two feet planted - the value of sangha

In Buddhism, the sangha is a spiritual community. It is one of the three pillars of Buddhism, along with the Buddha and the dharma (the teachings). For me, it has been the most challenging part of my path.

I came to Buddhism as an adult. I already had a life built apart from my practice. I feel stretched thin, between work and family and friends. It's a good problem to have, to have so many people I cherish and want to spend time with that I can hardly squeeze it all in, but it's a problem nonetheless. To add another community, is to somehow carve a small pie into even smaller pieces.

I think though, it is what I need to do. Because I am coming to see the wisdom in that third pillar. It is hard to practice in a community of one. To respect your own journey, you almost have to see someone else's. There is a huge relief in the feeling that you are not the only one experiencing something. Other people have felt the same leg cramps or the same irritation or the same peace or joy. Sometimes you need a reminder, or encouragement or even a correction from someone who has been in your shoes. You need an example, for good or ill. The sangha provides all that and more. Sometimes you need to be an example for someone else, or the only way forward is to help someone else get something they need. There are lessons in the reciprocity of community, in the give and take among like minded folk.

II am not solely a spiritual being. I need my non-spiritual community, my loved ones, as much as I need a sangha.  I have two feet planted firmly, one in each world.  The two provide balance and strength and keep me on the middle way.

why do I celebrate Christmas?

Someone asked me the other day if I celebrate Christmas. It's a fair question -- I am an atheist, and a practicing Buddhist. It would seem not to be a holiday you would find on my personal calendar. And yet I love it.

Part of it is this. I grew up rootless, tradition-less. My parents immigrated from Europe and all our other relatives were still there. So we didn't have grandma's pumpkin bread, or great aunt Tillie's eggnog, or stories of Christmas past that it seemed everyone else had. So I wanted all of it. I wanted Christmas carols, stockings, the tree. I would have wanted a Christmas goose or figgy pudding, if I had known what those were. I told Santa my Christmas wishes and worried that we didn't have a chimney. I loved all the Christmas cards that would arrive.

As an adult, with a child of my own, I wanted tradition. TRADITION. We carved out a few of our own, and we made sure the grandparents and aunts and uncles were part of every Christmas. I wanted our kid to feel a sense of family, of history, of belonging someplace.

But now the kid is mostly grown. And I still adore Christmas. I love giving gifts, finding the thing that will make someone light up, or just feel loved and remembered. I love how people express their feelings during the Christmas season. Hugs, kisses, warm wishes, it's all okay to share on Christmas. There are no strangers on Christmas. Everywhere there is kindness. People share what they can, give what they can.

Christmas gives me hope. If we can all be like this for a day, for a week, we can be like this always. We can live with open hearts. We can take care of each other.

May all beings be at peace. May all beings be free from suffering. May all beings be free from the causes of suffering.

Merry Christmas, every one!

feet of clay

I've been thinking the last few days about the idea of "feet of clay". The adopted son of the founder of Shambhala has been in the news. Ashoka Mukpo is an NBC journalist, recently transported home for treatment of Ebola. He seems like a decent person, working very hard to bring some attention to an often ignored part of the world.

His adopted father was Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, the founder of Shambhala Buddhism. He's the "feet of clay" I have been ruminating about this week. He is such a contradiction for me. He was a wise man, an excellent dharma teacher, with a beautiful vision for the realization of an enlightened society. His teachings form the basis for the buddhist training I have been pursuing the last couple of years. He was also a deeply flawed human being. He reputedly died from his alcoholism. He drank to excess, he smoked, he had affairs with his students, he abused his power as a spiritual leader.

This is the foundation on which I have built my path. I am old enough to realize that few people are wholly good, or wholly bad.  And I know the teachings to be sound, even if the teacher was not all that I would wish for. But part of me is embarrassed by the connection. I have turned it around and looked at it, and I think it is this -- I worry that his actions reflect badly on Shambhala, and that because this is my practice, it somehow reflects back on me. I hate to feel foolish. I hate to feel "duped". And on some level, this week, that is what I felt.

Oddly, I also felt more of a connection to the man than I did before. I have always preferred sinners to saints -- they are more human, more real to me. I cannot aspire to sainthood, but I can be a sinner who sticks to the path as much as I am able. I can be flawed, I can be damaged, and still not be disqualified from enlightenment. This is powerful, and freeing.

I don't know if the man was a terrible example, or a perfect one.

dharma and the dog

I learn more dharma from my dog, than I do from just about anyone or anything else. My dog suffers, and has suffered, just about every day of his short life. He has a host of physical problems -- hip dysplasia, spinal stenosis, a hole in his heart. Now he has heart arrythmia, an enlarged heart, is blind in one eye and going blind in another. He is only 7.

Every morning, he wakes up gagging and retching. He gathers himself and every so slowly makes his way to his feet. Painfully, slowly, and with great care, he makes his way downstairs to go outside. And there, he stops, sniffs the air, slowly takes in the whole of the world. He is fully there, and fully appreciative. He embodies joy in each breath. If it rains, he raises his face to the sky and catches rain drops. If it snows, he tastes the snowflakes. A squirrel makes his whole body energized and he becomes motion.

When he is full to the brim with outside, he comes inside. He eats, doing nothing but enjoying, tasting his food. He drinks, doing nothing but drinking. He has a biscuit and he joyfully throws it in the air, and then chases every bit as it breaks. He sighs contentedly and curls up for a nap.

He is in pain through every minute of every day. This is not a perception, but a fact. His spinal cord is squeezed, and every motion causes pain. His breath is ragged, uneven, hard to watch. But he will rise in a bit, and pick up a toy -- hoping for a game. He will seek out a cuddle or just warm company. He will run to the cat's protection, from every imagined foe. He will attack the mail as it comes in the slot, because it is his job, and he will do it as well as he's able, for as long as he is able. 

He has taught me attention, gratefulness, to be gentle with myself and my body. He has taught me that attitude is everything. That joy is in each breath, each day, each moment, accessible to all who will accept it. He is teaching me love without attachment. And now, slowly, he is teaching me to let go. His days are dwindling. He knows it, and I know it. He will tell me when he is ready to go, I think. And I will let him go when he asks.