“Will Exult Over You With Loud Singing” by Michael Lavers Posted: 17 Apr 2019 12:00 AM PDT Michael Lavers WILL EXULT OVER YOU WITH LOUD SINGING That’s my dad, I say, pointing to the man in the photograph with thin grey hair reflecting river-light. And that’s my mom. My arch of nose, my chin. I’m talking to my children, talking the way I do about things that are not lost, that are still here, knowing that it’s no use, that time and decay do not obey language; that the dumb flesh of a tree, for instance, doesn’t care about Samantha, which word my son, ten years from now, will carve into it; doesn’t distinguish between the pain of his love for her, and any old pain: woodpecker, beetle, axe, frost, flame. * * * Once, when I said she could not play with a dead mouse, my daughter wailed so loud I thought she might break. This was in Great Falls, next to a riverbank wafted with small blue moths. We’d strayed from the playground near an overpass where people seemed to be sleeping or hovering around fires. She yelled Mine, astounding even herself, as if at the end of the scream she thought there might be nothing left, nothing of her, nothing to listen to in this world. * * * The sad mechanic exercise … —Tennyson My mother was finishing a master’s degree in psychiatric nursing, writing a thesis on gambling addiction, on people who wear diapers so they can stay at slot machines for hours, even days, and when we asked her if we should try to get the last course waived and the degree granted before it was too late, she said nothing, as if keeping new and hidden counsel with herself, or with someone not present. And my father, dead ten years later of a heart attack in the bathroom of a movie theatre—the ticket-taker panting out that sad mechanic CPR—he must have felt a terrible silence growing inside him, or a noise too loud to hear, the crashing stillness after a long inertia, the indifference of that small wet machine suddenly reluctant to bear for one more second the weight of his body. As if the soul at the end of a long journey finally stepped through a door and put down its luggage. Thinking, maybe, if he listened hard enough he could make out why stars had lost their willingness to dazzle, or where they were going—through what dark nimbus or invisible crack—and why without him, why so fast. * * * Once as a child I drove a hammer’s claw into the trunk of one of the small maples lining our driveway, peeling bark away in strips as thick as fingers to the underflesh, the soft wet honey-gold, tinted a bit off-pink, off-green. It was like being, or imagining that I could be, everywhere at once, light right there in the palm of my hand, made still and, well, mine, in ruins. Light’s unsingable psalm, a thing outside our sad economy of come and go. A brief end to stagnation, briefly glimpsed. My father was angry, but mostly bewildered. He stared for a while, then said only that the hammer wasn’t mine to take, and that the tree wasn’t mine to do whatever I thought I was doing to it. And what are you doing to it, he said, and I said I don’t know. * * * Poor flesh, love says, baring her teeth. Poor agitation of heat, of stars, shaking and far away. Van Gogh in the final letter to his brother Theo: Well, my own work, I am risking my life for it and my reason has half foundered because of it—that’s all right. It’s true no metaphor can save us, store us like gravel in the cheek of Hallelujah Creek, Creek of Unclottable Light. But that’s alright. Why not exist, at least for each other, in love and thickly streaked and made to end, believing if not everything at least one of the minor prophets, maybe, Zephaniah: he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing. * * * That’s my mom I say to my kids, that look she has like mine, of somebody enduring happiness, expecting grief. And that, I say, is her diploma, framed and hanging on the wall. This is your breakfast, bananas and toast and jam, our one life, ours in the only sense that matters, something that we make … make what? Come forth, I think, like stars, all flicker and distance, prodigal and dim, but not so dim that if they vanished we would not weep every night, or stop trying, though we knew we couldn’t, to describe them, to remember.

Dears,

Just streamed a Netflix series called 'Special', written and acted by a gay man with CP. It's wonderful and funny and poignant and all that.

Did I say funny? And gay sex and swearing...

Each episode is only 15 minutes and I can tell you, it'll leave you wanting more.

More please, Ryan O'Connell.

About to take the dog out for our daily walk. Danced with wild abandon last night and today I feel...fine. Hard to get up from my cushion after meditating but hey, still moving.

I told my friend Ryan last night that I'd totally date him if I were much younger and straight. He laughed, thanked me and we danced together on the floor, rolling around. There was one guy last night who wore very tight black shorts and a shirt. Last night he took off his shirt (um, eww) and wriggled in front of the mirror for an hour. I was chastising myself for being so judgmental but really I was having the age old argument with myself that women don't do that in public but men can. Harumph.

Feeling lonely lately. I so cherish my solitude and quiet. Often I don't listen to music unless I'm playing the piano. Just incidental sounds from airplanes, the washing machine, occasional barks from the dog.

But.

Loneliness creeps in and  I feel a well of sadness that lives in my psyche. I've been investigating it and finding the same dichotomy: needing significant time alone and wanting companionship. Friends are great. My various communities are nurturing. The Dharma reminds me that we're never really alone...but there is it. Loneliness washes over me. I so relate to other elders who populate the hot tub at my local pool, their need to talk, to relate, to be touched by the hot water. Indeed, it's a regular social whirl over there. Folks come just to sit in the tub. They don't even get in the pool.

So I sit with my lonely self. I don't usually descend into self pity. I continue to dive underneath the feelings to see what's there. And from there I can find comfort for those feelings, that abandoned child, girl, and woman who finally has the luxury of time. I say that because I think I spent years trying to get here, with working, raising children, having intimate relationships. I was always reaching for....myself. Now here I am.

As a line in a book I am reading right now has said, "Who am I?'

Who indeed.

I sponsor two young women in Alanon. Alanon is a program for family and friends of alcoholics and addicts. And in my case, mental illness and suicide. You who read here know some of this.
Today one of my sponsees called to tell me that she resisted stealing a pack of printer paper from her son's school which led to a long discussion of honesty.

There is the precept in Buddhism which says that we 'undertake the precept to refrain from taking that which is not freely offered.'

Ah yes. The small and the large. We concluded that honesty can be tied to happiness. I once went to a big box store for gardening stuff and realized that I hadn't paid for a pair of clippers, about 7 bucks. I went back into the store with the clippers and paid for them. The clerk was surprised and said the store wouldn't have even known.

I would have known. A far cry from my youth when stealing was some kind of subversive act. And perhaps the clerk thought about the woman who came in and paid for a pair of clippers because she was honest..at least that day.

More difficult are interactions with others. Do I steal time and attention from my friends? Do I hijack conversations by calling attention to myself?

I think about the times I've been robbed. While I work to forgive the thieves and to let go of the objects they've stolen, I'm also aware of the vast economic disparities that creates desperation.

I think about the times I've lied, exaggerated, and obfuscated. Honesty encompasses all of life, it seems. To say what we mean, to speak plainly, but with kindness, timeliness, and humility. How often do I watch my mouth so what I say is not going to hurt others?

Honesty feels positively old fashioned.

Listening to Mozart's Requiem right now. May spring bless us all.

Spring

Bach outside the light rail station:

A baby born in the car on the way to the birth center:

Glorious 100 year old cherry trees on the UW campus:

Just home from an afternoon performance of Romeo and Juliet with a Deaf Romeo and Friar. They had other actors 'speak' while the Deaf actors signed. Clever and moving.

And it was beautiful and I blubbered all the way through the second half.

Gawd.

Shakespeare is so wonderful to listen to. 'What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun.' I chose to ignore the fact that their romance was about 24 hours long and she was 14. At least he was underage too.

The crows are making a racket outside. I came home from a dog walk and stepping out of the car, they were swarming and yelling. At first I looked high into the trees. Then I saw this:

A Cooper's hawk methodically tearing off the feathers of a fallen crow. I moved closer and she stared at me without moving. The crows are hollering all around her as she dismantles her dinner, one feather at a time.

My house is on a ridge and every morning the crows in their hundreds fly north. Then in the evening, they come back. I think they roost 10 miles or so south of me. They stream south, in two's and three's stopping to sit on wires or a tree. I like to think they are going to work in the morning and coming home at night.

Just before I took Felix out I had been reading The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman. And I watched this     

So a day spent with crows. And Cooper's hawks.

They are smarter, much smarter than we know.

Got the newest copy of The Sun today. The editors have made a real effort to diversify the magazine by publishing writers of color and including photos of POC. One article is a photo essay of homeless folk living in California.

I saw a few of my favorite homeless people today. It has been sunny and warm the last few days and I've been thinking about them enjoying the warmth after all the really cold days we have had here. Seattle is growing at such a clip, apparently the mayor and the city counsel has approved a 26 story apartment building in a neighborhood near my house. At least it will have affordable units.

Every time I hand a homeless friend a dollar, I am reminded that we are the same. We want to be safe and well fed and loved. We want to be sheltered. We want to be seen in all our beauty and complexity.

Tomorrow I go visit a new baby. I delivered their last baby and I was their wedding officiant. Just part of the family...

Sometimes I am astonished by my good fortune.

In a few days, this wonderful child of mine will be 44 (!) My home born baby girl.

Now and again, when the news is particularly bad, I find myself weeping. Christchurch, New Zealand-I think we can only stand so much before the grief, disbelief and sorrow spills over. A friend and I saw a movie 'Capernaum' tonight, filmed in Lebanon with astonishing 'actors' especially a child. But the poverty, brutality and despair were wrenching.

She turned to me and said that she can't see movies like this one, at all. So we made a deal-only comedies, light hearted dramas and beauty. Like Mary's chickens. Then we had drinks and warm chocolate chip cookies.

Still broken-hearted. Still on the verge of tears. The challenge to stay open and soft in the reality of the harshest incidents. Not to harbor revenge fantasies, or hatred and anger. Our collective shadow is rampant in the land.

At dawn, the humming birds come and sit on the back porch. The sky, streaked with pink and gold, behind the songbirds at the feeders. Such a small act, to keep those wild creatures fed. In service to their lives, the continuation of their feathery lives.

That's right. I spent the last several hours working on my book. I have downloaded all the transcriptions of interviews I've done, I've located all the articles I thought would be useful and I figured out how to get everything off my external hard drive. And I wrote part of a chapter. The dog has gotten up, exhaled his fetid breath on me and gone back to lying around. It's time to take him and myself to the park so he can have a reason to live his dog's life.

I am leaving all the piles of paper on my desk to remind me that time waits for no (wo)man and anyway, why not. Secondary trauma anyone?

Bless all you writer types out there.

XX beth

Just watched a video of 44's jokes and funny comments throughout his presidency. What a sweet, smart, beautiful, sane, wise and thoughtful man he is. I miss him so much.

https://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/president-obama-the-legacy/comedian-chief-obama-funniest-moments-president-n690166

Today

Dears-It's my 69th birthday.

And guidance is interesting. In my working life, I've been a guide for families as they welcome their newest members. It's so hard being a parent! Nothing can prepare us for the rigors, the anxiety, the fierce love that is pulled, sometimes wrenched from us. And the long arc of parenthood falling into grandparenthood for some of us. The leaning back into received wisdom, the eye to what is and what isn't important after all. Love and acceptance, showing up, telling the truth to the next generation. I have spoken to my grandson in ways I would never have to my children. I am less attached to being liked by him. I am interested in being an anchor, if he needs one, because I am trustworthy and I love him, no matter what.

But today, as I consider my own mortality and the mortality of all I love, including everything, I am reminded of the 5 Remembrances: Old age, sickness, death, ceaseless change and the fact that all we 'own' are our actions. How do we conduct ourselves in old age. What does it mean to be old. This old face and body, the encoded reason for the death of this body, these cells. Unknowable right now but there, the dark angel awaits us all.

A brilliant morning in Seattle, clear blue sky with sun and birds. A bit of Mozart. Tea. The dog always game for whatever comes along. I think a walk in Discovery Park, a huge waterfront park with lighthouse and numerous trails. We can easily spend a few hours there.

I am listening for the voices of my dead parents, some guidance for old age. I remember my mother sitting on the couch knitting a yellow sweater which I never saw her wear. I remember thinking she might be making it for me (no). Each time I saw her, she looked smaller and older. It was always a shock. When you see someone occasionally, the changes are dramatic. I think that was the generation that never talked about real things: menstruation, sex, childbirth, aging, menopause. I learned it on my own. And decided to talk to my children about all of it.

What does it mean to be old, to get old? My desk holds a few photos of dear ones who have died. Gone before...I have time I haven't had before. Just being off call now is amazing. I just...noticed that I was no longer on the call schedule. What a relief. And is there some diminishment there? Some feeling that I'm no longer needed as I was. How egotistical. I've alway maintained that we midwives are interchangeable although our families remember just who was there and give that person special attention. We want to be special to someone.

I know I'm rambling here. Still putting it down and it is mysterious to me. We are exhorted to rest and relax, go on vacations, put our feet up, etc when we are old. But why? If our bodies and brains still work, why go into that kind of slumber? I sit and watch the young midwifery students conduct prenatal visits and they have heads chock full of facts and figures. I step in where there is a problem; a mother is depressed or angry, a family is in distress for some reason. I am less interested in the check list and more interested in the interplay, the mystery of connection and love.

And maybe that is a gift of the old. It's what we learn and study throughout our lives. A distillation of the ten thousand joys and sorrows. The deepest kind of compassion and equanimity.

Where there is love, there is life.
                                                   - Gandhi

Ug

Finally, this has happened. Organized religion, no matter what flavor, can cause tremendous harm. If you wanna read all this, please do. It's been a long time coming.... X Beth

February 20, 2019 Spirit Rock Meditation Center’s Ethics and Reconciliation Council Statement Regarding Noah Levine 

Noah Levine was authorized in 2006 by Spirit Rock Meditation Center and Jack Kornfield as a fully empowered Theravada Buddhist teacher “to teach the Dharma of Liberation, in the Lineage of the Elders.” Although Noah Levine has never been on the Spirit Rock Teachers Council, Mr. Levine has taught at Spirit Rock and Jack Kornfield led Mr. Levine’s teacher training and is his authorizing teacher. Today, we, Spirit Rock’s Ethics and Reconciliation (EAR) Council, in consultation with other Senior Teachers and the Guiding Teachers Committee (GTC), have unanimously, indefinitely withdrawn Noah Levine’s authorization to teach. Separately, Dr. Kornfield has withdrawn his authorization for Mr. Levine to teach, and, following the Buddhist tradition of Sanghadisesa, will allow this to be revisited in years ahead, should Mr. Levine demonstrate a significant transformation.

In March 2018, we learned of allegations of rape, sexual harassment and other misconduct against Mr. Levine. Although he had not been scheduled to teach at Spirit Rock, we indefinitely suspended Mr. Levine from any potential teaching at Spirit Rock, pending an investigation by Against the Stream Buddhist Meditation Society (ATS), the organization founded by Mr. Levine and on whose Board he sat. On August 25, 2018, ATS publicly reported on the outcome of their investigation, finding that the preponderance of evidence showed Mr. Levine likely violated the Third Precept, ‘to avoid creating harm through sexuality.’ Based on these and other findings, the ATS Board, its Grievance Council, and its Teachers Council announced that Mr. Levine was permanently removed from teaching under the auspices of ATS. In addition, the ATS Board announced that ATS would close and cease to exist as an organization. The Spirit Rock EAR Council thereafter conducted its own investigation, a long and careful process of collecting information from numerous sources in order to determine Mr. Levine’s fitness for teaching. The sources of information included meetings with Mr. Levine, interviews of witnesses and a review of extensive documents. We interviewed several women who have alleged harm, staff members of ATS and another organization Mr. Levine founded, Refuge Recovery (RR). We watched Mr. Levine’s public talks and read his statements. The EAR Council also reviewed the federal court lawsuit by the Board of RR against Mr. Levine and the responsive lawsuit filed by Mr. Levine. The EAR Council shared the information gathered with the Guiding Teachers Committee, the President of Spirit Rock’s Board, and Dr. Kornfield. The interviews and extensive reports we reviewed are gravely disturbing, detailed, and similar in nature. They show a pattern of behavior that raise critical concerns regarding Mr. Levine’s adherence to the Spirit Rock Teacher Code of Ethics. The EAR Council investigation revealed repeated breaches of the precepts of nonharming by Mr. Levine; delusion about the accumulation of harms caused; a lack of willingness to accept responsibility for his actions; confusion regarding the ways his actions reflect cultural and systemic conditioning; and a failure to honor the explicit instructions of his respected mentors. Mr. Levine’s misapprehensions and delusion have led him away from the wisdom and compassion necessary to be a teacher of the Dharma. It is important to note that the EAR Council followed the EAR Council Grievance process (outlined here), including meeting directly with Mr. Levine twice to provide him with a full opportunity to offer information to dispute the allegations. The second meeting convened the GTC, Dr. Kornfield, and the EAR Council to provide Mr. Levine an opportunity to be heard and respond to questions from a group of senior Spirit Rock teachers. The meetings furthered our view that Mr. Levine could not perceive the harm he has caused or was purposely deceptive. Either possibility is deeply troubling and led us to conclude that Mr. Levine cannot be trusted to uphold the minimal requirement of a Dharma teacher – to do no harm. Even in the absence of the initial allegations of sexual assault, Mr. Levine’s behavior has otherwise been so troubling that we would have reached this same conclusion. It is the unanimous view of the EAR Council, Senior Teachers, and the GTC that Mr. Levine is no longer part of the Spirit Rock teaching lineage, no longer enjoys the support of its teachers, and may no longer claim any association or connection with Spirit Rock or Dr. Kornfield. We further recommend that Mr. Levine cease all Buddhist or meditation teaching and dedicate his energy to the rehabilitation of his own heart.

Mr. Levine’s repetitive and continued behavior, outlined by multiple sources, would be completely inappropriate for anyone, let alone an individual privileged to be an authorized Spirit Rock teacher. The EAR Council was established precisely to interrupt and prevent Spirit Rock teachers from causing such harm. These findings coexist with our knowledge that Mr. Levine has been of substantial benefit to tens of thousands of students, particularly those recovering from addiction. Many practitioners have only experienced benefit from Mr. Levine’s teaching, and we know a deep sense of dissonance can arise given the force of our conclusions. For some, valuing what they have received from Mr. Levine may lead them to dismiss the concerns enumerated here. We certainly do not wish to erase the benefit that many have received, and indeed, the value of the Dharma endures beyond individual personality—but that benefit cannot blind us to the fact that Mr. Levine has become deeply alienated from bedrock values of the Buddhist path: self-reflection, accountability, compassion, and wisdom. Spirit Rock remains committed to serving the larger addiction recovery community, and helping all those impacted by Mr. Levine, positively and negatively, to find refuge in the teachings of the Buddha and at Spirit Rock. If after a period of years in which Mr. Levine demonstrates a profound spiritual and psychological transformation – and a clear commitment to humility and non-harming in all spheres of life – we might consider revisiting this decision. The Buddha offered the possibility of radical transformation to all who practice his teachings, without exceptions. This radical transformation, however, depends on wise view, wise action and a clear recognition that the forces of greed, hatred and delusion have been transmuted. May Mr. Levine find his way towards this transformation…. We acknowledge the pain, suffering, and profound impact for all directly and indirectly involved. We offer our deepest care to everyone whom Mr. Levine has harmed. Spirit Rock’s withdrawal of Mr. Levine’s teaching authorization expresses our concern and sorrow at the widespread harm that has been created. Should you have any information you wish to share with Spirit Rock's Ethics and Reconciliation Council, please contact us at EARCouncil@spiritrock.org. For general questions, please contact Communications@spiritrock.org

May the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha remain our refuge.

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Baby Callan is safely here and home with his parents.

Such relief.

I'm still in my bathrobe and it's 2PM. We had clinic all day on Saturday and it was crowded with mommas and babies until 8PM. Dang, I was tired at the end of the night.

Snow is melting finally. Last night I made almond flour cookies and hosted a meditation circle in my living room as I do every Sunday night. Sweet.

I must go outside and see the winter sun, watery though it is.

Lost

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

-- David Wagoner
(1999)

For Ali's baby boy

May you be safe and protected from all harm and danger.
May you be happy, just as you are.
May you be healthy. May your body and your mind be well.
May you live with ease and comfort. May you be surrounded by love and compassion.
May you be free from your suffering.

Love always,

Beth

I drove (!) to my friend's house today to drop off the baby quilt. She didn't want to see me, too many feelings on the eve of meeting her son on Friday after losing her daughter in 2017. Oh, my heart aches.

On Friday I'll light candles and send wishes for safe passage to her and her babe. And her husband.

Tonight I'm attending a writer's gathering at the library sponsored by Hugo House (named after Richard Hugo, a local poet).

I've written here before about this loss. The mother's grief, the father's grief is incomprehensible. What to do with our grief, those of us who cared for them, the midwives and doctors and nurses? I have come to that terrible shore on my knees, willing the pain to pass through. It will never go away. It gets easier to hold it and care for it.

The thousands of stitches and hours I spent on the quilt was a way through. I once read about a pioneer woman who said that her hopes and pain were all stitched into a quilt. As she said "what that quilt knows about me..." And women back then made quilts from clothing of the dead. Lordy. A way to put grief to use.

The snow is melting, revealing broken plants and ruts in the earth.

Healing and broken, all of us. Healing and broken.

She's waiting for me in the morning to put the feeder out. I bring it in after dark so it doesn't freeze. We must have 18-20 inches out there.

I walked with some neighbors, helped folks out of snowbanks, righted garbage cans and threw snowballs for Felix.

Every driver (WTF) was a guy, fishtailing up and down the hills. What's so important you gotta  drive your Hyundai without snow tires AND STOP at the stop sign? People who grew up in snow don't drive in this sh*t. The only woman we saw was the mail carrier and she had chains. Duh!

I feel like I've been in the house for eleventy thousand hours. And I didn't even watch the Grammys. Sheesh.

I'm reading and writing instead. Reading Tommy Orange's book, There, There. It's so good. And listening to Mozart.

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I've done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden: and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

                                                     -William Stafford

Dears, It's deeper and deeper. And quiet. No traffic. No planes.

Felix ran after snow balls yesterday. He would bark, leap in the air and then wonder what happened to his ball when it hit the ground. Silly dog.

The humming birds are ok, I think. I bring in their feeder at night so it won't freeze and hang it out again in the morning.

It is still snowing.

Between being sick and the weather, I will complete a quilt I've been working on for my friend who lost her baby in 2017. She's due in a week or so. Hand stitching is what I do. It's a meditation.

We're supposed to get another foot of snow so we better get dog/cat food and people food for the duration. And freezing weather. The poor hummingbirds. Their feeder keeps freezing.

A kindly neighbor left me some instant hand warmers on my windshield.

Speaking of windshield, there was ice on the INSIDE of the window after I got all the ice off the outside of the car.

Sheesh.

At least I'm at work. The topic here is the situation of someone who goes into labor during the, uh, armageddon storm. I have chains but scary hills to traverse and a wee light car. As someone who grew up in deep upstate New York winters, I have a healthy respect for bad weather, which most of my fellow citizens don't understand. It's nothing to fuck with.

I've spun on ice, I've been overturned on highways and I've front ended trees. Ice is not even for walking really. And I'm a good careful driver. Folks around here don't get the hills, the cold and what their cars are able to do realistically.

Therefore, we are praying to the birth goddess that she don't stir any pots until we're out of the weather, literally. Otherwise, we're sending ladies to the hospital in an ambulance (at least they have chains).

And it will give me another week to cough in the privacy of my living room and establish that I have exhausted all Netflix and Amazon Prime that was even slightly decent and I'm down to watching questionable series or listening to Dharma talks I've already heard.

Oh, and the cat pooped in the shower. I have been so neglectful in my illness.

This is how it begins. Lordy.

You know you're really sick when:

You can't tell if it's 7 in the morning or 7 at night.
Food is tasteless, no matter how much you usually enjoy it.
You call the naturopath in your office and ask her to check on you periodically to be sure you haven't died.
You wish you had died.
You think you might still.
You step on a pile of dog shit in your bare feet while coming into the kitchen. It wasn't his fault. He hadn't been let out due to the aforementioned time confusion.
Um, and that was COLD dog shit.
You toss kleenex on the floor and by morning, there is quite a pile.
Your counters are clogged with Vitamin C, lemon juice, Nyquil, immune tincture, etc etc.
Your optimism has disappeared that 'this time' you weren't going to get really sick and it would just blow over after a few days. HA!
Your intercostals ache from coughing.
You get in the hot tub DURING THE DAY and who the hell cares who sees you.
You are streaming all the Harry Potter movies, and that's about 19 hours, folks.

I will probably live this time. I tell you, it was touch and go last night. You know, that dark night of the soul when you wake up to heave yourself out of bed to pee and cough and you think that one of these times, you'll just give it up. Let Jayzus take me in his everlovin' arms. I'm still here and on to the 4th installment of HP.

I'm sure this has nothing to do with visiting my lawyer to get my will and advanced directives re-written. Nothing at all.

Optimism

Southern California-

Darius and Eden, Joshua Tree, Mary and Ayah Vimila (my teachers) and the desert in bloom.

Before she said so, I knew (every book dedicated to Molly Malone Cook)

In Blackwater Woods                          Mary Oliver (9/10/35-1/17/2019) Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars   of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment,   the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders   of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is   nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned   in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side   is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world   you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it   against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. She wrote the same poem over and over, but so masterfully and well. I have a shelf full of her poetry. Beautiful line breaks, no extraneous words, clear and clean. This poem is a perfect example.

Prartho Sereno

A FEW QUESTIONS BEFORE WE GO ON

Who gathered the straw and the twigs?

Who wove the nest and laid the egg

of this world? What patient one sat

and warmed it till it broke out in octopus

and chickadee, walrus and snake?

Who came up with all the comings and goings?

The breathing and eating. Sleeping

and waking. Who conjured the laugh?

Who thought up sex and where

we drop when we fall in?

Who dreamed the river of tears?

Who charmed the embryo’s polliwog body

to flower into elbows and ears?

Who jolted the heart to throb?

Who thought up growing old?

What melancholic dramatist chose loss

for every scene—tragic, comic, slice-of-life?

And who is it that can’t stop humming

as she sweeps up the stardust backstage?

Dears-

The rain is raining all around. This time of year, the lake below my house is visible through the trees, which are bare of leaves.

I've received an application for some Buddhist training which is quite daunting. It's asking for the story of my life (!) which, at this age, is rather full. What do I include? What do I leave out? The divorces? (not relevant) the suicides (also not relevant except that my brother's death propelled me into deeper practice)

They are looking for reliable folk who will stay the course and offer substance to their local community. All well and good. But. I'm old. And white. So there's that. They've warned me that they will be reading many more applications than they can accommodate so the whole thing  may be moot. And I'm not sure where I stand right now with all of it.

After this past year of turmoil in one of my Dharma communities arounds sexual misconduct and the larger Me Too movement, I am suspicious of old forms. Including the 'sage on the stage' model of teaching Buddhism. this isn't to say that I revere and love my teachers, all cut from that model, but I'm looking for something different, something that brings everyone into the room with their own wisdom. Call me impatient and I know just getting the hang of meditating is an important first step, but I oppose the hierarchy that is modeled in Dharma centers. Oppose it. And I believe when we put someone on a throne, abuse of power happens. There are plentiful examples.

Perhaps a Dharma teacher can set me straight but I've long felt uncomfortable with the structure. Almost all religions have a similar structure-the 'expert' who doles out advice and spiritual teachings, and the audience, who presumably doesn't have access to those same teachings. The Buddha did it by himself, he taught himself the path to liberation from suffering and his many teachings all point to that. But he didn't say, worship me and all will be well. He said, try it for yourself and see if it works. So I literally follow that.

Sure I have Buddhas and Quan Yins all over my house. But don't mistake that. They are reminders that we (WE) have the answers in our own heart-minds. The Buddhas or Gods or whatever you wanna call it are all WITHIN US, not in some external place or person.

Noticing I'm hyperventilating. Sorry.

Enough of this rant. Feel free to argue with me, or agree, it's all good. I"m just trying to figure it out. For as long as I have more time to be alive, I will be investigating the truth of the end of suffering, for the benefit of all beings.

Love and kisses,

B

Big Bear Retreat Center

Taking a wee nap before I make soup for dinner. 

Dears-up in the mountains on retreat but this time cooking with Jessica. Whew, hard work. Getting here was a major ordeal but after surviving SFO the day after Xmas, I feel pretty invincible. It was jammed with travelers of all kinds all pushing and shoving. I breezed though security because no one was paying any attention. Those poor workers were not getting paychecks anyway.

There was one woman who was directing traffic and she was so cheerful and friendly. In a sea of misery, she shone like a light house.

I lugged a quan yin and a heavy bell to the retreat center. And they stay here. (hooray!) I don't have to break myself getting them back to Seattle.

This coming year I'm gonna get a physical, a nutritional assessment for old people and think about a knee replacement (ug). That one I'll have to schedule and figure out who can help me for a few days afterwards.

But what about old people and food? Supplements? I've got some problems with dairy now :-( and i've pretty much gone vegan again but I wonder about protein.

Jeez this is a boring post.

One thing about Uber. I missed the airporter in San Rafael ( a very nice bus that costs $20 and gets you to the airport in an hour. I got up at 5:15, hustled to the station and effing missed the bus. I called Uber and waited...and waited and finally canceled. And if you don't cancel within 5 minutes they charge you ($71!!).. Then I called for a regular cab and that puppy was over $100 !!!! Grrrrr.

But

It was worth it because my driver was nuts. He asked it I could see the chemtrails and when I said I could, he launched into a 'theory' of GO engineers (?) who are manipulating the weather by putting something in jet fuel that then creates the chem trails. Wow. I actually tried to talk to him reasonably, obviously a mistake because he claims that scientists are getting rich (?) on the whole global warming situation. Which isn't real, according to him. We're getting colder based on sun activity (????) So ok, I eventually stopped talking and mentioned that the chemtrails were getting pretty as the sun rose. Damn.

Then I called my ex who is a shrink and he mentioned some guy who is claiming all this stuff and it's all on the internet.

BTW, contrails (not chemtrails) are formed when water on the wings of planes enter the atmosphere after freezing on the wings...

But wow.

He did get me to the airport on time. So there's that.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

BY THE NUMBERS

Two hundred ninety million.

That’s how many dollars Monsanto

was ordered to pay the dying man

when the company failed to warn him

about how the poison they made

to kill weeds would also kill him.

Two hundred ninety million.

That’s how many miles

the Voyager 2 moves away

from the earth every year. And though

it was made to do so—to travel

past our sun’s magnetic field—who

could blame it for moving away

from this dying planet at

thirty-four thousand one hundred ninety-one

miles per hour. If that number were dollars

today, it would be equivalent to eight thousand dollars

in 1977 when the Voyager 2 was launched.

And eight thousand, that’s how many sacred

elephants there were on the banks

of the Six Tusker Lake in the Himalaya,

elephants who flew in the air, and sages say

the Buddha himself was once born as son

to the chief of these eight thousand elephants.

Yes, sacred and magical things happen here

on the earth, despite the greed,

despite the poison. I was seven

when the Voyager 2 left, and since then

it’s traveled eighteen and a half billion miles.

If those miles were pounds,

that would equal more than a million

large African elephants, though in all of Africa,

there are only four hundred fifteen thousand

elephants left, down from five million

just a hundred years ago. What I am saying

is that as the Voyager 2 enters interstellar space

things are strange here on Earth, and we seem

hellbent on our own destruction, but I

am so grateful to be here, still. Even as

the Voyager 2 hurtles beyond the heliosphere,

I find myself still falling in love

with the twenty-seven thousand three hundred seventy-five

days I have to live,

and the earth’s twelve thousand

species of grass, and the five thousand stars

visible to the naked eye and the two hundred six

bones in the body, all of them working to help

us run toward beauty, yes, grateful

for two hands to hold one beloved face

and, amidst all this enormity, the absolute absence

of sufficient words to say how holy, how incalculable is love,

and how marvelous, really, to stare up

into the familiar night sky and imagine

all boundaries we’re just beginning to cross.

Got light, got dark, got light again

We of the NW climes will be sitting in our homes and the hand of de lawd will darken the skies in the middle of the day and it may feel like the end is nigh. Then the rain comes, then the sun may or may not come out again. Then after all that excitement, it's four PM and dark for real because we are ALL THE WAY UP HERE in the northern latitudes when darkness is a serious thing.

I read a book review in the NYT today about a girl raised as an evangelical (she got out). She declared that those folks are expecting the END and they're ready with canned soup and bottled water. I don't think that's gonna do the trick.

This is the famous 'poodle stare'. Felix sits and bores thoughts into my frequency. I think the message is something like, "why are we inside look at it we could be out there chasing squirrels, tennis balls, other dogs huh we are missing all the fun being inside with the damn cat etc.'

I am a disappointment to my dog, I can tell you,

Yesterday Felix and I went to Tiger Mountain, about 20 miles outside Seattle for a hike. Homeless encampment #4 was back, at the entrance to the trailhead, just off the freeway. As you can see, it's very cold now.

I stopped in at the admin, a blue tarp shelter with two large kerosene heaters and a few guys hanging out. The cigarette smoke was thick. I gave them a twenty and wished them well.

That's all. I got back in my warm car after we hiked and drove home to my warm house. my big warm house.

People sleeping 'rough'.

Compassion means empathy and concern for the suffering and misfortunes of others. May we all see with our open hearts the suffering and misfortune of others. No judgment. No fear. No pity. Open hearts.

The car repair place just told me I need $2000 worth of repairs. Shite.

The last time this happened, I asked about the used car salesman and bought a newer used car. This time I'm gonna just...do it. Pains me to but cars, like knees, wear out.

Time to get a NYT and walk the dawg. He is ALWAYS cheerful. The nature of dogs confounds me. I guess when your memory is about 3 minutes, you're never troubled about anything.

Happy Sunday.

It was like this

My Salvation Army cape had big pockets inside
I slid steaks, jars of honey, butter into the dark folds
I was so slim with my long hair
As I walked out the door, the purloined food breathed out
so neither of us would get caught

We were sleeping on the floor
the starter was out so
we parked at the top of the hill
ran and pushed to get the car going

Boston was cold that winter
Art school was too expensive but I went anyway
You worked in a camera store
stole cameras
I worked in the health food store
stole bread and grapefruits

We had no idea
we were poor
or desperate
when we fucked
our bones chafed against each other

we paid the rent
rode the trolley
brought home a cat
we were free
no family
no friends
no future we cared about

Every year a retreat center south of here asks for volunteers to deep clean the center; bathrooms, dining hall, bedrooms, the Dharma hall, teachers cottages. And the great outdoors-fallen tree limbs, errant bamboo, etc.

Judith and I went  in spite of a flat tire and a sick kitty. Lola stayed at the vet for 24 hours getting IV fluids and waiting for labs. A bladder infection, as I suspected. For $900!!! Egad.

Then they gave me a wee bottle of antibiotics and say, "Once a day, orally." They don't say, "Ha ha, good luck with that."

Cats are smart. They feel that something terrible is about to go down as you approach them with a towel and a syringe. So they head out to spaces where you are unable to reach them. And you are dragging them out by a leg or the tail and further traumatizing them because they are thinking you're about to kill them or put them back in the cat carrier of death.

When you finally wrap them in a towel, then they throw their head around so you're basically aiming for the mouth/teeth area when it whips by you, getting fish flavored medicine on your shirt and all over their face. Hopefully some of it landed IN their mouth and you're good til tomorrow when it's time to do again. For 10 days.

At least it's not a pill. Pilling a cat is pretty much the worst situation. No cat will stand for it. It is beneath them. It doesn't matter that you've explained that they are ill and will feel much better. They don't give a shit. Giving a cat a pill guarantees that you will be bitten and/or clawed. You will be bloody and your cat will hate you. They give side eye and start growling. Then comes the slashing.

Anyway, the retreat center is sparkling and when I got home with Lola, I found that Felix had torn up the rug that I just bought. He is in the bedroom on an extended time out. As least the rug (screaming deal) was only $100.

Why do we have animals? I know this is a rhetorical question...and by the way, why is there an 'h' in rhetorical? Seems completely whimsical.

Beautiful boy

Dearest Milo

It's your birthday again and you're 16.

Many places on this planet, young men and women are celebrated and welcomed as adults when they turn a certain age. You're not an adult yet but 16 is a milestone. And we don't have any significant ceremony for you. But we adults recognize the turning of the wheel of the year in your young life.

From my heart, I have wishes for your future. Of course, I hope you enjoy health and happiness in the years to come. And that you learn to skillfully navigate disappointments and sorrows for they will surely come as they do in every human life.

Most of all I wish for you to become a kind and compassionate man, a man who knows how to be vulnerable and tender. I wish for you to find love for yourself. I wish for you to be respectful of girls and women, for those less fortunate, for those different from you. As you come into your place in the human community, awakening to your privilege as a white man cannot be denied. I wish for you to use that privilege to move the needle for those who have no voice because they are Brown and Black, because they are immigrants, or Queer, or just down on their luck. When faced with suffering, we can choose to harden our hearts or let our hearts break into action.

Yes, you're still a kid. But your manhood is coming soon. You've had great good fortune to be raised with loving parents. You've not known homelessness, hunger or discrimination. You can choose to make your life one that is full of good works, good deeds. Because you see clearly see the needs and you are compelled to respond.

You and we can't fix the world. But your words and actions have an effect. This is true. There is so much that is ugly, terrible and sad and it will always be so. But there is beauty and compassion everywhere. Choose that. Choose to make use of your life. For justice and love and kindness. Be a mensch, dearest one.

Yours,

Nana

Dear hearts,

And there was rejoicing in the land. Of course the monster-in-chief didn't take it well. To be expected. And then there was Sessions.

I spent a week on the island of Namaimo, BC in silent retreat with my beloved Adrianne. Got back yesterday. Yes, I voted before I left.

It is beautiful there and I walked the perimeter of the lake every day until I sprained my ankle. The sorrow and fear I was feeling was so immense, I had to move my body somehow, let the trees and the sun and the geese and the water restore my mind to some sanity. I truly had a melt down and the sweet Canadians helped to comfort and restore.

Canadians say 'hello' and 'good morning'. A lot. It must be a small town thing. I must have been wished well 100 times. Beautiful.

The ferry ride is 2 hours and I refrained from listening to the election results. I called friends after I crossed the border to give me the broad outline. Which was promising.

Today is a new world. Some checks and balances. We'll see how POTUS responds to being told 'no'. And my Canadian friends can be cautiously optimistic about our impulsive and dangerous 'leader'. So we need to continue to fight for the rights of those who cannot speak for themselves. Those of us with privilege need to use it for good. For the good of all beings, even those we disagree with. And that's hard.