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.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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 :)
Friday, April 3, 2009
Three Sizes, Ten Plus Two
Narrator: He puzzled and puzzled till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas... perhaps... means a little bit more!
Narrator: And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day. And then the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches plus two. ~How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
When we are sure that our compassion's well has dried is the wonderous, unexpected moment when our heart expands to contain all of the suffering that we experience and others' suffering all the same.
Narrator: And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day. And then the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches plus two. ~How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
When we are sure that our compassion's well has dried is the wonderous, unexpected moment when our heart expands to contain all of the suffering that we experience and others' suffering all the same.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Spiritual Terrorism
vi⋅o⋅lence [vahy-uh-luhns] –noun
1. swift and intense force: the violence of a storm.
2. rough or injurious physical force, action, or treatment: to die by violence.
3. an unjust or unwarranted exertion of force or power, as against rights or laws: to take over a government by violence.
4. a violent act or proceeding.
5. rough or immoderate vehemence, as of feeling or language: the violence of his hatred.
6. damage through distortion or unwarranted alteration: to do editorial violence to a text.
ter⋅ror⋅ism [ter-uh-riz-uhm] –noun 1. the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, esp. for political purposes.~Dictionary.com.
Words have saved my life.
I remember a time when I did not have them. A time when I did not have words to describe my observations, my feelings, my purpose. During this time, I almost believed that the words I sought did not exist. When I could not find the words, I questioned whether I existed. This was not a lofty, philosophical question. I could not make sense of my reality, so I often felt unreal. At the very least I lived this way, simultaneously seeking and struggling any sense of self. During my high school senior year, I began to find the words. It was a clumpsy find. Yet, when out of desperation, I abandoned all fear, the words soon embraced me. I learned to invite them to which they responded more easily and freely overtime. I discovered that the right words validated me and my existence.
After seventeen years, I finally learned the truth: I was not crazy after all.
This week reminded me that sanity is a delicate proposition. I warmly welcome it everyday because I understand that many of us take it for granted. Our well-being is earned in this way; our mental, emotional, and psychic wholeness rests on our continual acceptance of a simple yet profound idea that we are here. This means that I am able to locate my spirit and reflect it to the outside. If our spirit feels mortally wounded or if upon reflection our spirit is unrecognizable then we are no longer here. Writer, Ralph Ellison, powerfully described this existence in his haunting novel, Invisible Man. The novel's narrator experiences a permanent existential crisis because he is affixed with anxiety, absurdity, and alienation.* I call this spiritual terrorism.
American racism is a form of spiritual terrorism. Racism is as strong as it sounds. It is not a mere offense or sensitivity. Nor is it a proclivity toward victimhood or attention-seeking. It really is systematic soul suffocation--constant and continual spirit-violence to your reality. Ironically, racism is raceless but amasses power by racelessness. Every person who lives within a racist society succumbs to its grip from which we more or less wiggle free during our lifetimes. Eventually, we may identify the its self-generated lie: denying our individual uniqueness--our experiences in their totality--is how we can overcome racism. What a compelling untruth! Of course, none of this makes sense. This is why some of us leave ourselves and sometimes, the collective world entirely.
I've shared with many of you about an intense conflict within my Buddhist community here in Washington. Our People of Color sangha is under siege at the hands of another person of color and his white allies. This conflict has simmered for 8 or so weeks but I was not truly touched by it until last Sunday. After a lovingkindness lecture, I was a witness to spiritual violence in the form of a harsh argument with a bitter final twist. Post-encounter, me and my friends held the heaviness of spiritual terrorism in our hearts for sometime after. I always feels a coldness that chills my insides whenever I see violence. Worse yet, this violent event was of a familiar kind.
So I tried to find the words to describe what I saw. (See #6, above: violence is damage through distortion or unwarranted alteration, i.e. a forceful and threatening attempt to convince you that you are crazy.) An IMCW board member engaged an IMCW teacher in a conversation about the sangha conflict. The exchange slowly evolved into an argument. One person, feeling deeply misunderstood, asked for the other to stop speaking to listen for a moment. The other person persisted in protest over the other until both were screaming at one another. One person stormed away, choosing distance over silence. This person, while rushing away, named the other as a silencer in so many words, "you people." When the other person responded by claiming that the other was wrong for feeling the way they did, we knew that racism had done its work.
I described events to trusted friends as "you people" not meaning "White People." Instead, "you people" who did not allow me to speak--impose burdens on me when I do speak--deny my words when they do not conform to your views--speak on my behalf without my permission--and label me as "damaged" when I become frustrated--is a very kind name for this deed. This person was not crazy. :shaking head: No. All of this happened. This person, however, was resisting racism's demeaning logic. I believe that with us, together, this person was able to tell the truth after the event. We chose against living the Lie.
This is why this week has been full of writing. I have been truth-telling with my sangha. We've are collectively healing from spiritual violence and are challenging the crushing effect of spiritual terrorism.
You must understand that this is not my chosen political battle or my fanciful external diversion. This is my reality. Where political is personal, is suffering, is struggling, is happening, is healing, is being. In this way boundaries between inside and outside or spirituality and politics are untrue.
Yes. I've let this go or else I would not be vitally alive. I survive spiritual violence everyday. But I will never let that go--spiritual terrorism, which fundamentally threatens us all.
What better existence than discovering liberation with you?
*It's been years since I've enjoyed Invisible Man so I borrowed three adjectives from Wiki's "Black Existentialism" entry.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
That Which Flows: The Color & The Light
That which flows in us and through us never stays and always goes. From the moment it enters us we will transform it. The substance containing our mind, body, and spirit is ever-changing, yet for a brief time we can show the world what we're made of. It sees our color as we try to see its light...
Yesterday I attended my first LGBTQ sangha. Our dharma talk topic was one of the Eightfold Path branches, "Right Speech." When La offered several teachings to guide our discussion. One saying which La described an idea that between the moment we hear and the moment we act lies our freedom. This idea remained with me as we began discussion.
To my surprise the first half of the dharma talk was dominated by contemplative silence. Many members shared that as same-gender loving or gender non-conforming folk, right speech was the most challenging aspect of the Eightfold Path. Several gay men expressed their struggle with falling into the gossipy-queen stereotype. A few people told about how they said dishonest things to fit into conventional culture. Several others wrestled with meanings behind truthfulness. I was moved to speak once La spoke about a recent experience involving a well-intentioned mentor mishearing La's sadness about a situation for which this person was responsible. They were able to meet each other because La was able to express hurt without blame. For them, right speech ultimately deepened their friendship. I wondered: what does right speech (actually) mean for me?
I don't share much at any sangha because it is my way of practicing right speech. I try to be "lean of expression," only speaking when I can contribute.
This time I talked about my evolving relationship with one of my housemates. She and I were never close and at times, caused a great deal of anxiety in one another. We are very different in our lifestyles and outlooks so that household issues were underscored by our divergent personalities. Finally, she and I went on a housemate date to a restaurant. Mostly I listened to her emotional struggle with winter that brought on seasonal depression. Admittedly I could not relate to her but I listened closely. And I listened our understanding into existence. Since dinner our relationship has been easier. I learned that the better I understood her, the more my heart opened from which right view and right speech flowed. The other half of right speech is right listening. I began a particular practice since learning about right speech a year ago.
When I hear things I find freedom in a smiling pause. Sometimes I smile inwardly, but when faced with difficult speech, I smile for others to see. During this pause I consider four forms of speech. If I am hurt, feel a reluctant heart, or poised toward unwise speech, I practice Noble Silence. If I am confused or simply do not understand, I ask to practice right listening by saying, "I don't understand. Can you tell me more?" If I feel an open heart, I engage right speech by sharing a loving-truth. I am able to share my truth in a loving way, while at the same time acknowledging their own truth. I do not privilege either truth, instead, I choose to observe every one. Lastly, if my heart is open and full, I engage in "extra" speech, where I do not say too much but I do say more. Something positive, meaningful, or loving that can inspire joy. I tell a good friend how much I love them or I tell a family member how much I appreciate them or I tell a person I am getting to know about a good quality I've noticed. Training myself to pause, see these four aspects, and choosing among them, I often practice right speech.
That is not say that I don't hurt people or say unwise things. But accompanied with right intention and right view, most often I believe that my words heal rather than harm.
After my sharing I noticed the sangha began imparting other techniques! Visioning was the most prevalent in which people imagined themselves talking to a lover, child, themselves, or even a cash prize-offerer. La suggested at the end that observant non-action is a way of engaging right speech. Non-action is not silence; it's unwise speech. However, if we cannot cultivate lovingkindness for a person and see this much, our awareness is a right-speech "seed." Perhaps as we understand this person, we can call on our compassionate mind in the future for right speech. Or if we train ourselves through metta meditation, our future exchanges may become more positive.
All in all I enjoyed the talk even though it was a very different flavor from the POC sangha. Afterward, feeling shy, I kept to myself and prepared to leave. One woman noticed me and introduced herself. We briefly discussed how long we'd attended IMCW sanghas, then, our conversation just stopped. We stood in silence. She was thinking so I smiled waiting for her. She finally said, "Just one thing: you should speak up more, I could not hear you. I should have said something but I did not want to interrupt."
So there, I paused, looked down, and smiled. About ten seconds passed. Looking up I said, "Some days I'm able to project and some days I find myself unable to speak. You are not the only person to mention my soft-spokenness. Today it was hard to speak but I will be more mindful to project in the future...Thank you." We said our goodbyes, and I smiled walking upstairs amused by the reality that we can practice right speech even in the most awkward of conversations :)
We're able to see the light no matter the color.
R.
Yesterday I attended my first LGBTQ sangha. Our dharma talk topic was one of the Eightfold Path branches, "Right Speech." When La offered several teachings to guide our discussion. One saying which La described an idea that between the moment we hear and the moment we act lies our freedom. This idea remained with me as we began discussion.
To my surprise the first half of the dharma talk was dominated by contemplative silence. Many members shared that as same-gender loving or gender non-conforming folk, right speech was the most challenging aspect of the Eightfold Path. Several gay men expressed their struggle with falling into the gossipy-queen stereotype. A few people told about how they said dishonest things to fit into conventional culture. Several others wrestled with meanings behind truthfulness. I was moved to speak once La spoke about a recent experience involving a well-intentioned mentor mishearing La's sadness about a situation for which this person was responsible. They were able to meet each other because La was able to express hurt without blame. For them, right speech ultimately deepened their friendship. I wondered: what does right speech (actually) mean for me?
I don't share much at any sangha because it is my way of practicing right speech. I try to be "lean of expression," only speaking when I can contribute.
This time I talked about my evolving relationship with one of my housemates. She and I were never close and at times, caused a great deal of anxiety in one another. We are very different in our lifestyles and outlooks so that household issues were underscored by our divergent personalities. Finally, she and I went on a housemate date to a restaurant. Mostly I listened to her emotional struggle with winter that brought on seasonal depression. Admittedly I could not relate to her but I listened closely. And I listened our understanding into existence. Since dinner our relationship has been easier. I learned that the better I understood her, the more my heart opened from which right view and right speech flowed. The other half of right speech is right listening. I began a particular practice since learning about right speech a year ago.
When I hear things I find freedom in a smiling pause. Sometimes I smile inwardly, but when faced with difficult speech, I smile for others to see. During this pause I consider four forms of speech. If I am hurt, feel a reluctant heart, or poised toward unwise speech, I practice Noble Silence. If I am confused or simply do not understand, I ask to practice right listening by saying, "I don't understand. Can you tell me more?" If I feel an open heart, I engage right speech by sharing a loving-truth. I am able to share my truth in a loving way, while at the same time acknowledging their own truth. I do not privilege either truth, instead, I choose to observe every one. Lastly, if my heart is open and full, I engage in "extra" speech, where I do not say too much but I do say more. Something positive, meaningful, or loving that can inspire joy. I tell a good friend how much I love them or I tell a family member how much I appreciate them or I tell a person I am getting to know about a good quality I've noticed. Training myself to pause, see these four aspects, and choosing among them, I often practice right speech.
That is not say that I don't hurt people or say unwise things. But accompanied with right intention and right view, most often I believe that my words heal rather than harm.
After my sharing I noticed the sangha began imparting other techniques! Visioning was the most prevalent in which people imagined themselves talking to a lover, child, themselves, or even a cash prize-offerer. La suggested at the end that observant non-action is a way of engaging right speech. Non-action is not silence; it's unwise speech. However, if we cannot cultivate lovingkindness for a person and see this much, our awareness is a right-speech "seed." Perhaps as we understand this person, we can call on our compassionate mind in the future for right speech. Or if we train ourselves through metta meditation, our future exchanges may become more positive.
All in all I enjoyed the talk even though it was a very different flavor from the POC sangha. Afterward, feeling shy, I kept to myself and prepared to leave. One woman noticed me and introduced herself. We briefly discussed how long we'd attended IMCW sanghas, then, our conversation just stopped. We stood in silence. She was thinking so I smiled waiting for her. She finally said, "Just one thing: you should speak up more, I could not hear you. I should have said something but I did not want to interrupt."
So there, I paused, looked down, and smiled. About ten seconds passed. Looking up I said, "Some days I'm able to project and some days I find myself unable to speak. You are not the only person to mention my soft-spokenness. Today it was hard to speak but I will be more mindful to project in the future...Thank you." We said our goodbyes, and I smiled walking upstairs amused by the reality that we can practice right speech even in the most awkward of conversations :)
We're able to see the light no matter the color.
R.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
L'amour est nous et nous sommes amour
Mom's text message, 2/19, 12:07pm:
I love you more than yesterday.
My text message, 12:09pm:
:) That's very romantic, mommy. I love you as we are the same.
I love you more than yesterday.
My text message, 12:09pm:
:) That's very romantic, mommy. I love you as we are the same.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Please Hold My Hand
My grandmother, great grandmother (now passed), myself at about one year, and my mother.
"Soccer dad Bob with young Richael at match with "Aces" or "Phoenix.""That which is appearing is complete." - Read by Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara.
I was given these pictures over the last two months. I hardly recognize myself at one or eight years old. (Squinting at both photos.)
I have sharpened some of my views about perfection and continuation this week, beautifully summed up by a quote shared by Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara, a Zen Buddhist teacher-activist in New York City. In a Tricycle Magazine Podcast she conveyed this quote written by a Japanese monk (whose name was unable to remember but will be sure to retrieve and post).
This axiom manifests a wise teaching that "things are as they are" and instructs us to accept them as so. Acceptance is not a mere observance--it is a careful recognition. Perhaps, a way to finding momentary peace. But I did not understand this lesson from Roshi O'Hara's recorded dharma talk. Instead, this quote struck me after a week full of little people :)
My dear friend, Catherine Chu, had invited me into her first-grade, Northeast classroom in November. She is very proud of her kids and she wanted a chance for me (and her other friends) to meet them. We were able to schedule a date last Friday. My bill: Ms. Faithful, our guest, is a community organizer like Barack Obama! (And she's in law school now.) We planned to discuss things we can do when we grew up. Undoubtedly a topic as useful to me as it was for her first-graders.
Getting there was a new experience. I have not ventured much of the city outside Northwest on the bus. The trip lasted over an hour and a half, first traveling south to Chinatown, then east past Union Station. Both rides were uncomfortable. to say the least. Much unlike my trips to wealthy Tenleytown each morning. I told one friend that I didn't realize so many Black people could fit on a single bus. We were on top of one another, weaving through construction, sites and but still crawling over and barely escaping enormous potholes. I practically rolled out of 26th Street. While dusting myself off I was reminded that I need more opportunities to discover D.C..
I entered Browne passing through a metal detector and signing in with the officer-on-duty. I checked-in at the main office and proceeded to Ms. Chu's First Grade Class. I thought I discreetly slipped inside the classroom but little did I know that 7 and 8 year olds notice everything. I was spotted--a dozen of wide eyes stared me down!
Ms. Chu was finishing reading time so she asked two little ones to read a chosen book to me. Both were really good. The second student who read an advanced book with larger words needed a little help. Ms. Chu came by and helped me, help him, by sounding out the words in parts. I'd never taught any person to read before. I witnessed his gradual reading of "thirteen" as a sort of miracle. Not long ago my mom disclosed to me that I was "behind" when I entered first grade in Virginia. I didn't know how to read anything. Until this day she credits Ms. Birmbaum with catching me up and teaching me how to read. If you ever read this, Ms. Birmbaum, a profound thank you for your generosity.
The morning went on with great prosperity. Our sharing took place in a group circle on the floor; I said a few words about how community organizers help people help themselves; each little person shared his or her dream job (teachers, police officers, and a lawyer/doctor); they shared with me their class motto; and then they returned to their desk for a subtraction lesson.
Shortly after I left. Ms. Chu had the class thank me for seeing them. I thanked them for having me as a guest and living up to Ms. Chu's promise that they were the smartest first graders that I knew. Those little people had SO much energy and vitality. I remembered how quick life was sixteen years ago.
I call children little people because that is their true name. They are very little (one student hugged me--he embraced my leg and reached my hip). They are very much people, not very different from me. In fact little people may be the wisest among us. They know so much which adults over time are willed to forget. Our struggle to remember. As Tara Branch aptly puts it in her book, Radical Acceptance, our own awareness and goodness are within us. Once we rediscover how knowing and compassion fuse our minds and hearts together again.
Being with Catherine's little people sparked an inner-light. Each of them was beautiful and perfect. In this way imperfection does not exist. How could I look into any of their eyes and tell them otherwise? No. They are beautiful and perfect, therefore, we are also beautiful and perfect. I could not lie to them.
After all, little people are a continuation of ourselves. I look just as small in my over-sized red shirt and shorts. Often I am physically distant from young people, which I hope will change, yet my belief persists: we have always been and always will be. When a little person held my hand to our sitting circle, physically our hands joined and spiritually we merely continued the past, present, and future.
They are young in this lifetime but they are here and complete people. We are here and complete as we are. As I told a dear friend some months ago: we are our very own Perfect.
Metta,
R.
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