes the frequent charge that “less-qualified” black applicants take the place of a “qualified” white applicants (this is presumptuous in itself.) A black applicant may or may not have a lower SAT score but this does not mean that they are competitive on other levels, or offer different strengths to the pool (white students are admitted under these same standards.) Therefore, it’s fallacious to confound the relationship between the test score gap and affirmative action. The SAT is one of many factors, and affirmative action only affects holistically qualified applicants, black or white.
What is more is that racial (often racist) attitudes which underlie claims of prototypical “less-qualified” black applicant. As it turns out the profile of a black applicant to attend William and Mary are amongst the most competitive in the country. As a result, the likely beneficiaries of affirmative action tend to over-achieve compared to other black students, studies show. One recent study was featured in the Chronicle for Higher Education in 2004. According to the results of a study presented in August at the annual meeting of the American Sociological Association, “Black and Hispanic students are more likely to finish college if they attend a relatively selective institution—even if that means they are surrounded by “better-prepared” students.” Counter to the “argument [that] posits that affirmative action programs place black and Hispanic students in academic environments for which they are unprepared, and that such students therefore become demoralized and drop out at relatively high rates, Ms. Alon and Ms. Tienda found, however, that while black and Hispanic students at selective colleges did drop out at relatively high rates (due to other non-academic reasons), equally prepared black and Hispanic students who choose less-selective colleges are even more likely to drop out.” The final determination is that “we found no evidence that race-sensitive admissions practices have any disadvantage whatsoever for minority students.”
Evidence points toward SAT scores as being poor indicators of first-year success when considered alone; otherwise qualified black applicants might be considered competitive, though, this might be true for white applicants without suspicious discernable test patterns; and black applicants who enter into selective institutions are actually more likely than their counterparts to graduate even if they attend amongst better-prepared students, or white students who score higher on the SATs. Thus, telling black students with lower SAT scores (notice that I said “lower” and not “low”) that they are not qualified to be here is a bias opinion, and one based on racist attitudes, not fact. It is irresponsible, and dare I say, just racist rhetoric.
Finally, SAT “diversity” is merely an abuse of an already diluted term. The imprecision in language reflects an imprecision in analysis. Taking a superficial glance at data and drawing poorly-informed interpretations is insulting to an intellectual environment, and takes on a corrupting guise. Guys, leave your racist thoughts to yourselves, because frankly, the campus, and this affirmative action beneficiary is tired of hearing it.
Post-script: I've long considered this topic and affirmative action as very personal issues. I'm an affirmative action baby myself. I've also have always had lower test scores, including on the SAT and LSAT, and I am yet to be convinced that either test has indicated much about my future.
Understanding 'Standardized Racism' by Richael Faithful
If I cannot serve any other purpose at William and Mary than combating subtle racism, I might consider myself extremely useful. It is usually the implicit signs which make me a self-conscious black student at this majority institution, however, occasionally, I am impressed to witness the silent pervasiveness of intellectualized racism on campus. This form of racism is the only acceptable type at the College, which is equally encouraging and menacing.
But recently, I was struck by claims in the final Remnant issue article which discussed “SAT Diversity.” Although I have reached the point of not dignifying many of their arguments, I found this particular argument threatening because it seemed reasonable on its surface. In other words, it seemed believable even though it was starving of facts, and lacked sufficient clarity. I was afraid other people would actually believe this, so I wanted to respond to the article while pointing out how many of these arguments reveal prejudicial attitudes—a normalized type of intellectual racism, which I call “standardized racism”.
Standardized racism is an originally coined term for overstatements about the implications of the widely known black-white test score gap. The Remnant article hyperbolized the issue by claiming that lower SAT scores of some black students necessarily make them less qualified applicants. That’s bogus. Let us briefly review the black-white test score gap topic, popular explanations, and how this reasoning is inappropriately linked to affirmative action.
The test score gap represents patterns of minority under-achievement and continues to be a well-documented phenomenon. African-Americans currently score lower than European Americans on vocabulary, reading, and mathematic tests, as well as on tests that claim to measure scholastic aptitude and intelligence. This gap appears before children enter kindergarten and persists into adulthood. However, when scores are comparable, figures show that blacks are more likely to complete college than whites (a subject we will discuss later)1.
The body of literature shows that often urban and rural students, regardless of race perform worse than suburban students. When race is factored in, blacks still under-perform across the board, especially poor blacks, and those who live in the South. The desegregation of the American public school system drew attention to a significant gap between the achievements of black and white students. As concern over this gap increased, various interventions were attempted to raise black students’ test scores. Some progress was made over the years, but the differences were not eradicated. 2.
New data on the achievement gap between black and white high school students in desegregated, suburban, middle-class schools add to the complexity of the issue3. These results imply that social class is not an adequate explanation for the achievement gap. The black-white achievement difference remains a defining mark of racial inequality in public education today. These are not controversial claims.
Nevertheless, how we assemble the complex puzzle to explain this under-achievement and its meanings has spurred pluralistic, and sometimes, contentious discussion (although, the truth of the matter probably borrows from a combination of theories.) Some of the most popular are the stereotype threat theory, economic/social/human/cultural capital deficiency theory, organization theory, and effects of de-segregation theory. Regardless of explanations, consistent patterns of minority test under-performance, particularly on the SATs has alerted red flags for educators. The conclusion: by no means alone can the SAT be a standard for college preparedness (nor has it ever been for that matter.)
One of the fundamental shortcomings of the Remnant article was its failure to qualify the importance of standardized tests in the admissions process. John Williams exposes this over-attribution by explaining that “the problem with such fears [that blacks with low test scores replace “qualified” whites] is that they inadequately reflect ways colleges and universities actually operate, and overlook the existence of race discrimination. Where admissions standards are concerned, it is by no means clear that admissions officers at white campuses consider a SAT score of 750 as a minimum acceptable standard. In fact, considerable disagreement exists among college admission professionals, and many public institutions which were previously segregated do not consider a minimum SAT score for any student, a relevant fact to bear over, SAT officials argue strongly that SAT scores should be used along with other indicators for adequately projecting college performance. Using them to establish minimum standards involves using them incorrectly.”
Yet small, selective colleges and universities (which tend to be the only institutions that practice affirmative action; see Source of the River citation below)4 have minimum standards—which all seriously considered applicants must meet. This refutes the frequent charge that “less-qualified” black applicants take the place of a “qualified” white applicants (this is presumptuous in itself.) A black applicant may or may not have a lower SAT score but this does not mean that they are competitive on other levels, or offer different strengths to the pool (white students are admitted under these same standards.) Therefore, it’s fallacious to confound the relationship between the test score gap and affirmative action. The SAT is one of many factors, and affirmative action only affects holistically qualified applicants, black or white.
What is more is that racial (often racist) attitudes which underlie claims of prototypical “less-qualified” black applicant. As it turns out the profile of a black applicant to attend William and Mary are amongst the most competitive in the country. As a result, the likely beneficiaries of affirmative action tend to over-achieve compared to other black students, studies show. One recent study was featured in the Chronicle for Higher Education in 2004. According to the results of a study presented in August at the annual meeting of the American Sociological Association, “Black and Hispanic students are more likely to finish college if they attend a relatively selective institution—even if that means they are surrounded by “better-prepared” students.” Counter to the “argument [that] posits that affirmative action programs place black and Hispanic students in academic environments for which they are unprepared, and that such students therefore become demoralized and drop out at relatively high rates, Ms. Alon and Ms. Tienda found, however, that while black and Hispanic students at selective colleges did drop out at relatively high rates (due to other non-academic reasons), equally prepared black and Hispanic students who choose less-selective colleges are even more likely to drop out.” The final determination is that “we found no evidence that race-sensitive admissions practices have any disadvantage whatsoever for minority students.”
Evidence points toward SAT scores as being poor indicators of first-year success when considered alone; otherwise qualified black applicants might be considered competitive, though, this might be true for white applicants without suspicious discernable test patterns; and black applicants who enter into selective institutions are actually more likely than their counterparts to graduate even if they attend amongst better-prepared students, or white students who score higher on the SATs. Thus, telling black students with lower SAT scores (notice that I said “lower” and not “low”) that they are not qualified to be here is a bias opinion, and one based on racist attitudes, not fact. It is irresponsible, and dare I say, just racist rhetoric.
Finally, SAT “diversity” is merely an abuse of an already diluted term. The imprecision in language reflects an imprecision in analysis. Taking a superficial glance at data and drawing poorly-informed interpretations is insulting to an intellectual environment, and takes on a corrupting guise. Guys, leave your racist thoughts to yourselves, because frankly, the campus, and this affirmative action beneficiary is tired of hearing it.
Post-script: I've long considered this topic and affirmative action as very personal issues. I'm an affirmative action baby myself. I've also have always had lower test scores, including on the SAT and LSAT, and I am yet to be convinced that either test has indicated much about my future.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Seeing Me
My friend, Lucy, shared this photography documentary with me. I cannot comment about it; it is one of the most moving displays I've seen. I hope you agree:
http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/27/showcase-12/
http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/27/showcase-12/
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Joy Lives Here
Yesterday I had lunch with a dear friend. We had a rich conversation that revolved around adult-children forgiving their parents as a way to re-define their relationships. I had made this difficult choice during my first college years, importantly, when I was no longer living with either parent. I shared with my friend that I did not forgive my parents to intentionally relieve myself from guilt, resentment, or another heavy feeling. Rather, I forgave my parents, because I saw more and more of myself in them.I made some significant mistakes in my early adult life, some of which required parental support and care to correct. The more I understood life's complexity, the more I understood them as fantastic and flawed people who were doing their best. Each relationship naturally changed once we were re-introduced as friends because, after all, people change too.
Our conversation is timely for Father's Day. I maintain a close relationship with my father who is my primary source for material stability. Interestingly this year, Father's Day, and my father's 15th year gambling-free anniversary, fall within the same week. This is no coincidence--it's a meaningful outcome.
My father is very open about his gambling-addiction recovery upon reaching this milestone. I vividly remember myself as a 9-year old living a double-life like my father. I was a mild-mannered, high-achieving little girl during the day, and an anxiety-strangled, ultra-sensitive little girl at home. Our family struggled with gambling addiction, alcoholism, verbal violence, financial security, and lovelessness, while at the same time, experiencing gambling-and-alcohol free, peaceful, materially-secure, and loving lives. In our self-created, schizophrenic reality, as my parents silently suffered, so did my brother and me. It was deeply impressed onto us, typified by my brother's sickness--for about two years, every morning high-anxiety drove him to vomit before school. We never diagnosed his sickness, although, I am sure each of us easily identified with him.
My parents were finally forced to move into separate places when I was in late grade-school. The onset of this new life, paired with adolescence, overwhelmed me. I look toward myself in total disorientation, failing to recognize very little in me, my family, or the outside. Horomonal imbalance played a small part in my early teen depression compared to the belief that I was damaged in a way that could never be fixed. I shut-off; I was a ruined person from another dysfunctional family.
As I sit here, I honestly cannot describe how I left the fatalistic place where I resided, for my formative years. Somewhere along the way, I found ease in our family's cynical, self-reflective humor about ourselves. Introspective, politically-incorrect humor lit a path toward a place called joy. I'd visit it more often during and after my college years. Joy is an eclectic place. It contains everything I have known from pleasure to pain, except, it does not one guest: worry.
During yesterday's LGBTQ sangha, I mused a lot about joy. Many Buddhists and non-Buddhists lament that joy is absent from the Buddha's teachings. I have asked, like others, "why do these teachings seem so dire?" Or "why is Buddhism silent about joy?" My views have since changed because I'm discovered that Practice, itself, brings joy.
All that I can offer is that joy is sewn by presence. Satisfaction and dissatisfaction are "mental formations" that come and go. Contentment, too, is like a pond, easily changed by rain or wind, so to speak. Joy is a robust commitment in being freely here in whichever way here exists. Some say that such a commitment is closer to awakening, even a form of awakening. That's well. My intention is to stop visiting Joy for no other reason than Joy lives here.
Buddhism has offered a full understanding about joy, which mirrors how I understand joy through the Black-American tradition. We are the People who dance, sing, eat, and worship ourselves into freedom. We have known, and continue to know freedom, where none can be seen.
Today, I make the courageous choice for Joy, like my blood ancestors, and like my spiritual kinspeople.
Post Script (Mon, June 22): Both my parents immediately called me after learning about the fatal metro-train crash earlier this evening in D.C. If it was not evident from the post, I love my parents dearly. I will be also sending lovingkindness to those affected by the accident.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Skillful Livelihood
An externship class requirement is to write bi-weekly journal entries. I have not decided whether to post future entries but I thought the first one offered an interesting glimpse into this working life of mine. Enjoy. (And a shout-out to RWG because I was not able to concoct one in my Washington Blade interview...).
Journal Entry - Week 1 & 2 Richael Faithful - Grp. B
I had never known the organization’s name for which my (Buddhist) sangha-friend, Pabitra, worked as a national organizer before I was hired there. Admittedly, I should have remembered from our social outing over a year ago when we met as community organizers. We discussed our queer activism histories and present political lives which at some point invited a conversation about the potential collaboration between my organization, the Virginia Organizing Project (VOP), and her organization, the Rights Working Group (RWG).
Then, I grew suspicious about our get together. National groups always poured over local, multi-issue groups like VOP to “collaborate.” VOP’s founder and personal mentor, Joe Szakos, plainly described these national groups that suggested such collaborations as none other than “vultures.” Worse, Pabitra had asked about our membership—a red flag with neon bulbs and florescent fireworks. We had little “capacity” as organizers call it in my region; in fact, my purpose for the year was to deepen relationships with old supporterse and to bring in new ones. This was a tricky proposition especially because VOP, as an opportunistic, multi-issue group, did not claim members; rather, we assembled a database. There was a big difference. We were not able to hand over a member-list because we reached out to supporters based on the issue and timeliness for “the ask.” Therefore, national groups, by default, were parasites because they wanted database access. Didn’t they know that there are only so many open-minded, politically engaged-Virginians?
So after we left dinner that particular evening I never followed up with Pabitra, although we continued to see each other at sangha. After all, I was VOP’s Northern Virginia organizer for a short year which made me deeply discriminatory about with whom I spent my organizing time and extremely limited resources. Today, I smile to think about my rigidness a year ago, though, I understood why I never followed up. Non-profits are no different from any other private or governmental organization that meticulously guards its resources. VOP was building in the most powerful part of the state for the first time in its ten-year history. It was the first time, in part, to avoid national inside-the-beltway vultures. Besides, as an apprentice, my discretion to forge those friendships was limited. VOP’s culture was in many ways anti-establishment in that the staff teased me mercilessly about leaving organizing for law school. I assured them that I would not “turn corporate” and remain active with them. My post-1L assessment: so far, so good.
Since my departure last August I have learned that organizers-turned-lawyers exist and they do so without compromising their core values or personal purpose. There is indeed a wide universe of radical people within the legal world. My only task now embark on the long process to identify my place within it. Determining my summer work was emotionally complicated. I did not mind starving a little if I was doing “good” work. I had found a part-time research position at my law school on its prison rape project, which was a good fit considering that I did undergraduate research with a woman who later became a mentor and friend. Yet my summer schedule looked incomplete. I did not want to work for the sake of working because, after all, I reasoned, I could always write law articles, but ideally I would spend my time “making (more direct) change.” Literally moments after I made my decision to seek out a second job, Pabitra sent me a Facebook message:
“Do you know of any law students looking for summer internships? We had two prospects but one we didn't think worked and the other took another position. Would love to bring on someone real cool, like you!” I took the hint from both Pabitra and the Universe. I had a second job.
I’m entering my third week of my RWG externship. All indications show that I am on the right track. I am surrounded by passionate, grounded, and intelligent people who are connected to their communities for which they work. Jumana, my supervisor and RWG’s Policy Director, is an attorney from a prestigious DC law school, who is rather neat, despite her program’s pedigree. She has a quick-wit and like myself, plays down her humor with a nonchalant demeanor. She is also extremely knowledgeable about immigration policy (it is much better to have a smart supervisor, I hear). I told myself on the second day when we were having a late-morning tea break at a nearby vegan cafe to discuss my internship, “Yes, me and Jumana are going to get along just fine.” I acknowledged that our personalities were complimentary: she was a fast-talking, sometimes scattered extravert; and I was, well, not. I was especially pleased that offered me a break from the policy report pile to which I was assigned for “getting informed.” She did not even lift an eyebrow when I had to dispose of the molasses-lump-in-a-cup, which she paid for. “We will be just fine.”
I had one other observation about the office—a profound one: I was one of two Blacks at the Asian American Justice Center (AJC). In other words, I was amongst Asian people. This was a day 1 discovery, one which I cannot say that I entirely learned on my own. Lisa, the administrative support staffer, like myself, has dreadlocks so I was only mildly surprised when I was mistaken for her by another staff member from behind. I gave this person the benefit of the doubt even though Lisa and I are thirty years apart and look nothing alike. I laughed out loud when later that afternoon it was relayed to me about a different staff member that I was related to Lisa. Of course. The funny thing is that I had never been misidentified by non-whites. Perhaps it was not a White curse to see all non-whites as the same. Truth is, though, it is much more hurtful when Whites confuse non-whites because most Whites lack the empathy attached to experiencing the mistake from the other side. Nonetheless, the good news is that all five RWG staff people can distinguish me from Lisa, which was especially comforting when Lisa informed me that she had a son older than me. They say when you reach 24 aging takes on a whole new meaning but I thought that was extreme.
I was self-conscious about my racial exotic-ness at the office until last Tuesday. RWG was hosting a “convening” to plan with member and allied organizations our new racial profiling campaign. Overall, it was a successful meeting and pleasant day. Larry Yates, my bearded VOP buddy, attended, and later reported to me that he thought the meeting very useful. I was wearing a rich cyan polo with brown khakis and brown shoes. I was not certain whether my shirt really matched the khakis but none of this does not really matter when I am so uncomfortable in “professional” clothes anyway, and when eliminating racial profiling (fortunately) did not depend on my outfit that day. The idea was that I was feeling self-conscious about sticking out a little, which is hardly a new feeling but one I had not felt in a long time as an intentionally anonymous law student.
Near the end of the meeting, Aadika, RWG’s policy associate, approached me. She complimented my shirt saying that she liked the color. I cannot remember my facial expression at the time, yet I envision it was somewhere between shocked and pleasantly surprised. She went on to say that she tries to wear pastels as well because they look good for our skin tones, which she said were similar.
“Uh...” I thought, “That’s right.” It’s true.
Despite years building bridges between “similarly situated” groups suffering from some form of injustice or another, I sometimes hold on to my own discomfort in new spaces. Living in Virginia, even in the Northern Virginia cosmopolitan, my racial experience was largely black-white. I have never worked with another East Asian, South/east Asian, Arab, or even Muslim person even though I have had close Chinese, Indian, and Muslim friends. It was my first time so that Aadika’s matter-of-fact comment was a light-bulb moment for me. We both have yellowish-brown hues. A lovely color, I think.
My geography is poor; I am monolingual; and I know little immigration, yet I was brought on in the spirit of solidarity. I care about what happens to all communities of color who experience systemic injustice and really, Jumana sensed that I deeply care about any and all people who are suffering because our liberation is bound together. My lesson reinforced that RWG is “good people” as I like to say. I am willing to learn and it appears that they are willing to teach.
Journal Entry - Week 1 & 2 Richael Faithful - Grp. B
I had never known the organization’s name for which my (Buddhist) sangha-friend, Pabitra, worked as a national organizer before I was hired there. Admittedly, I should have remembered from our social outing over a year ago when we met as community organizers. We discussed our queer activism histories and present political lives which at some point invited a conversation about the potential collaboration between my organization, the Virginia Organizing Project (VOP), and her organization, the Rights Working Group (RWG).
Then, I grew suspicious about our get together. National groups always poured over local, multi-issue groups like VOP to “collaborate.” VOP’s founder and personal mentor, Joe Szakos, plainly described these national groups that suggested such collaborations as none other than “vultures.” Worse, Pabitra had asked about our membership—a red flag with neon bulbs and florescent fireworks. We had little “capacity” as organizers call it in my region; in fact, my purpose for the year was to deepen relationships with old supporterse and to bring in new ones. This was a tricky proposition especially because VOP, as an opportunistic, multi-issue group, did not claim members; rather, we assembled a database. There was a big difference. We were not able to hand over a member-list because we reached out to supporters based on the issue and timeliness for “the ask.” Therefore, national groups, by default, were parasites because they wanted database access. Didn’t they know that there are only so many open-minded, politically engaged-Virginians?
So after we left dinner that particular evening I never followed up with Pabitra, although we continued to see each other at sangha. After all, I was VOP’s Northern Virginia organizer for a short year which made me deeply discriminatory about with whom I spent my organizing time and extremely limited resources. Today, I smile to think about my rigidness a year ago, though, I understood why I never followed up. Non-profits are no different from any other private or governmental organization that meticulously guards its resources. VOP was building in the most powerful part of the state for the first time in its ten-year history. It was the first time, in part, to avoid national inside-the-beltway vultures. Besides, as an apprentice, my discretion to forge those friendships was limited. VOP’s culture was in many ways anti-establishment in that the staff teased me mercilessly about leaving organizing for law school. I assured them that I would not “turn corporate” and remain active with them. My post-1L assessment: so far, so good.
Since my departure last August I have learned that organizers-turned-lawyers exist and they do so without compromising their core values or personal purpose. There is indeed a wide universe of radical people within the legal world. My only task now embark on the long process to identify my place within it. Determining my summer work was emotionally complicated. I did not mind starving a little if I was doing “good” work. I had found a part-time research position at my law school on its prison rape project, which was a good fit considering that I did undergraduate research with a woman who later became a mentor and friend. Yet my summer schedule looked incomplete. I did not want to work for the sake of working because, after all, I reasoned, I could always write law articles, but ideally I would spend my time “making (more direct) change.” Literally moments after I made my decision to seek out a second job, Pabitra sent me a Facebook message:
“Do you know of any law students looking for summer internships? We had two prospects but one we didn't think worked and the other took another position. Would love to bring on someone real cool, like you!” I took the hint from both Pabitra and the Universe. I had a second job.
I’m entering my third week of my RWG externship. All indications show that I am on the right track. I am surrounded by passionate, grounded, and intelligent people who are connected to their communities for which they work. Jumana, my supervisor and RWG’s Policy Director, is an attorney from a prestigious DC law school, who is rather neat, despite her program’s pedigree. She has a quick-wit and like myself, plays down her humor with a nonchalant demeanor. She is also extremely knowledgeable about immigration policy (it is much better to have a smart supervisor, I hear). I told myself on the second day when we were having a late-morning tea break at a nearby vegan cafe to discuss my internship, “Yes, me and Jumana are going to get along just fine.” I acknowledged that our personalities were complimentary: she was a fast-talking, sometimes scattered extravert; and I was, well, not. I was especially pleased that offered me a break from the policy report pile to which I was assigned for “getting informed.” She did not even lift an eyebrow when I had to dispose of the molasses-lump-in-a-cup, which she paid for. “We will be just fine.”
I had one other observation about the office—a profound one: I was one of two Blacks at the Asian American Justice Center (AJC). In other words, I was amongst Asian people. This was a day 1 discovery, one which I cannot say that I entirely learned on my own. Lisa, the administrative support staffer, like myself, has dreadlocks so I was only mildly surprised when I was mistaken for her by another staff member from behind. I gave this person the benefit of the doubt even though Lisa and I are thirty years apart and look nothing alike. I laughed out loud when later that afternoon it was relayed to me about a different staff member that I was related to Lisa. Of course. The funny thing is that I had never been misidentified by non-whites. Perhaps it was not a White curse to see all non-whites as the same. Truth is, though, it is much more hurtful when Whites confuse non-whites because most Whites lack the empathy attached to experiencing the mistake from the other side. Nonetheless, the good news is that all five RWG staff people can distinguish me from Lisa, which was especially comforting when Lisa informed me that she had a son older than me. They say when you reach 24 aging takes on a whole new meaning but I thought that was extreme.
I was self-conscious about my racial exotic-ness at the office until last Tuesday. RWG was hosting a “convening” to plan with member and allied organizations our new racial profiling campaign. Overall, it was a successful meeting and pleasant day. Larry Yates, my bearded VOP buddy, attended, and later reported to me that he thought the meeting very useful. I was wearing a rich cyan polo with brown khakis and brown shoes. I was not certain whether my shirt really matched the khakis but none of this does not really matter when I am so uncomfortable in “professional” clothes anyway, and when eliminating racial profiling (fortunately) did not depend on my outfit that day. The idea was that I was feeling self-conscious about sticking out a little, which is hardly a new feeling but one I had not felt in a long time as an intentionally anonymous law student.
Near the end of the meeting, Aadika, RWG’s policy associate, approached me. She complimented my shirt saying that she liked the color. I cannot remember my facial expression at the time, yet I envision it was somewhere between shocked and pleasantly surprised. She went on to say that she tries to wear pastels as well because they look good for our skin tones, which she said were similar.
“Uh...” I thought, “That’s right.” It’s true.
Despite years building bridges between “similarly situated” groups suffering from some form of injustice or another, I sometimes hold on to my own discomfort in new spaces. Living in Virginia, even in the Northern Virginia cosmopolitan, my racial experience was largely black-white. I have never worked with another East Asian, South/east Asian, Arab, or even Muslim person even though I have had close Chinese, Indian, and Muslim friends. It was my first time so that Aadika’s matter-of-fact comment was a light-bulb moment for me. We both have yellowish-brown hues. A lovely color, I think.
My geography is poor; I am monolingual; and I know little immigration, yet I was brought on in the spirit of solidarity. I care about what happens to all communities of color who experience systemic injustice and really, Jumana sensed that I deeply care about any and all people who are suffering because our liberation is bound together. My lesson reinforced that RWG is “good people” as I like to say. I am willing to learn and it appears that they are willing to teach.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The Birds, The Bees, and The Hummingbirds
Yesterday my high school buddy and avid blog fan, Ethan, and I moved him into his new apartment in Northern Virginia. Our two strong young bodies lunged a 70s sofa set, five bookshelves, a dresser, mattress and box-spring, and three book and clothes-filled tubs (among other things) up and into his third-floor place. Mission accomplished. If anyone of us were to trace back our many trials and adventures, we could count this move among the easiest, and probably, most enjoyable sweat-and-exhaustion inducing encounters.
Earlier in the day we were preparing for the move in his family's suburban home. We had nearly finished packing the one-bedroom U-Haul in the early morning sun. In the doorway Ethan commented about explaining gender to a young person (a population with whom he works). I sat across from him at the bottom of the stairs, interupting, while spreading my hands across my knees, "You see, there are the birds, the bees....and the wasps." We both chuckled. Once our laughter subsided, Ethan offered a better analogy: "There are the birds, the bees, and the hummingbirds."
Hummingbirds I thought. Yes, hummingbirds. Adults often neglect to reveal to young people that hummingbirds exist, much less suggesting that you--their little babies--could be one, while at the same time secretly waging that if they do not tell you about hummingbirds that you will never leave the nest or hive. The saddest part is that young people--in fact all people--experience hummingbirdness even if not becoming them. Then, when we do, we feel even deeper shame and confusion for not having beaks or wanting honey. But the truth is that hummingbirds possess their own beauty and sweetness.
On Thursday afternoon I was jetting on-foot from my office to the National Press Building. Along the way I saw one of those haunting encounters that humbles, frightens, and angers simultaneously. An older black man was crossing a side-street with a gold can in one hand and paperbag in another. A middle-aged white uniformed man spotted the gentleman like prey. He yelled in his direction, "Hey! Hey!" He summoned him by extending and curling his finger as if commanding a dog to stay. The other man was nervous, slightly agitated, and reluctant, pretending not to fully understand why he was being approached. The uniformed man explained to the effect that he was not able to drink alcohol in public and directed him to throw his can into the nearby trashcan. The other man did as he was told, slipped the beer into the trashcan, and returned to walking, only to have his fear come true. The uniformed man summoned his back.
Within a moment, witnessed in slow motion, I saw him make a decision. He ran.
Before getting less than 50 feet, the uniformed man caught his shoulder, dragged him onto the ground, shrattled and handcuffed him. Not more than a minute later a police car arrived. Finally, a biking (black) police officer--rendered helpless--stood by as the now angry handcuffed man explained that he did nothing wrong.
He was right--he did nothing wrong. I'm certain that several people passed the officer who were embezzling money, cheating on their spouses, undermining co-workers, or cheating on their taxes. This man was keeping to himself not harming a soul.
There I stood unable to do anything for him but to watch the inevitable. A clean-cut white man sat a cafe table outside near the incident. He put his newspaper down to enlighten a concerned bystander by announcing, "all he had to do was to throw it away." A more compassionate person asked me what happened. After explaining she simply said, "Poor guy, he's probably from the park. He shouldn't have run." Neither of them understood, and I only did so after finally walking away from the incident. As the police car shrank smaller and smaller in the distance I realized that this man never made a decision to answer the officer or to run. No, because once he was seen, he was not a free man.
Friday evening I was at the Vienna Metro station waiting to be picked up by my father who was eager to see me for the short while I was in town. I obliged especially because I had not seen him in several weeks. While professional people crowded one bus shelter, I escaped to the next one over to read my book. A middle-aged, tan man with long black hair stood next to me. He apologetically said, "I'm American Indian, and I apologize for being in your Land."
I was speechless as I set my book down. In a clunky string of sentences I explained that no apology was needed because this was not Our land.
Our conversation gradually unfolded, and although we spoke for over ten minutes, I learned very little about him even as I mostly listened. He was "a Sioux"; he did not wish to be in our land; he was fighting for his people but he could not be the only one; he did not have very much money; and he was looking for the 12C bus.
I felt a vibration in my pocket which meant my father was calling because he had arrived. I asked for his name and extended my hand for a handshake before I departed. He put his hand to his temple and pulled his arm down in a proper military salute followed by a firm handshake. I never learned his given name, nonetheless, I knew who he was, which was my three-day lesson about hummingbirds. They do exist.
Sometimes, we just want someone in this world to know what we have seen or hear what we have to say. Somedays, we just need witnesses to validate us in this world of ours.
To our hummingbirdness.
Addendum (Ethan's Comment):
::sigh:: So, I feel that this is definitely an "Ethan" moment as I admit the following: when you were explaining the birds and the bees to Thomas... and you paused, and suggested 'and wasps', I thought. Well, Richael's a bird... she probably wouldn't be going after a bee... so I imagined a hummingbird as more conducive to your avion sexuality. And as a wasp more my thing. :D
Granted, I could have suggested the birds and the pteradactyls... but I think said you liked girls with flowers on their dresses. So hummingbird was more suiting.All in all, I had no idea what you were considering when I said this until I read you blog. And I see hummingbirds a little differently. Like your situations, hummingbirds are beautiful in the moment because they are true and honest, but the moment is usually gone before any of us can realize what we would miss. Casual observers often miss hummingbirds, mistaking them from big bees, just like they assume another homeless black man is instigating the police instead of simply being a victim of his circumstances. Or that the second gentleman was 'just another drunk Indian' instead of the product of generations of genocide, rape, alcoholism, and all the other 'civilization' Europeans brought the native Americans...
Earlier in the day we were preparing for the move in his family's suburban home. We had nearly finished packing the one-bedroom U-Haul in the early morning sun. In the doorway Ethan commented about explaining gender to a young person (a population with whom he works). I sat across from him at the bottom of the stairs, interupting, while spreading my hands across my knees, "You see, there are the birds, the bees....and the wasps." We both chuckled. Once our laughter subsided, Ethan offered a better analogy: "There are the birds, the bees, and the hummingbirds."
Hummingbirds I thought. Yes, hummingbirds. Adults often neglect to reveal to young people that hummingbirds exist, much less suggesting that you--their little babies--could be one, while at the same time secretly waging that if they do not tell you about hummingbirds that you will never leave the nest or hive. The saddest part is that young people--in fact all people--experience hummingbirdness even if not becoming them. Then, when we do, we feel even deeper shame and confusion for not having beaks or wanting honey. But the truth is that hummingbirds possess their own beauty and sweetness.
On Thursday afternoon I was jetting on-foot from my office to the National Press Building. Along the way I saw one of those haunting encounters that humbles, frightens, and angers simultaneously. An older black man was crossing a side-street with a gold can in one hand and paperbag in another. A middle-aged white uniformed man spotted the gentleman like prey. He yelled in his direction, "Hey! Hey!" He summoned him by extending and curling his finger as if commanding a dog to stay. The other man was nervous, slightly agitated, and reluctant, pretending not to fully understand why he was being approached. The uniformed man explained to the effect that he was not able to drink alcohol in public and directed him to throw his can into the nearby trashcan. The other man did as he was told, slipped the beer into the trashcan, and returned to walking, only to have his fear come true. The uniformed man summoned his back.
Within a moment, witnessed in slow motion, I saw him make a decision. He ran.
Before getting less than 50 feet, the uniformed man caught his shoulder, dragged him onto the ground, shrattled and handcuffed him. Not more than a minute later a police car arrived. Finally, a biking (black) police officer--rendered helpless--stood by as the now angry handcuffed man explained that he did nothing wrong.
He was right--he did nothing wrong. I'm certain that several people passed the officer who were embezzling money, cheating on their spouses, undermining co-workers, or cheating on their taxes. This man was keeping to himself not harming a soul.
There I stood unable to do anything for him but to watch the inevitable. A clean-cut white man sat a cafe table outside near the incident. He put his newspaper down to enlighten a concerned bystander by announcing, "all he had to do was to throw it away." A more compassionate person asked me what happened. After explaining she simply said, "Poor guy, he's probably from the park. He shouldn't have run." Neither of them understood, and I only did so after finally walking away from the incident. As the police car shrank smaller and smaller in the distance I realized that this man never made a decision to answer the officer or to run. No, because once he was seen, he was not a free man.
Friday evening I was at the Vienna Metro station waiting to be picked up by my father who was eager to see me for the short while I was in town. I obliged especially because I had not seen him in several weeks. While professional people crowded one bus shelter, I escaped to the next one over to read my book. A middle-aged, tan man with long black hair stood next to me. He apologetically said, "I'm American Indian, and I apologize for being in your Land."
I was speechless as I set my book down. In a clunky string of sentences I explained that no apology was needed because this was not Our land.
Our conversation gradually unfolded, and although we spoke for over ten minutes, I learned very little about him even as I mostly listened. He was "a Sioux"; he did not wish to be in our land; he was fighting for his people but he could not be the only one; he did not have very much money; and he was looking for the 12C bus.
I felt a vibration in my pocket which meant my father was calling because he had arrived. I asked for his name and extended my hand for a handshake before I departed. He put his hand to his temple and pulled his arm down in a proper military salute followed by a firm handshake. I never learned his given name, nonetheless, I knew who he was, which was my three-day lesson about hummingbirds. They do exist.
Sometimes, we just want someone in this world to know what we have seen or hear what we have to say. Somedays, we just need witnesses to validate us in this world of ours.
To our hummingbirdness.
Addendum (Ethan's Comment):
::sigh:: So, I feel that this is definitely an "Ethan" moment as I admit the following: when you were explaining the birds and the bees to Thomas... and you paused, and suggested 'and wasps', I thought. Well, Richael's a bird... she probably wouldn't be going after a bee... so I imagined a hummingbird as more conducive to your avion sexuality. And as a wasp more my thing. :D
Granted, I could have suggested the birds and the pteradactyls... but I think said you liked girls with flowers on their dresses. So hummingbird was more suiting.All in all, I had no idea what you were considering when I said this until I read you blog. And I see hummingbirds a little differently. Like your situations, hummingbirds are beautiful in the moment because they are true and honest, but the moment is usually gone before any of us can realize what we would miss. Casual observers often miss hummingbirds, mistaking them from big bees, just like they assume another homeless black man is instigating the police instead of simply being a victim of his circumstances. Or that the second gentleman was 'just another drunk Indian' instead of the product of generations of genocide, rape, alcoholism, and all the other 'civilization' Europeans brought the native Americans...
Thursday, May 28, 2009
A Simple Kind of Life
The original title for this post was "Community Growth." I intended to write about two very special encounters from the past week.
The first involved a Twin Oaks community garden visit with my housemate and gardening-extraordinaire, Mia. Over the last years she has reserved a plot, which this year she has generously offered to be our house-plot. We arrived upon the garden after a leisurely one-mile walk from Columbia Heights--her hands sticky from a street-bought mango and mine from vegan soft-serve. Our sole task was to water the plot and as expected, simple tasks are never so.
In total we spent a very pleasant two hours at the garden with our new little friends. Mia and I had run into two young people with their mother whom her supervisors taught in a gardening class. Christian and I became quick friends, most likely because he stubbornly tried to ride Mia's bike, even though his seven year old legs were not long enough to cycle. Most of our two-hour visit consisted of me steadying him, and eventually, pushing him on the bike along the garden; fetching water from across the street and losing the hose fight (in which I never had a hose...); and finishing our time together with a piggy-back ride. Curiously, he claimed never to have had one before so I was pleased to virtually slop around the garden with a small person attached to me.
As much fun as I had with both Mia and Christian, I made another observation. In our final minutes, harvesting our plot's kale and turnips, I felt an enduring peace. Gardening is remarkable relationship, no doubt, but most of all, I was awed by the gardeners. During our visit I saw a rare image in my life: an African woman in traditional clothing with her little woman, a Latino woman with her two little ones (including Christian), and a professionally dressed white woman, each sharing and using the same space. I thought to myself, "I've seen my Beloved Community."
Yesterday I was walking through Adams Morgan to Mount Pleasant from work. In "professional" clothes, I am so uncomfortable that I usually prefer to get out of them as soon as possible, but I found myself on foot toward home once I was passed by two completely packed buses. After all, it was my mind, not my feet, which is out of sorts in a collared shirt and fitting pants. Along the way, at 18th Street, I met Ed Ross.
Ed was selling Street Sense, DC's only homeless/poor person's paper, which I told him, "I never miss." I rarely carry cash but somehow I always have a single dollar when I come across a Street Sense vendor. Ed and I talked for about a half-hour. I learned a great deal about him, including his early years, life in the military, and these days, just an all-around active and good guy. He had one amazing story about his invitation to the White House by former President George Bush himself. The President learned about an experimental program Ed founded called the "Homeless Challenge" that allowed well-off college students to become homeless for a few days in DC. The President called Mayor Fenty, Mayor Fenty called Street Sense, Street Sense called Ed. Most exceptional about Ed was that he turned the invitation to the White House down. Better yet, he essentially put former President Bush in his place by way of honesty. After reminding the President of government's eventual response to Hurricane Katrina he asked why the President was unable to house the thousands of homeless or displaced DC-residents in his own backyard. Promptly a President's aide got on the line reporting that the President had an "emergency" leading to his abrupt departure--Ed said, "Yes. He had an emergency--from the fire that I lit beneath his ass." Mind you, Ed was a very polite fellow, but he also possessed a talent for telling something by its true name. There, I knew that I had found a kindred spirit!
I hope to run into Ed in the future. He spends most of his weekends helping children, selling Street Sense, and offering his company to two older women who love spending time. If you are in Adams Morgan, DC, during the weekends, look for a "Street Sense" vest along 18th & Columbia Rd. You may see a jovial guy named Ed Ross.
I began my full schedule this week (minus the holiday) as a 20 hour a week-legal researcher, and 24-hour a week-legal NGO intern, and 4-hour a week-externship student. I dress-up three days a week; claim my very own cubicle for one job; and ride the elevator to the 12th floor for the other. I am a bona-fide "suit." Yet, I discovered just how challenging it was to practice the dharma under such demands. After four days full of a general routine, and commuting, and reading reports, and reading statutes, and meetings, I humbly confess that enlightenment seems much farther away. Not to mention one's life outside of work, like weight-lifting, phone-calling, and reading (I began and finished "The Morality of Beautiful Girls" by Alexander McCall Smith, the third or fourth book in the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series).
I reflected on the week with my sangha-friend, Gretchen, over the phone. I have recently committed to join the "Buddhist-teacher track," with which I was sharing to Gretchen. We observed that every Buddhist teacher we know are either self-employed as full-time healers/meditation teachers or enjoy flexible work-lives as professors. We concluded, without intending to diminish these jobs, that sanghas would benefit from teachers with more diverse professional backgrounds (among other ways). Lawyers, organizers, laborers, salespeople, accountants, cooks, and others must become teachers because these are the conditions under which we practice.
"Teachers" must reflect the community of which we are a part in the Beloved Community. We all live simple lives in a richly-complicated world. Lives that entail relationships, trust, and change. I ask myself, "What will I harvest today?"
The first involved a Twin Oaks community garden visit with my housemate and gardening-extraordinaire, Mia. Over the last years she has reserved a plot, which this year she has generously offered to be our house-plot. We arrived upon the garden after a leisurely one-mile walk from Columbia Heights--her hands sticky from a street-bought mango and mine from vegan soft-serve. Our sole task was to water the plot and as expected, simple tasks are never so.
In total we spent a very pleasant two hours at the garden with our new little friends. Mia and I had run into two young people with their mother whom her supervisors taught in a gardening class. Christian and I became quick friends, most likely because he stubbornly tried to ride Mia's bike, even though his seven year old legs were not long enough to cycle. Most of our two-hour visit consisted of me steadying him, and eventually, pushing him on the bike along the garden; fetching water from across the street and losing the hose fight (in which I never had a hose...); and finishing our time together with a piggy-back ride. Curiously, he claimed never to have had one before so I was pleased to virtually slop around the garden with a small person attached to me.
As much fun as I had with both Mia and Christian, I made another observation. In our final minutes, harvesting our plot's kale and turnips, I felt an enduring peace. Gardening is remarkable relationship, no doubt, but most of all, I was awed by the gardeners. During our visit I saw a rare image in my life: an African woman in traditional clothing with her little woman, a Latino woman with her two little ones (including Christian), and a professionally dressed white woman, each sharing and using the same space. I thought to myself, "I've seen my Beloved Community."
Yesterday I was walking through Adams Morgan to Mount Pleasant from work. In "professional" clothes, I am so uncomfortable that I usually prefer to get out of them as soon as possible, but I found myself on foot toward home once I was passed by two completely packed buses. After all, it was my mind, not my feet, which is out of sorts in a collared shirt and fitting pants. Along the way, at 18th Street, I met Ed Ross.
Ed was selling Street Sense, DC's only homeless/poor person's paper, which I told him, "I never miss." I rarely carry cash but somehow I always have a single dollar when I come across a Street Sense vendor. Ed and I talked for about a half-hour. I learned a great deal about him, including his early years, life in the military, and these days, just an all-around active and good guy. He had one amazing story about his invitation to the White House by former President George Bush himself. The President learned about an experimental program Ed founded called the "Homeless Challenge" that allowed well-off college students to become homeless for a few days in DC. The President called Mayor Fenty, Mayor Fenty called Street Sense, Street Sense called Ed. Most exceptional about Ed was that he turned the invitation to the White House down. Better yet, he essentially put former President Bush in his place by way of honesty. After reminding the President of government's eventual response to Hurricane Katrina he asked why the President was unable to house the thousands of homeless or displaced DC-residents in his own backyard. Promptly a President's aide got on the line reporting that the President had an "emergency" leading to his abrupt departure--Ed said, "Yes. He had an emergency--from the fire that I lit beneath his ass." Mind you, Ed was a very polite fellow, but he also possessed a talent for telling something by its true name. There, I knew that I had found a kindred spirit!
I hope to run into Ed in the future. He spends most of his weekends helping children, selling Street Sense, and offering his company to two older women who love spending time. If you are in Adams Morgan, DC, during the weekends, look for a "Street Sense" vest along 18th & Columbia Rd. You may see a jovial guy named Ed Ross.
I began my full schedule this week (minus the holiday) as a 20 hour a week-legal researcher, and 24-hour a week-legal NGO intern, and 4-hour a week-externship student. I dress-up three days a week; claim my very own cubicle for one job; and ride the elevator to the 12th floor for the other. I am a bona-fide "suit." Yet, I discovered just how challenging it was to practice the dharma under such demands. After four days full of a general routine, and commuting, and reading reports, and reading statutes, and meetings, I humbly confess that enlightenment seems much farther away. Not to mention one's life outside of work, like weight-lifting, phone-calling, and reading (I began and finished "The Morality of Beautiful Girls" by Alexander McCall Smith, the third or fourth book in the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series).
I reflected on the week with my sangha-friend, Gretchen, over the phone. I have recently committed to join the "Buddhist-teacher track," with which I was sharing to Gretchen. We observed that every Buddhist teacher we know are either self-employed as full-time healers/meditation teachers or enjoy flexible work-lives as professors. We concluded, without intending to diminish these jobs, that sanghas would benefit from teachers with more diverse professional backgrounds (among other ways). Lawyers, organizers, laborers, salespeople, accountants, cooks, and others must become teachers because these are the conditions under which we practice.
"Teachers" must reflect the community of which we are a part in the Beloved Community. We all live simple lives in a richly-complicated world. Lives that entail relationships, trust, and change. I ask myself, "What will I harvest today?"
Friday, May 15, 2009
(He)art of Healing
"The Buddha mentioned a few of these more satisfying forms of happiness. One is the happy, secure feeling you get from possessing wealth earned through honest, hard work...Another especially gratifying form of happiness comes from reflecting that one is completely free of debt to anyone. (A II (Fours) VII:2)
Most of us, even the most discerning, view these things as the essence of a good life. Why did the Buddha consider them part of the lowest form of happiness? Because they depend on conditions being right. Though less fleeting than the transient pleasures of sensual indulgence, and less potentially destructive to long-term happiness, they are unstable. The more we trust them, seek them, and try to hang on to them, the more we suffer."
I read this passage from Eight Mindful Steps to Happiness: Walking the Buddha's Path by Bhante Henepola Gunaratana this week, a little over a week after I wrote the previous entry, "As I Lie." The poem may appear to be about change, however, as I wrote it, another type of feeling led my hand, although I was unable to identify it at the time.
This passage arrived at an ideal moment so I may connect the poem's story to feelings I held for a couple months. I realized that I depend on favorable conditions to inspire joy. Most of the time I am content--my neutral disposition is positive--interestingly, though, my contentness is highly dependent on "how things are." Over the years, it has grown stronger, as to be less delicate to the whims that grasp our everyday lives. I can usually maintain my contentness through a bad day or even a few bad weeks. On the other hand, it is weaker under significant pressure, usually displacing me into "a funk" or "a strange mood." This strange mood, I realize, is unhappiness. It is more like dissatisfaction. An irritant that life has not gone as planned or is bringing upon me bad luck. "As I Life" contained several double meanings but unbeknownst to myself at the time, I was revealing to myself my "happiness-lie." Beyond this, I was saying, I know that there is a deeper--truer--happiness that is near that I am yet to locate within myself. Perhaps the poem was a signal to keep digging. As I am learning to turn my upside-view of change to full, proper view, I can see true happiness as well.
These remaining lessons of Right Understanding have led me to a "healing commitment." Bhante Henepola Gunaratana says that enlightenment is the highest source of happiness, which we reach once we let go of the "lower forms of happiness," while at the same time assuring us that the Buddha suggested that we "maximize" happiness at whichever form. I am finally ready to let go of my happiness on favorable conditions. This form of happiness, above any other kind, has caused me the most difficulty (in my life) especially in romantic love. I envision my path away from favorable-condition happiness to be the way of healing.
Negative energy--not change--has haunted me. Buddhism and psychic healing have clarified the wisdom of karma. The negative energy within my aura or "psychic imprints" which I carry is like energy scars caused by my own actions as well as others. Remarkably, we carry these scars for long periods of time, even across lifetimes. In this lifetime, I have committed to a good-life by holding the intention to create and transform energy into good-karma, guided by Buddhist and other wise teachings. I also have traumatic psychic scarring from past lives that need healing. To do this, I have come across the gift of Reiki.
Many of my friends have witnessed my excitement these couple weeks over Reiki. My best explanation is that reiki also appeared in my life at the right time, connecting aspects of my worldview, and providing opportunities for me to share my deepest intentions with others. I am not prepared to say much at this time other than reiki is a Japanese healing art meaning "universal life force." Reiki practitioners are attuned to a benevolent energy vibration through which the energy flows into a recipient by touch. The practice itself is astoundingly simple: a "facilitator" holds his or her hands onto a part of the body letting the energy flow. The effect is that the universal energy channeled from the 8th chakra through a recipient's 7th chakra restores the recipient's natural energy balance. I have shared with friends that this practice is spiritually and aesthetically beautiful. Just marvelous. I am honored to have practiced on four people, including myself, and each time, I see the awe-like nature of energy and essentially, nature itself.
It was also important for me to write down the positive effects reiki has had beyond my psychic healing. (Also, as I have written before, I have received psychic healing through another person, which is distinct from reiki, although equally remarkable, because a healer works directly with a person's energy rather than serving as a facilitator.)
Positive Reiki Effects:
1. Reiki embodies healing touch as well as a healing outlook. The Gassho prayer accompanies the energy-practice, emphasizing five compassionate principles. The Gassho prayer, particularly its line, "don't worry," has calmed my nerves. I am a worrier. Often, I cannot distinguish worry from my thoughts, so I have felt lighter by not worrying as much, if at all.
2. "Touch" on myself has re-united me with my physical self. I feel more aligned with my body when I am physically active, which means most often, I feel detached from it. Holding and touching myself is healing in this way. I have realized the strength and elegance of my own hands--a quality that I have not noticed before. Similarly, I am more inclined to touch other people who I can tell are like me. Offering even an ordinary touch is a significant dana-gesture.
3. Reiki has de-mystified energy to me. As a long-believer of energy, my belief was based on a lot of faith and a few encounters. Today, I literally feel energy all of the time. In fact, energy is usually escaping my left foot (in a prickly-sensation) even when I am not practicing reiki. Since beginning reiki, I am also having vivid dreams which I remember (related to my 7th chakra opening). The more energy manifests the better my understanding of it.
4. Finally, reiki has brought intimacy back into my life. Because I am less fearful of touch, and I am opening my heart as a facilitator (sometimes, facilitator-recipient) I feel closer to people, especially loved ones. I have reigned in my intimacy because it was usually the source of unhappiness. (I have remained single and celibate for almost two years.) I can trust myself with intimacy nowadays and that is very nice.
I close with a metta-intention: May you find healing in whichever positive form. May you find true happiness toward liberation. May you realize love to nurture you along your path.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
As I Lie
When I woke up last month,
I felt low, so,
I returned to sleep,
With hope that the next day,
I should find myself.
When I woke up last week,
I noticed that,
I left my confidence behind,
As I faced a long day ahead,
I remind myself to bring it with me,
Tomorrow.
When I awoke this morning,
I was less certain,
Today would be better than last month,
Or last week, so,
I simply smiled as I arose,
This time,
Not wishing for anything to change.
I felt low, so,
I returned to sleep,
With hope that the next day,
I should find myself.
When I woke up last week,
I noticed that,
I left my confidence behind,
As I faced a long day ahead,
I remind myself to bring it with me,
Tomorrow.
When I awoke this morning,
I was less certain,
Today would be better than last month,
Or last week, so,
I simply smiled as I arose,
This time,
Not wishing for anything to change.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
The Legacy of Teddy
I'd like to take a moment to recognize my closest and oldest confidant, Teddy. Most everyone reading has heard of, or has been frightened by, my 23 soon-to-be 24 year old companion. He sleeps with me every night, travels with me wherever I go, and in my view, embodies the best of experience.
Sometimes, I say that how a person reacts to Teddy tells me a lot about who they are. Some folks look onto Teddy with nostalgia, compassion, or disgust but more often a combination of feelings. Ultimately, Teddy evokes what you see in yourself over time.
I don't see anything wrong with Teddy. I only see comfort and familiarity. As some friends have said, "he's been loved." Indeed he has in different ways. For a long time I loved Teddy without being able to care for Teddy. Teddy enjoys a peaceful life these days as I enjoy more peace.
Teddy's actually looking better than he's ever been. Go ahead, Teddy!
Thursday, April 23, 2009
This I Used To Believe
One of my favorite radio programs, This American Life, borrowed this week's theme from another great radio project, NPR's revived "This I Believe" essay series (originally hosted in the 1950s by acclaimed journalist, Edward R. Murrow). "This I Believe" engages people to write, share, and discuss core values that guide their daily lives (http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4538138). Like This American Life, "This I Believe" is so interesting because it simply allows people to speak. Our own words are fascinating in a way that is unique to radio and media, more generally.
This American Life's theme twist was "This I Used To Believe," featuring four stories about lost, abandoned, and disposed beliefs. I was wrapped up--I loved it. So much so that I wanted to write my own:
I used to believe in impossibility.
I used to believe that certain realities were so unlikely, so remote, so strange that they could not be. I was more convinced about inevitability of certain realities: I will always feel this way about this. This is just who I am. I will always know this to be part of my life. I also believed this about certain aspects of the world: People are fundamentally this way. Religion and politics are in perpetual conflict. Some people are so invested in their beliefs that they will never change. Since, I've learned better.
Throughout my early life I was an aspiritual person. God had a benign presence at home. Both my parents were God-believing but neither were religiously observant. From time to time my mom remarked about God being within me or God being Love. I expected my father to pray for strength and courage during difficult moments or before sports events. My few church visits on major Christian holidays felt accidental. My family had good values even though we appeared "secular."
High school was a particularly explorative time. Over four years I became increasingly resentful of suburbia's pretensions. I sought to form my own personality in a place devoid of one itself. It was no surprise, then, I defined myself by determining who I was not. In 9th grade, I was a passionate atheist resisting God-fearing Christianity. After all, I was a 14. I didn't fear much, even the jaw-dropping expressions to my dry, sardonic (usually bombastic) responses to prostelyzation. One woman, in particular, put me into her and God's attention. She reasoned with me almost everyday during the school-year arguing for God's logical existence. I always had a clever reply--"when speaking to God, exactly which direction should I look? (Looking up.) A little more to the right? To the left?" My counterpart always laughed. Really hard. It's possible that my flippant replies were funny but these days I'm convinced that comfort in her saved-soul peppered my jokes to make them much funnier.
During my remaining three high-school years I became less defiant as I grew into my own. I continued to struggle with faith when secretly dating my first girlfriend who was a Fellowship of Christian Athletes leader. My areligious parents revealed to me their different beliefs in chance encounters. I earned Student of the Year awards for Philosophy and Comparative Religion my senior year. And by the time I entered college I declared myself a secular humanist.
Five years later marks a true evolution. I became more curious about my mom's intuitive feelings about energy and reincarnation, and I began to seek out explanations. T'ai Chi meditation came next, then, I was able to learn about Christianity, Taoism, Confucianism, Shintoism, and Buddhism in history and theology courses. Upon graduation I had a coherent set of values, still without a religion or spirituality to call my own. Today, I consider myself a deeply spiritual person, possessing "many faiths," as a Buddhist practitioner.
I had to find my own way to spirituality and eventually spirituality found me. I'm no longer naive enough to believe that I will always be this way or that it is necessary for me to be my true self. Interestingly, five years ago, I may have been offended were anyone to suggest that I would become who I am. At last, I may "lose my religion" in another five years. I don't know. A reminder that life is a humbling experience. In the same way my outlook has changed. I can be anything. More accurately, I am everything. As we are of the nature to change, I may soon discover which "anything" into which I may transform. Change is not only possible but it is who we are.
This belief is the source of my optimism and the anchor of my realism. Today, when asked whether I can believe in something, I reply: "It's not beyond my imagination." I remember "inclusiveness," one of the Six Paramitas, which encourages me to open my heart to any and all possibility. So that my heart deepens, mind expands, and eyes widen, for strength and courage. Within these visions lies the universe's beautiful complexity.
Please enjoy the beautiful day.
This American Life's theme twist was "This I Used To Believe," featuring four stories about lost, abandoned, and disposed beliefs. I was wrapped up--I loved it. So much so that I wanted to write my own:
I used to believe in impossibility.
I used to believe that certain realities were so unlikely, so remote, so strange that they could not be. I was more convinced about inevitability of certain realities: I will always feel this way about this. This is just who I am. I will always know this to be part of my life. I also believed this about certain aspects of the world: People are fundamentally this way. Religion and politics are in perpetual conflict. Some people are so invested in their beliefs that they will never change. Since, I've learned better.
Throughout my early life I was an aspiritual person. God had a benign presence at home. Both my parents were God-believing but neither were religiously observant. From time to time my mom remarked about God being within me or God being Love. I expected my father to pray for strength and courage during difficult moments or before sports events. My few church visits on major Christian holidays felt accidental. My family had good values even though we appeared "secular."
High school was a particularly explorative time. Over four years I became increasingly resentful of suburbia's pretensions. I sought to form my own personality in a place devoid of one itself. It was no surprise, then, I defined myself by determining who I was not. In 9th grade, I was a passionate atheist resisting God-fearing Christianity. After all, I was a 14. I didn't fear much, even the jaw-dropping expressions to my dry, sardonic (usually bombastic) responses to prostelyzation. One woman, in particular, put me into her and God's attention. She reasoned with me almost everyday during the school-year arguing for God's logical existence. I always had a clever reply--"when speaking to God, exactly which direction should I look? (Looking up.) A little more to the right? To the left?" My counterpart always laughed. Really hard. It's possible that my flippant replies were funny but these days I'm convinced that comfort in her saved-soul peppered my jokes to make them much funnier.
During my remaining three high-school years I became less defiant as I grew into my own. I continued to struggle with faith when secretly dating my first girlfriend who was a Fellowship of Christian Athletes leader. My areligious parents revealed to me their different beliefs in chance encounters. I earned Student of the Year awards for Philosophy and Comparative Religion my senior year. And by the time I entered college I declared myself a secular humanist.
Five years later marks a true evolution. I became more curious about my mom's intuitive feelings about energy and reincarnation, and I began to seek out explanations. T'ai Chi meditation came next, then, I was able to learn about Christianity, Taoism, Confucianism, Shintoism, and Buddhism in history and theology courses. Upon graduation I had a coherent set of values, still without a religion or spirituality to call my own. Today, I consider myself a deeply spiritual person, possessing "many faiths," as a Buddhist practitioner.
I had to find my own way to spirituality and eventually spirituality found me. I'm no longer naive enough to believe that I will always be this way or that it is necessary for me to be my true self. Interestingly, five years ago, I may have been offended were anyone to suggest that I would become who I am. At last, I may "lose my religion" in another five years. I don't know. A reminder that life is a humbling experience. In the same way my outlook has changed. I can be anything. More accurately, I am everything. As we are of the nature to change, I may soon discover which "anything" into which I may transform. Change is not only possible but it is who we are.
This belief is the source of my optimism and the anchor of my realism. Today, when asked whether I can believe in something, I reply: "It's not beyond my imagination." I remember "inclusiveness," one of the Six Paramitas, which encourages me to open my heart to any and all possibility. So that my heart deepens, mind expands, and eyes widen, for strength and courage. Within these visions lies the universe's beautiful complexity.
Please enjoy the beautiful day.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Buddha Is My Co-Pilot
Some people have an out-of-body experience when they have reached death's edge. Sometimes, however, we begin "seeing the light" when things are just...odd.
I imagine myself in a tiny remote control plane, hovering several feet above, steadying with a quickly-beating front propeller. Next to me in the pilot seat is my companion, the Buddha himself with a notepad. ("Hello Buddha!") The Buddha humbly nods and points beneath us. Below, we observe this week's events:
It begun with our clogged second-floor toliet. This toilet is used by most of our five housemates. Our housemate on bathroom duty this month makes a note on our house whiteboard to the effect, "Second floor toliet broken. Will fix it when I return."
The next day the toliet is leaking water from its pipe. After traveling by shuttle, bus, foot, and possibly buggy, back home, I stumble into the door and I make a bee-line toward the bathroom. My housemate, lounging on the living room couch, informs me that our leak had turned into a leak problem that had absorbed our front hallway ceiling like the Blob. I'm not old enough to remember the actual Blob but I'm pretty sure that this must be identical because it is discolored and it is spreading.
Being the sensible law student that I am, I pull out my cell phone and call our landlord. It turns out that he answers on the first ring. This means that he was expecting a call from someone else and he didn't check the caller ID upon answering. Just my luck. I mention that the kitchen sink leak we called about six weeks ago was well, still leaking. More important, however, was the second-floor leak greeting us on the first-floor. He assured me that he would make a few calls.
I finally make it to the bathroom which is the moment when I receive a phone call. Indeed it is our favorite noisy morning plumber. He's unable to come today but he would love to see us tomorrow morning. Why not? Chicken Little, the sky is falling. So we set a date for tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow arrives. When I was not fully awake our favorite noisy plumber calls and informs me that he won't be there that morning but the next. When I am coming downstairs, I hear crumbling--dropping--splat! (Uh-oh.) I side-step the plaster on the floor doing my best to ignore the hole in our ceiling created by the leak. For now, I make a mental note how nice it is to have a ceiling.
The next two days are a blur. One day I return home to learn that our storage-area water heater began to leak, flooding part of the basement, and that we were waterless. Our landlord sent his friend to repair this leak. Unfortunately his friend knew as much about water heaters as I do (in addition to being a non-repairman, he is a taxi-cab driver). After randomly flipping switches while on the phone with our landlord, he fixes the problem: no water, no leak. Upon hearing this story, in our dimmed kitchen, I stared longingly at the filtered water bottles donated to us from a neighboring group house. One with water...
It was humbling to brush my teeth using a water-filled "Simply" orange juice container in my pantsuit the following morning. Less humbling was the non-flushing toilet in my bathroom. Porter-Johns in a vegan house is a cruel, cruel joke.
The final development came when our favorite noisy morning plumber came at 7am that morning to replace our water heater. Even though I ushered him and his poor assistant into the house, I passed the baton to another brave housemate. Later that afternoon I learned that the plumber upset several housemates when he called his assistant, "nigger," and then, after noticing my housemates' disbelief, spent the remainder of his time convincing them (two white housemates) that Raymond didn't mind. (Of course, a pet-name?) Worse yet, a fed-up housemate called our landlord to witness the house damage from the two leaks reasoning that he should witness the extent of it. The good news is that he did arrive, even though he arrived much later than promised. The bad news was he brought the non-repairman who is apparently an assessor, too. My only explanation for this? Venus is in retrograde.
Other parts of my life were only a little less wacky. At law school I encountered this riddle: if the student government once elected a black president, how can the school not be progressive & diverse? Funny enough that is a riddle I think that I have heard this riddle somewhere before, yet me or my fellow progressive friends of color cannot remember the answer.
Also in the backdrop is meditative madness. Thursday evening I was speaking to a friend about how to wisely prevent or prepare for a potential weekend conflict. This may be an opportunity to participate in my first human shield, making this week's Dharma score pretty high.
Hovering above, Buddha turns toward me: Richael, do you see clearly? Do you see the true nature of this week's events?
Balancing the plane, I reply: Yes, Buddha. I've seen so much these past weeks--the highs and lows. It is what it is and I accept it as so. I feel both discomfort and amusement, suffering and joy, deep pain and deep connection.
Buddha: With a smile?
Me: All with a smile. Perhaps an even bigger one if you can help me land smoothly :)
I imagine myself in a tiny remote control plane, hovering several feet above, steadying with a quickly-beating front propeller. Next to me in the pilot seat is my companion, the Buddha himself with a notepad. ("Hello Buddha!") The Buddha humbly nods and points beneath us. Below, we observe this week's events:
It begun with our clogged second-floor toliet. This toilet is used by most of our five housemates. Our housemate on bathroom duty this month makes a note on our house whiteboard to the effect, "Second floor toliet broken. Will fix it when I return."
The next day the toliet is leaking water from its pipe. After traveling by shuttle, bus, foot, and possibly buggy, back home, I stumble into the door and I make a bee-line toward the bathroom. My housemate, lounging on the living room couch, informs me that our leak had turned into a leak problem that had absorbed our front hallway ceiling like the Blob. I'm not old enough to remember the actual Blob but I'm pretty sure that this must be identical because it is discolored and it is spreading.
Being the sensible law student that I am, I pull out my cell phone and call our landlord. It turns out that he answers on the first ring. This means that he was expecting a call from someone else and he didn't check the caller ID upon answering. Just my luck. I mention that the kitchen sink leak we called about six weeks ago was well, still leaking. More important, however, was the second-floor leak greeting us on the first-floor. He assured me that he would make a few calls.
I finally make it to the bathroom which is the moment when I receive a phone call. Indeed it is our favorite noisy morning plumber. He's unable to come today but he would love to see us tomorrow morning. Why not? Chicken Little, the sky is falling. So we set a date for tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow arrives. When I was not fully awake our favorite noisy plumber calls and informs me that he won't be there that morning but the next. When I am coming downstairs, I hear crumbling--dropping--splat! (Uh-oh.) I side-step the plaster on the floor doing my best to ignore the hole in our ceiling created by the leak. For now, I make a mental note how nice it is to have a ceiling.
The next two days are a blur. One day I return home to learn that our storage-area water heater began to leak, flooding part of the basement, and that we were waterless. Our landlord sent his friend to repair this leak. Unfortunately his friend knew as much about water heaters as I do (in addition to being a non-repairman, he is a taxi-cab driver). After randomly flipping switches while on the phone with our landlord, he fixes the problem: no water, no leak. Upon hearing this story, in our dimmed kitchen, I stared longingly at the filtered water bottles donated to us from a neighboring group house. One with water...
It was humbling to brush my teeth using a water-filled "Simply" orange juice container in my pantsuit the following morning. Less humbling was the non-flushing toilet in my bathroom. Porter-Johns in a vegan house is a cruel, cruel joke.
The final development came when our favorite noisy morning plumber came at 7am that morning to replace our water heater. Even though I ushered him and his poor assistant into the house, I passed the baton to another brave housemate. Later that afternoon I learned that the plumber upset several housemates when he called his assistant, "nigger," and then, after noticing my housemates' disbelief, spent the remainder of his time convincing them (two white housemates) that Raymond didn't mind. (Of course, a pet-name?) Worse yet, a fed-up housemate called our landlord to witness the house damage from the two leaks reasoning that he should witness the extent of it. The good news is that he did arrive, even though he arrived much later than promised. The bad news was he brought the non-repairman who is apparently an assessor, too. My only explanation for this? Venus is in retrograde.
Other parts of my life were only a little less wacky. At law school I encountered this riddle: if the student government once elected a black president, how can the school not be progressive & diverse? Funny enough that is a riddle I think that I have heard this riddle somewhere before, yet me or my fellow progressive friends of color cannot remember the answer.
Also in the backdrop is meditative madness. Thursday evening I was speaking to a friend about how to wisely prevent or prepare for a potential weekend conflict. This may be an opportunity to participate in my first human shield, making this week's Dharma score pretty high.
Hovering above, Buddha turns toward me: Richael, do you see clearly? Do you see the true nature of this week's events?
Balancing the plane, I reply: Yes, Buddha. I've seen so much these past weeks--the highs and lows. It is what it is and I accept it as so. I feel both discomfort and amusement, suffering and joy, deep pain and deep connection.
Buddha: With a smile?
Me: All with a smile. Perhaps an even bigger one if you can help me land smoothly :)
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