We've been self-isolating for a little over 50 days. We've had all sorts of changes, large and small. In that time, the kiddo was furloughed with pay. My husband was furloughed one day a week, without pay, so a net 20% paycut. His company was very fair and the furloughs are across the company. Everyone reduced one day a week. My company has to make up an enormous budget shortfall, so they have stopped funding our retirement accounts, and we will have no salary increases in the coming year. There will be furloughs and layoffs, but who and how are not yet decided.
We've had a run of mostly bad weather, lots and lots of rain. It's made it tough to get out for a walk, or to play with the dog, or for my husband to garden. Each time we get a day of sunshine, we are outside, getting as much of it as we can. It's a beautiful spring here, with very vivid colors and an abundance of life. Without human interference, nature seems to be clawing back some of its own.
I've been out a few times. I've been to the pharmacy twice to pick up meds for my husband. I've been to the office twice to pick up hardware and turn on computers that people needed access to. It was eery to be in a large office building and see almost no one. I saw the guard at the door, when I presented my ID. And I saw two people in the distance in the building. That's all, in a place where I usually see a few hundred people a day. On the plus side, I was able to get street parking less than a half block from the door. And I didn't have to pay for it.
I took a mattress and a few grocery items to the kiddo. His roommate just moved in from Pittsburgh. She's got a job in Baltimore, starting this week. They are best friends, so it was an easy transition, and I'm happy he won't be quarantined alone anymore.
We live a block from our vet, so Daisy has also had some medical appointments. She developed a skin infection and she's needed meds and medicated baths. So she's getting walked to the vet once a week. We call when we get to the parking lot. A masked attendant comes out and gets her. They call when they are done, we pay over the phone, and then the masked attendant brings her back out and hands us her leash. they give me a plastic bag with her paper work and meds inside.
We get food delivered from instacart. we can pick which store and mostly have been getting stuff from Aldi. I may try Sprouts next time since I'd like some ingredients Aldi doesn't carry. We're trying to minimize orders, so once every 2-3 weeks now for groceries. We also order out 1 day a week and have a meal delivered from a local restaurant. We'd like our local places to stay in business and we know the delivery folks need the work. I stocked up on dog food when we first started staying home, but I'm almost out so I will have to mailorder that from Chewy.
Socially, I think I'm busier than before. I used to try and limit nights out to 2 or so a week. Now that everything is virtual, I'm on zoom sessions 4 or 5 times a week. I'm in a discussion group on Lojong training 1 night a week. Calls with friends, virtual movie nights and virtual beer clubs. I do morning meditation with a virtual sangha. Virtual happy hours, virtual meet ups for "drinks". It's not the same as seeing people in person, and I miss presence and touch very much. But it is better than nothing and it hits some of my need for interaction.
Work is problematic. It turns out what I like most in my job is the people interaction. Zoom meetings are not the same and are frankly exhausting. It's harder to manage a team when we are all remote. We're being asked to do more, with less and for less and that's frustrating. Because everyone is working at home, the days are stretched, with emails coming in later and later, and more on weekends.
It sounds like I hate the current state of things, but oddly I don't. By and large this has been a really good thing for me. I've had time to read and reflect. Time to stop and smell the flowers. Time to reconnect with my husband, with old friends, with family. I've learned new skills. Taken up yoga. Dyd my hair purple. Rededicated to my meditation practice. Gotten the first glimmerings of what comes next.
It's been different. It's been challenging. But that's not bad.
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
Sunday, May 03, 2020
Sunday, November 30, 2014
recursion
I didn't meditate today. Every now and then, I take a day off from practice. I want meditating to be a choice, not something I do on auto-pilot. In this, I am practicing a little recursion, being mindful about my mindfulness.
Skipping a day here or there reminds me how much I get from practice, how much I benefit. And yes, it also reminds me how much I need it. I am not as centered on days I skip. I am, for lack of a better term, crankier. I have more hard edges. I don't move as softly or easily thru the world.
Tomorrow, I will go back to the cushion, with a renewed sense that it is what I want to do, what I need to do, what I should do.
Skipping a day here or there reminds me how much I get from practice, how much I benefit. And yes, it also reminds me how much I need it. I am not as centered on days I skip. I am, for lack of a better term, crankier. I have more hard edges. I don't move as softly or easily thru the world.
Tomorrow, I will go back to the cushion, with a renewed sense that it is what I want to do, what I need to do, what I should do.
Monday, November 24, 2014
sitting in judgement
I used to find it easy to judge people. By judge, I mean I would weigh their worth. Sum them up with a word. Asshole. Idiot. Jerk. Crook. Thief. Thug. As I practice more, I find I can do this less.
This doesn't mean I don't see the same behavior I saw before. I do. I know when someone is cheating me and I get angry about it just like anyone else. I'm not a fucking saint. I just mean that I can't DISMISS someone for it. I end up wondering what its like to be them, what happened to them that makes them the way they are. I start to see how it could happen that they ended up that way.
I can get angry when someone is an asshat. I just can't STAY angry.
Yesterday, Marion Barry died. He was the truly shitty mayor of Washington, DC. 4 TIMES. He is famous for his "the bitch set me up" line, uttered when he was caught with both crack and a woman not his wife, in a hotel room. He was a crook, a dishonest politician, a philanderer, a drug addict. But he was also reputedly a loyal friend. He worked his way up, from a boy picking cotton to a man with a masters degree in chemistry, from a tiny town in the South, to a civil rights activist, to mayor of a large city. No one is all bad, or all good.
I said as much in a FB posting and was astounded at the angry reaction. Because he was a bad man, who abused his power, most folks thought he should be written off. He was a crooked politician, and that was the sum of it.
I used to feel the same way. Sometimes I wonder if it's a bad thing that I don't anymore.
This doesn't mean I don't see the same behavior I saw before. I do. I know when someone is cheating me and I get angry about it just like anyone else. I'm not a fucking saint. I just mean that I can't DISMISS someone for it. I end up wondering what its like to be them, what happened to them that makes them the way they are. I start to see how it could happen that they ended up that way.
I can get angry when someone is an asshat. I just can't STAY angry.
Yesterday, Marion Barry died. He was the truly shitty mayor of Washington, DC. 4 TIMES. He is famous for his "the bitch set me up" line, uttered when he was caught with both crack and a woman not his wife, in a hotel room. He was a crook, a dishonest politician, a philanderer, a drug addict. But he was also reputedly a loyal friend. He worked his way up, from a boy picking cotton to a man with a masters degree in chemistry, from a tiny town in the South, to a civil rights activist, to mayor of a large city. No one is all bad, or all good.
I said as much in a FB posting and was astounded at the angry reaction. Because he was a bad man, who abused his power, most folks thought he should be written off. He was a crooked politician, and that was the sum of it.
I used to feel the same way. Sometimes I wonder if it's a bad thing that I don't anymore.
Friday, November 14, 2014
so much in a cup of tea
I have been a major tea addict for many years. I usually have 3-4 cups of caffeinated black tea a day, and then several cups of green tea on top of that. I thought I was addicted to the caffeine in the tea, but now I am not sure.
For the last month, I have been caffeine-free. Because the doctor thought I had gastric reflux, she prescribed a new diet -- no caffeine, no booze, no spicy food, no citrus. My heartburn symptoms have gone away, and I have started drinking a beer or two (or shots when my trivia team is playing) during the week. Other than that, I have kept to the diet. I had crushing headaches for the first three days, but those went away as I got used to not having the caffeine.
What surprised me is that I still drink as much tea as before. I have caffeine-free black and green tea, as well as some herbals. I suppose I wasn't as addicted to the caffeine as I was to the whole process of tea.
It's the warm cup in my hands. It's the reciprocity of it -- the teacup warms my hands, and then the warmth of my hands keeps the teacup warm. It's the colors, the white cup, and the beautiful amber or black or green liquid. How each type of tea has its own beautiful shade. It's the steam and the heat rising off. It's the aroma, and how each cup is different. It's the time that it takes, the process. I have to walk to the coffee room or the kitchen. I have to make the tea. I have to take the mug or the cup back with me, holding it's warmth in my hands as I anticipate that first sip.
For the time it takes me to drink my tea, it is all that I am doing. It isn't something I can gulp down while I read that article, or work on that software issue. I can't enter numbers in a spreadsheet while mindlessly sipping. Hot tea demands attention, a certain level of care, if just to avoid spills and burns.
Tea is meditation.
For the last month, I have been caffeine-free. Because the doctor thought I had gastric reflux, she prescribed a new diet -- no caffeine, no booze, no spicy food, no citrus. My heartburn symptoms have gone away, and I have started drinking a beer or two (or shots when my trivia team is playing) during the week. Other than that, I have kept to the diet. I had crushing headaches for the first three days, but those went away as I got used to not having the caffeine.
What surprised me is that I still drink as much tea as before. I have caffeine-free black and green tea, as well as some herbals. I suppose I wasn't as addicted to the caffeine as I was to the whole process of tea.
It's the warm cup in my hands. It's the reciprocity of it -- the teacup warms my hands, and then the warmth of my hands keeps the teacup warm. It's the colors, the white cup, and the beautiful amber or black or green liquid. How each type of tea has its own beautiful shade. It's the steam and the heat rising off. It's the aroma, and how each cup is different. It's the time that it takes, the process. I have to walk to the coffee room or the kitchen. I have to make the tea. I have to take the mug or the cup back with me, holding it's warmth in my hands as I anticipate that first sip.
For the time it takes me to drink my tea, it is all that I am doing. It isn't something I can gulp down while I read that article, or work on that software issue. I can't enter numbers in a spreadsheet while mindlessly sipping. Hot tea demands attention, a certain level of care, if just to avoid spills and burns.
Tea is meditation.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
inside a meditation retreat
This past weekend, I took a 3 day meditation retreat at the Baltimore Shambhala Center. It was one of my levels in the Shambhala training -- Level III, Warrior in the World. The title is a little off-putting, but it makes sense. The idea is that you have to not only practice to improve things for yourself, you have to get up off the cushion and live that practice in the world. To face the world as it is, without pretense or illusion, and to cultivate an open heart takes strength and courage -- the courage of a warrior
The basic structure of the retreats is the same. We meet on Friday night for a couple of hours. We meet each other -- usually 10-20 students, a handful of staff and a teacher. There is an introductory talk to frame the weekend, a new practice is introduced. some meditation, and we have a dharma talk. Then there are the housekeeping details -- who is staffing the weekend, what time we should be there in the morning, whether lunch is provided, what to expect the next day, etc
On Saturday we arrive in the morning and spend half an hour or so having breakfast and getting better acquainted. Then we go in for meditation, alternating sitting and walking. Then some instruction. Usually there is some breakout for discussion, an interview with the teacher or assistant teacher as a check-in, maybe an exercise to try. We might have a few minutes of yoga. Lunch is mostly eaten together, and depending on the retreat, it is offered as a social period or a silent period. Then more sitting, more walking meditation, a dharma talk and discussion.
We come back on Sunday and the day is more or less the same pattern. We go out to a restaurant for lunch, or you can lunch on your own if you prefer. We sit, walk, do interviews again, more breakout discussion, and end the weekend with a celebration.
That's the framework. What it's like is different. We start out as a group of mostly strangers. Some familiar faces, but often very few. We start out awkwardly, a little uncomfortable with each other. By the end of the weekend at least a few people will have cried, everyone will have laughed, and we will be very sad to say goodbye. There are a lot of hugs as we part company.
I think this transformation happens because we have to be so unguarded, so open with each other. It is hard to stay strangers when people are talking about their thoughts and feelings, their habits and stresses and challenges. We also are physically struggling. Mediating on a cushion on the floor, or even in a chair, becomes excruciating as the weekend wears on. Backs and knees and shoulders and ankles scream and creak with the effort. We sit together and fight to stay awake, to honor the practices, to not zone out or just quit. We support each other, encourage each other, and recognize that we are all going through something similar.
The staff also does wonders to make the weekend work for all of us. They are all volunteers, students like ourselves. They have all completed Level III, which is the point in the practice where you can being volunteering for any of the levels you have already taken. The volunteers sit as timekeepers, act as gatekeepers, facilitate discussion and interviews. They prepare our meals and wash our dishes. They ensure our comfort, ease our hurts, make sure everyone feels safe and secure and cared for. They are there for the entire retreat. In Shambhala, volunteering is both service and practice. They tell us they get at least as much out of the weekend as we do, if not more. I believe them.
This weekend was like the others. It was hard, it was exhausting. But it also had moments of absolute transcendent joy.
We had to go for a silent walk outside, each on our own. Our task was to stay in the moment, focusing on our senses. It was raining, and the park I walked in never looked so lush and beautiful. The smells and sounds were amazing. The colors were intense, brighter and richer. I noticed things I never noticed before.
We had to take another walk on Sunday. This time we were supposed to walk around the city, really seeing every person we pass. We could say hello or not, but it had to be a conscious choice. And we were supposed to try to stay present and open throughout the walk. I have rarely had so much fun on a walk. The sun was shining, the students were moving into their dorms, the streets were crowded. I didn't have a place to go, or a time to be there. So I walked. I talked with dozens of people. I met and petted a couple of sweet doggies. I had a nice talk with a traffic cop. Spent a few minutes talking with a mom waiting to move her son into a dorm. Met a parent from out of state at the meters and helped him figure out what he was doing. Stopped and gave a beggar a dollar. Had a smile for everyone I passed. I had a nice walk back with another student, finding tons of common ground. It felt terrific! I felt free and happy and weightless.
Sunday afternoon is usually the hardest in terms of sitting in meditation. You are so tired by then; it's a struggle to even keep your eyes open. Your mind keeps jumping around and you keep dragging yourself back to your focus. The windows were open, a slight breeze started up.And then music. Very clear, very loud. A car stereo outside is playing The Beatles Let It Be. If a room full of people sitting in silence could freeze, it did. Did we really hear what we thought we heard?? A few lines into the song,we're sure we did. Then the first person starts laughing, then another, then the whole room.
Sometimes the universe is NOT subtle.
The basic structure of the retreats is the same. We meet on Friday night for a couple of hours. We meet each other -- usually 10-20 students, a handful of staff and a teacher. There is an introductory talk to frame the weekend, a new practice is introduced. some meditation, and we have a dharma talk. Then there are the housekeeping details -- who is staffing the weekend, what time we should be there in the morning, whether lunch is provided, what to expect the next day, etc
On Saturday we arrive in the morning and spend half an hour or so having breakfast and getting better acquainted. Then we go in for meditation, alternating sitting and walking. Then some instruction. Usually there is some breakout for discussion, an interview with the teacher or assistant teacher as a check-in, maybe an exercise to try. We might have a few minutes of yoga. Lunch is mostly eaten together, and depending on the retreat, it is offered as a social period or a silent period. Then more sitting, more walking meditation, a dharma talk and discussion.
We come back on Sunday and the day is more or less the same pattern. We go out to a restaurant for lunch, or you can lunch on your own if you prefer. We sit, walk, do interviews again, more breakout discussion, and end the weekend with a celebration.
That's the framework. What it's like is different. We start out as a group of mostly strangers. Some familiar faces, but often very few. We start out awkwardly, a little uncomfortable with each other. By the end of the weekend at least a few people will have cried, everyone will have laughed, and we will be very sad to say goodbye. There are a lot of hugs as we part company.
I think this transformation happens because we have to be so unguarded, so open with each other. It is hard to stay strangers when people are talking about their thoughts and feelings, their habits and stresses and challenges. We also are physically struggling. Mediating on a cushion on the floor, or even in a chair, becomes excruciating as the weekend wears on. Backs and knees and shoulders and ankles scream and creak with the effort. We sit together and fight to stay awake, to honor the practices, to not zone out or just quit. We support each other, encourage each other, and recognize that we are all going through something similar.
The staff also does wonders to make the weekend work for all of us. They are all volunteers, students like ourselves. They have all completed Level III, which is the point in the practice where you can being volunteering for any of the levels you have already taken. The volunteers sit as timekeepers, act as gatekeepers, facilitate discussion and interviews. They prepare our meals and wash our dishes. They ensure our comfort, ease our hurts, make sure everyone feels safe and secure and cared for. They are there for the entire retreat. In Shambhala, volunteering is both service and practice. They tell us they get at least as much out of the weekend as we do, if not more. I believe them.
This weekend was like the others. It was hard, it was exhausting. But it also had moments of absolute transcendent joy.
We had to go for a silent walk outside, each on our own. Our task was to stay in the moment, focusing on our senses. It was raining, and the park I walked in never looked so lush and beautiful. The smells and sounds were amazing. The colors were intense, brighter and richer. I noticed things I never noticed before.
We had to take another walk on Sunday. This time we were supposed to walk around the city, really seeing every person we pass. We could say hello or not, but it had to be a conscious choice. And we were supposed to try to stay present and open throughout the walk. I have rarely had so much fun on a walk. The sun was shining, the students were moving into their dorms, the streets were crowded. I didn't have a place to go, or a time to be there. So I walked. I talked with dozens of people. I met and petted a couple of sweet doggies. I had a nice talk with a traffic cop. Spent a few minutes talking with a mom waiting to move her son into a dorm. Met a parent from out of state at the meters and helped him figure out what he was doing. Stopped and gave a beggar a dollar. Had a smile for everyone I passed. I had a nice walk back with another student, finding tons of common ground. It felt terrific! I felt free and happy and weightless.
Sunday afternoon is usually the hardest in terms of sitting in meditation. You are so tired by then; it's a struggle to even keep your eyes open. Your mind keeps jumping around and you keep dragging yourself back to your focus. The windows were open, a slight breeze started up.And then music. Very clear, very loud. A car stereo outside is playing The Beatles Let It Be. If a room full of people sitting in silence could freeze, it did. Did we really hear what we thought we heard?? A few lines into the song,we're sure we did. Then the first person starts laughing, then another, then the whole room.
Sometimes the universe is NOT subtle.
Monday, August 25, 2014
mantras for a modern life
I really find mantra repetition to be a useful practice. While I do use a traditional mantra regularly, I also have a few modern ones that have helped me out of a world of trouble. I thought I'd share, in case they were of use to anyone else.
Sometimes, in a self-pitying mood, I get into the whole "why me?" cycle. I find if I just repeat "why NOT me?" a few times to myself, my perspective shifts just enough to get out of it. Who am I to sail through life with no troubles, no worries? what makes me so privileged, so special? The answer is pretty clear -- shit happens, and we have no IDEA why. It might happen to my neighbor, the person down the street, me. Nobody gets a pass.
When I struggle with a co-worker, or someone doing their job particularly badly, I can feel myself getting irritated, angry, truly pissed. How could this person inconvenience me this way? My time is valuable. I have too much to do to deal with this crap. Really. That's about the time I pull out "they're trying to do a good job, just like you". Even the inept, the incompetent, are almost always trying to do a good job. Maybe they are just bad at it. Or are just having an off day. Or what they need and what you need put you at cross-purposes. It doesn't work every time, because I'm not a saint, and sometime I'M the one having a shitty day, but generally, it works.
The next one is sort of multi-purpose, and has smoothed work, social life, just about everything. When I find myself feeling slighted, or like the whole universe is out to get me, or people are ignoring me, or whatever, I pull out "IT'S NOT ABOUT ME". Seriously, the things happening around you, that you think are happening TO YOU, probably aren't. When it rains the one day you had to park 6 blocks away, when a friend didn't reply to your messages, when you caught a cold before your first dinner out in weeks, whatever it is -- IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU.
Okay, I know -- sometimes your friend isn't returning your texts because they really aren't your friend. Or you washed your car (which really does make it rain). But generally, it rained because it was going to. Your friend is away for the weekend at a family wedding, and just isn't replying to ANYONE. You caught a cold because that virus needed somewhere to be. It didn't single you out because you had plans.
With "why not me?", "they're trying to do a good job, just like you" and the ever useful "It's not about me", I find that I argue less, blame less, beat myself up less, and just generally have an easier time of things.
Sometimes, in a self-pitying mood, I get into the whole "why me?" cycle. I find if I just repeat "why NOT me?" a few times to myself, my perspective shifts just enough to get out of it. Who am I to sail through life with no troubles, no worries? what makes me so privileged, so special? The answer is pretty clear -- shit happens, and we have no IDEA why. It might happen to my neighbor, the person down the street, me. Nobody gets a pass.
When I struggle with a co-worker, or someone doing their job particularly badly, I can feel myself getting irritated, angry, truly pissed. How could this person inconvenience me this way? My time is valuable. I have too much to do to deal with this crap. Really. That's about the time I pull out "they're trying to do a good job, just like you". Even the inept, the incompetent, are almost always trying to do a good job. Maybe they are just bad at it. Or are just having an off day. Or what they need and what you need put you at cross-purposes. It doesn't work every time, because I'm not a saint, and sometime I'M the one having a shitty day, but generally, it works.
The next one is sort of multi-purpose, and has smoothed work, social life, just about everything. When I find myself feeling slighted, or like the whole universe is out to get me, or people are ignoring me, or whatever, I pull out "IT'S NOT ABOUT ME". Seriously, the things happening around you, that you think are happening TO YOU, probably aren't. When it rains the one day you had to park 6 blocks away, when a friend didn't reply to your messages, when you caught a cold before your first dinner out in weeks, whatever it is -- IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU.
Okay, I know -- sometimes your friend isn't returning your texts because they really aren't your friend. Or you washed your car (which really does make it rain). But generally, it rained because it was going to. Your friend is away for the weekend at a family wedding, and just isn't replying to ANYONE. You caught a cold because that virus needed somewhere to be. It didn't single you out because you had plans.
With "why not me?", "they're trying to do a good job, just like you" and the ever useful "It's not about me", I find that I argue less, blame less, beat myself up less, and just generally have an easier time of things.
Sunday, June 08, 2014
meditation - the good, the bad, and the ugly
I've noticed that most articles on meditation focus solely on the good stuff -- the reduction in stress, the health benefits, the improvements in focus and clarity. All those things are true. You really do get all these things from meditation. And I am a huge believer that the benefits outweigh the costs. But there are some costs.
I've lost a few things as my practice has progressed. And I've run into difficulties I didn't know I would encounter.
I didn't know that sometimes meditation is difficult, other times downright scary. I spent a few weeks where I was afraid to sit and meditate, because every time I had during that time period, I was immediately drowning in suppressed memories. I had spent almost 50 years erecting walls in my mind, hiding even from myself. And in an extremely painful 4-6 week period, as i would meditate, the walls would come down. And i would remember. Just like I was there, back at whatever time, with the full immediacy of the event. It was shattering. I wasn't a very nice person, for a lot of my life. Sitting with that, feeling that, was awful. I had also buried just a ton of pain. It hit me hard, when the walls came down. Was it a good thing? Ultimately, I think it was the only thing. It was something that I absolutely had to go through. But I wish I had known that it might happen. Maybe it wouldn't have been so disorienting.
I have had periods of time where meditating made me very emotionally labile. I easily get choked up by emotion -- I have even cried at Kodak commercials. But not at this level, not this way. Other people's pain was nearly overwhelming. I would literally cry driving to work, just from the normal street life I would see every day. I would burst out laughing, for no real reason. My emotions were just very much at the surface. It was another phase that went away, as abruptly as it came. But again, it would have been nice to know -- hey this can happen, too.
The losses are few, but there are things I miss. I can't eat pork any more. I miss ribs, pulled pork, pork chops, BACON. But I think pigs are sentient, and I just can't willingly harm them as a result. I fear beef is also about to disappear from my diet -- for much the same reason. I just can't do it any more; it makes me feel sad when I see a cow and know it's going to die so someone can eat it.
I spent most of my life fishing with my dad. I love being on the water, the sounds of the water against the boat, the smells, the sound of sea birds. I love casting, dropping my line exactly where I want it to go. There is a lovely physical connection from hand to rod to line to water. I love that sudden aliveness that says there is a fish on the line. But I can't do it any more. The last time I went, we had a day fishermen dream of. Over 20 fish. And I ended up silently apologizing to every single one of them as I took the hook out of their mouths. I felt like a killer. I was pulling them from their lives, for my own amusement. I didn't NEED to eat them. I did it for fun. So that was my last fishing trip. I'll miss it.
I used to listen to music all day. I had a stereo in my office. I would walk in, pump up the tunes, so I could get through my day. Fast music to get me started; angry music on bad days, dance music to get through rote tasks. I needed it. But now I can't listen to music in the background. It has a depth and richness I didn't notice before -- I love it more, but it takes more attention from me. I can't put it on and do something else. And I don't need it any more; I have discovered silence and can now work without backing noise for the first time in my life.
I have lost much of my wit, as well. I used to have a sharp sort of humor, but I find that I can't joke that way any more. No zingers, no jokes at someone's expense. I still laugh a lot, and I still joke around, but I am so much more careful now. I worry that it makes me boring. That maybe I'm not as much fun to be around now. I can't go back, though, and start channeling Dorothy Parker again.
I can live with all these losses, because of all the things I have gained - joy, peace of mind, quiet, health. It seems worth it.
I've lost a few things as my practice has progressed. And I've run into difficulties I didn't know I would encounter.
I didn't know that sometimes meditation is difficult, other times downright scary. I spent a few weeks where I was afraid to sit and meditate, because every time I had during that time period, I was immediately drowning in suppressed memories. I had spent almost 50 years erecting walls in my mind, hiding even from myself. And in an extremely painful 4-6 week period, as i would meditate, the walls would come down. And i would remember. Just like I was there, back at whatever time, with the full immediacy of the event. It was shattering. I wasn't a very nice person, for a lot of my life. Sitting with that, feeling that, was awful. I had also buried just a ton of pain. It hit me hard, when the walls came down. Was it a good thing? Ultimately, I think it was the only thing. It was something that I absolutely had to go through. But I wish I had known that it might happen. Maybe it wouldn't have been so disorienting.
I have had periods of time where meditating made me very emotionally labile. I easily get choked up by emotion -- I have even cried at Kodak commercials. But not at this level, not this way. Other people's pain was nearly overwhelming. I would literally cry driving to work, just from the normal street life I would see every day. I would burst out laughing, for no real reason. My emotions were just very much at the surface. It was another phase that went away, as abruptly as it came. But again, it would have been nice to know -- hey this can happen, too.
The losses are few, but there are things I miss. I can't eat pork any more. I miss ribs, pulled pork, pork chops, BACON. But I think pigs are sentient, and I just can't willingly harm them as a result. I fear beef is also about to disappear from my diet -- for much the same reason. I just can't do it any more; it makes me feel sad when I see a cow and know it's going to die so someone can eat it.
I spent most of my life fishing with my dad. I love being on the water, the sounds of the water against the boat, the smells, the sound of sea birds. I love casting, dropping my line exactly where I want it to go. There is a lovely physical connection from hand to rod to line to water. I love that sudden aliveness that says there is a fish on the line. But I can't do it any more. The last time I went, we had a day fishermen dream of. Over 20 fish. And I ended up silently apologizing to every single one of them as I took the hook out of their mouths. I felt like a killer. I was pulling them from their lives, for my own amusement. I didn't NEED to eat them. I did it for fun. So that was my last fishing trip. I'll miss it.
I used to listen to music all day. I had a stereo in my office. I would walk in, pump up the tunes, so I could get through my day. Fast music to get me started; angry music on bad days, dance music to get through rote tasks. I needed it. But now I can't listen to music in the background. It has a depth and richness I didn't notice before -- I love it more, but it takes more attention from me. I can't put it on and do something else. And I don't need it any more; I have discovered silence and can now work without backing noise for the first time in my life.
I have lost much of my wit, as well. I used to have a sharp sort of humor, but I find that I can't joke that way any more. No zingers, no jokes at someone's expense. I still laugh a lot, and I still joke around, but I am so much more careful now. I worry that it makes me boring. That maybe I'm not as much fun to be around now. I can't go back, though, and start channeling Dorothy Parker again.
I can live with all these losses, because of all the things I have gained - joy, peace of mind, quiet, health. It seems worth it.
Tuesday, April 08, 2014
stretching in different directions
I am not a joiner. I am not one of those people who volunteers. I am more of a "slouch down in my seat and hope they don't call on me" type of person. Partly it's that I am fairly busy; I work full time, I go to school, and I try to spend time with family and friends as much as possible. But that's only part of it. Really, volunteering is like stepping into the void; you are out there, hanging, without support. Yet I want to help, I really do.
So, I didn't read the description before volunteering. And I really really didn't think through the whole "open the center" part; it means getting up at 5:30am, and being at the center by 6:50am. I am not a morning person. I am NOT a morning person.
I had only been to the center in the evening -- it turns out the morning session is different. for one thing, it has chants. OH SHIT!!. I volunteered to do something that involved sitting up front and CHANTING. I can't carry a tune. I have no rhythm. Is it wimpy to just back out, say sorry, didn't know?
I spent the first couple of weeks ducking the issue. I open up, turn on the lights. I learned how to set up the altar. I lit the candles, filled the water bowls, lit incense, put out the chant books. I learned how to make the tea for the shrine. All of this is very ritualized, very precise. There is an order to it all, and I found I really enjoyed it.
But I let the person training me do the actual timekeeping and chanting. I acted as support. I took home a chant book to practice. I practiced. And I practiced. And each week, the trainer asked if I wanted to take a turn leading, and each week I said I wasn't ready.
This morning, I took the seat up on the dais, faced the group, and went through the ritual of timekeeping. I rang the gong three times. I said 3 of the 4 opening chants. I rang in the session. I meditated and watched the clock. I lead the walking meditation, remembered to light the incense, rang the next sitting. I did the closing chants.
I made many mistakes, mostly small, I think. I skipped the longest chant, the Heart Sutra, because I still stumble over it and make a mosh of it. The experience was not horrible. It was not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Everyone is facing you, but they aren't really looking at you. They are looking at a representative, a figurehead. So that "oh god, everyone is looking at me" feeling just wasn't there.
I was surprised at how different in quality the session was for me. I felt responsible. I didn't want to move or fidget or make the slightest sound because I felt I had to create an atmosphere that would support the people in the room. I felt like I was meditating for them rather than for myself alone.
I have a lot more training to do, I think. But I like how it feels, stretching in different directions.
So I started looking for a volunteer opportunity at the Shambhala Center, one that would somehow mesh with my crazy schedule. They put out a call for morning umdze volunteers, and that sounded perfect. It's an hour one day a week, in the morning before work. Of course, I really had no idea what an umdze does, other than sit up front and meditate facing the group.
here's what they do:
The Umdze, or Timekeeper, has overall responsibility for each public meditation session. The umdze opens the Center, pays attention to the physical environment (orderliness, temperature, lighting), opens the shrines, leads chants (when appropriate), signals alternating sitting/walking periods, closes the shrines, and locks up. Performing as Umdze is an opportunity to deepen one’s own practice as well as serving the sangha.
So, I didn't read the description before volunteering. And I really really didn't think through the whole "open the center" part; it means getting up at 5:30am, and being at the center by 6:50am. I am not a morning person. I am NOT a morning person.
I had only been to the center in the evening -- it turns out the morning session is different. for one thing, it has chants. OH SHIT!!. I volunteered to do something that involved sitting up front and CHANTING. I can't carry a tune. I have no rhythm. Is it wimpy to just back out, say sorry, didn't know?
I spent the first couple of weeks ducking the issue. I open up, turn on the lights. I learned how to set up the altar. I lit the candles, filled the water bowls, lit incense, put out the chant books. I learned how to make the tea for the shrine. All of this is very ritualized, very precise. There is an order to it all, and I found I really enjoyed it.
But I let the person training me do the actual timekeeping and chanting. I acted as support. I took home a chant book to practice. I practiced. And I practiced. And each week, the trainer asked if I wanted to take a turn leading, and each week I said I wasn't ready.
This morning, I took the seat up on the dais, faced the group, and went through the ritual of timekeeping. I rang the gong three times. I said 3 of the 4 opening chants. I rang in the session. I meditated and watched the clock. I lead the walking meditation, remembered to light the incense, rang the next sitting. I did the closing chants.
I made many mistakes, mostly small, I think. I skipped the longest chant, the Heart Sutra, because I still stumble over it and make a mosh of it. The experience was not horrible. It was not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Everyone is facing you, but they aren't really looking at you. They are looking at a representative, a figurehead. So that "oh god, everyone is looking at me" feeling just wasn't there.
I was surprised at how different in quality the session was for me. I felt responsible. I didn't want to move or fidget or make the slightest sound because I felt I had to create an atmosphere that would support the people in the room. I felt like I was meditating for them rather than for myself alone.
I have a lot more training to do, I think. But I like how it feels, stretching in different directions.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
just sitting there
Whenever I talk to someone about meditation, they always say "I could never do that". The perception of meditation is that you sit in calm, quiet repose, with a blank mind.
What really goes on is very different.
I take my seat on the cushion. I shift and shift until I find a spot that seems comfortable. I straighten up, place my palms on my thighs and begin. I set my focus about 4-6 feet in front of me, but softly. I notice my foot is cramping, so I shift again. I start to be aware of my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Did I remember to take out stuff for dinner? Back to the breathing. In. Out. Why did that person say that? Should I have said what I said? why do I judge what I say? oh yeah. Back to the breath. In. Out. Rest. In. Out. Rest. I wish my posture was better. It's so hard to sit up straight. Back to the breath. 5 minutes pass. I am getting good at this. my mind is so much calmer now. Ooops. Back to the breath. 5 minutes. 8 minutes. Now my knees hurt. Maybe I should shift again? maybe my body is just trying to get attention? Back to breathing. And so on.
Sometimes it is peaceful, beautiful, calm. Sometimes my thoughts race through the whole session, and I feel thwarted, frustrated. Sometimes I feel raw, open,tender, near tears. I have been filled with fear. Sometimes, I am flooded with joy. I have had weeks where every shitty thing I have ever done to anyone in my whole life come flooding back as if they just happened. Things I didn't even remember. I have had to confront my flaws, my insecurities, my own impermanence. I have been bored. I have fallen asleep. I have wanted to be anywhere but on that cushion. I have wanted to on the cushion, and no where else.
That's what it's really like.
What really goes on is very different.
I take my seat on the cushion. I shift and shift until I find a spot that seems comfortable. I straighten up, place my palms on my thighs and begin. I set my focus about 4-6 feet in front of me, but softly. I notice my foot is cramping, so I shift again. I start to be aware of my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Did I remember to take out stuff for dinner? Back to the breathing. In. Out. Why did that person say that? Should I have said what I said? why do I judge what I say? oh yeah. Back to the breath. In. Out. Rest. In. Out. Rest. I wish my posture was better. It's so hard to sit up straight. Back to the breath. 5 minutes pass. I am getting good at this. my mind is so much calmer now. Ooops. Back to the breath. 5 minutes. 8 minutes. Now my knees hurt. Maybe I should shift again? maybe my body is just trying to get attention? Back to breathing. And so on.
Sometimes it is peaceful, beautiful, calm. Sometimes my thoughts race through the whole session, and I feel thwarted, frustrated. Sometimes I feel raw, open,tender, near tears. I have been filled with fear. Sometimes, I am flooded with joy. I have had weeks where every shitty thing I have ever done to anyone in my whole life come flooding back as if they just happened. Things I didn't even remember. I have had to confront my flaws, my insecurities, my own impermanence. I have been bored. I have fallen asleep. I have wanted to be anywhere but on that cushion. I have wanted to on the cushion, and no where else.
That's what it's really like.
Saturday, February 08, 2014
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.
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