DEATH, HOPELESSNESS and Mr. McKean

Charlie McKean died this morning after a prolonged illness.


 He was in his nineties, surrounded by his family, his friends, all knowing the end was coming. He was as prepared as an ex-Marine, an ex-Mayor of Gardner, a relative-by-marriage, and my father's best friend, could be. (We all got our Christmas cards, sent by his wife, Theresa, even as he was in the hospital this last time around. God bless you, Theresa. God be ready for you, Charlie.)


I have been pondering "death" a lot, since coming back from California. I saw it up front, more often than I care to remember, when I was living there. I was always working with a "high risk" population--a younger crowd whose untimely passings were often wrought with violence, horror and much tragedy. And then, there was the entire AIDS tsunami, beginning to hit shore even as I stepped off the plane at LAX, in September of 1978. (Not that I hadn't grown up with death...we had a huge web of great aunts, uncles, grandparents and step grandparents. Many cousins and regular uncles and aunties also died, in my childhood. Irish wakes and funerals were something I was born into and  dreaded.) To know that the three hundred teens I worked with, as a street counselor, in Hollywood, have all passed, has haunted me, to this day. Yes, I have walked in the shadow of the Reaper.


Now, living with it in this house, watching my parents' friends and the parents OF my friends die, knowing the inevitable way I, too, will leave 88 Maple Street, has caused me to become more committed to studying a Buddhist approach to death. (My Catholic prayers  hold some comfort and connection, but the Church, itself, has passed by.) So, what do I read, meditate upon, consider and write about, this afternoon, upon hearing of Mr. McKean's passage?


Let me quote one of my Teachers, Pema Chodron, in her work, WHEN THINGS FALL APART: "When we talk about hopelessness and death, we're talking about facing the facts. No escapism. We may still have addictions of all kinds, but we cease to believe in them as gateways to happiness. So many times we've indulged the short-term pleasure of addiction. We've done it so many times that we know grasping at this hope is a source of misery that makes short-term pleasure a long-term hell.
             "Giving up hope is encouragement to stick with yourself, to make friends with yourself, to return to the bare bones, no matter what's going on. Fear of death is the background of the whole thing. It's why we feel restless, why we panic, why there's anxiety. But if we totally experience hopelessness, giving up all hope of alternatives to the present moment, we can have a joyful relationship with our lives, an honest, direct relationship, one that no longer ignores the reality of impermanence and death." 
                                             (Chodron, 1997)


Impermanence.
That's so hard for me--for us all. Belief in hopelessness--not depression about, but BELIEF in it--that there is nothing "better" to hope for; to be present, fully, in the reality around  us--remembering to always strive to do and be our kindest, most compassionate, awake-self while doing so--and to experience exactly what is happening. All the terror; the pain; the tragedy--to breathe it in and to send out compassion and mindfulness into the maelstrom. To accept that this, too, shall pass.(Every wise book re-iterates this message, have you noticed?)


Buddhist teaching isn't about "non-theism" vs "theism".  Even Chodron writes that the difference between theism and non-theism is not about whether one believes in God. It is about believing that there is some great Babysitter that will see us and appreciate us if we just do the right things, say the right things, and give up our responsibilities to something outside ourselves. Non-theism, she tells us, is about "relaxing with the ambiguity and uncertainty of the present moment without reaching for anything to protect us".


 ( I guess she means reaching for something/someone to protect us from the fear, the loss, the emotional pain of the death of the loved one.) I guess she means to sit tight; don't push it away; open to it; breathe it in; feel it; examine it; breathe out compassion to those left behind--including ourselves...not so easy.


Learning that I could still respect "God" and relax with my gut-feeling that there is A Universal Creator, while also following a philosophy that points to taking responsibility for my own actions, minute by minute, (and then, conversely, makes me aware that I cannot hold on to the results of those actions), has blown me away, several times. It has also made me aware that I have no excuses; continuing this practice, this study, this life, is absolutely something I have to do. I must act from mindfulness in every moment; act from compassion and kindness in every situation; but also, not beat myself up if I fail.


 Acknowledge. Confess. Refrain. Let go. Breathe. Always.


In this light, I send my prayers, energy and love to Mr. McKean's family and friends. I feel their loss and their sorrow.(I see it in the eyes of my parents--especially my Dad.) I know this is a marker for both of my parents in their own struggle with impermanence. This affects my entire familia in so many ways.


You were a good man, a welcoming neighbor, a great friend, Charlie. Find your way to the Light and Peace.


(May I be as brave.)


Namaste.     

IF YOU CAN PRACTICE, EVEN WHEN...

"if you can practice, even when distracted, you are well trained." 
                                                                              Lojong training slogan for today.


Yesterday: Mom goes into bathroom. Mom comes out hysterical. "The toilet's broken, again!"
She rushes downstairs, screaming, to my walker-bound father, who is watching an early football game on the t.v.


(It is the day after Christmas. For two weeks, there have been countless guests in and out of our house; some relatives; some friends; some staying for longer than a few hours. All have used the fifty-year old toilet we grew up with--the only toilet in this large house.)


"You should have let the kids buy a new toilet, like they wanted to do, Jim! You are so stubborn!" Bev's yelling comes clearly into my consciousness, through my closed door, up the stairwell even as she continues her tirade.


(I, too, have used this toilet, often. I, too, have contributed to this broken handle. I, too, have offered to help pay for a new toilet, several times. I, too, am frustrated by the increasing "control" issues these aging parentals exert on anything around them--especially the lives of their children AND mundane, household issues. I understand the "why", but it does not lessen the manic impact. Now, Jim, who remains seated in his special recliner most of his waking hours, because his balance is off, and his arthritic back, spine and legs don't want to hold him up, anymore, struggles to stand, find his walker, and come UP the stairs. HE WILL FIX THE TOILET!)


"It's the damned handle, again. The plumber told me that if it breaks one more time we will have to buy a new one! " Bev is still screaming. She follows behind Dad, up the stairs, bumping into him and causing him to begin to respond, angrily, back at her.


(As all of us who have rented apartments know, the chain on the inner lever of the toilet tank often comes loose or rusts off, etc. and must be replaced. No big deal. This happens at least once a month at our home, because Jim "gerry-rigs" from the most absurd bits and pieces of his "junk metal collection" down cellar. Whereas a simple chain link would suffice, and could be easily bought at the local hardware store (or Wal-Mart...) for coins, he insists on going through every piece of scrap metal he has hoarded and sorted, and chooses a ball chain.


This is the single worst choice to try to wrap a paperclip or piece of wire around and re-attach to the lever, inside the tank. His hands are palsied; he won't put on his reading glasses to see up close, and can't get the wire wrapped between the miniscule balls that make up the chain; when we stand behind him, so he won't lose his balance between the front of the toilet and the sliding glass doors of the shower, he gets furious. When he asks for one of us to hold the flashlight over the tank, he bangs his head, innumerable times, against it, as he crookedly straightens up, and then lets loose with gusts of internal flatulence--whether on purpose or by accident, one can't be sure. Finally, between Bev screaming that he will kill himself ,and his yelling at me because I am trying to do what he cannot (winding the wire between the little balls on the chain and then threading the wire through the miniscule holes on the lever), I get angry. I tell him he is a "Crabby old man and if he doesn't want my help then he can do it alone...period."


I leave him, standing over the tank, bent and swearing. Bev stomps into her own room, cursing too. Jim, ever obstinate, and now, with "a job to do", grunts and mutters and continues to work, alone. In my bedroom, I try to go back to reading, but am listening for his yelp and thud. I am also waiting for the sound of broken glass shower doors, or a broken porcelain toilet bowl...


When my brother and niece arrive, by sheer chance, five minutes later, he will allow ONLY my brother to assist him. They remain in the toilet for another hour, because Dad demands overseeing the operation with the chain--and my brother is dealing with his own eye issues. (It is the myopic leading the Cyclops...)


Another sister arrives with the dog. Dad yells at her, because she comes upstairs and begins reminding him of the fact that we wanted to buy them another toilet and he ordered us not to--bad timing on her part. She, too, is banished from the bath.  Mom, sister, niece, dog and I go downstairs, all of us alert that an ER visit may be imminent--for either Kev or Dad. A 911 ambulance may need to be summoned, as it has been, often, in the last year, precisely because of these kinds of silly situations where no control can be given up on either side.


Screaming is the first response--usually initiated by a hysterical mother insuring she is "the warning system"--and the utmost urgency is given to whatever mundane appliance breakdown or common chore immediacy has been deigned "CRITICAL" by either parent. This applies to snow removal; trash take-out and removal; dishwashers; dryers; flooding basements from snow-melt or rainstorm; toilets; bathroom drains, etc. Whatever small tempest arises, it becomes a Tsunami, with untold layers of melodrama.)


When Kevin finally attaches the chain to the lever, and talks Dad back downstairs, Brenda and Mer and the dog distract  Beverly with holiday gossip and on-going weekend plans. I can retreat to my books and writing.


However, now I am upset; still stinging from the sharp words and early screaming, when all I was trying to do was allow Dad the fantasy of his being able to fix the toilet, alone, while "assisting".(He did not speak to my brother that way.) What if my brother had not shown up at that moment? Dad would not allow me to work on the toilet and would not leave the bathroom until it was fixed. He would not allow Bev to call the plumber.


Dad doesn't 'get' that when he endangers himself in these situations, thinking he's solving a problem and damned anyone who tells him not to do it, he also engages everyone, every single one of us, in the drama. He doesn't care if he hits his head again, or has another seizure, or becomes stroked out, or dead.


"Bury me in the backyard" is his ongoing joke. However, it isn't easy as that. It isn't clean and clear cut. It's hospital trips every day, twice a day, with Bev, and multi phone calls to all the rest of the family, and doctor interventions, and rehab and driving and arguing about driving and who went the most to visit and who stayed the longest and who can miss work to get them up and back and who is the best child and the guilt of never doing enough and doing it right or correctly or with perfect attitude. It is a lifetime of being raised to believe "we are not enough"--inside, or outside, ourselves.


It is Dad sitting up in a hospital bed, with tubes and machines and nurses surrounding him, and a slack johnny and his white and blue and mottled Irish skin exposed in ways we don't need to see, grinning, like he's on vacation. (Maybe he is.)


I get it.
Hourly.
The control and power these people have exerted on their families, and in their communities, is waning. (Even their beloved Catholic Church has shut its doors, thanks to the Bishop, when they need the support, most.) So, they retaliate, in their way. They cling, even if they fight, to each other. They cling, even as they spout horrible things, and later insist,"Well, you should know, we don't really mean it, you're too sensitive", etc.

This tempest in- an- eight- room- teapot burns my spirit and boils my soul--especially because-- I lose it, too.


When this is pointed out to me, often, by a sibling: "I thought you were so Buddhist--so peace-loving! Hah!",  it is particularly painful.  It is true. I have lost it. Even as I try to work out issues of self and self-deceit; of impatience (still) and harshness and anger.


The mirror up to the face, and the snide comments in the midst of vulnerability one is already feeling guilty about, is almost too much.


Then, I realize: this is one of those "ghosts". 


This is the "don". The thing that wakes you up. The thing that keeps you mindful.
Admit. Confess. Refrain. (Begin again.)


Forgive everyone, including yourself.

Realize: you have much to attend to.
Then, "let it be".
 Sit down.
Breathe in.
 Breathe out.
Thank the protectors and the ghosts for pointing out these places in need of investigation, still, inside you.
Breathe and let them go.
Sit and let them rise.
Do not push them down.
Do not obsess about your failure.
Let them visit for as long as they need to.
See them, understand them for what they are.
Let them be.


The parents will continue to put themselves at risk. The siblings will continue to show up, and to help where they can, and to criticize when they can't. The nieces will avoid all confrontations and fall back to their I-Phones. Everyone will do what they have always done and what they feel compelled to do.


Mindfulness is realizing: you are in this alone.


Mindfulness is realizing: you have a choice.          

FEEDING THE GHOSTS

Another "dangerous time of year"...Solstice and Christ's Birth and sometimes the high holy days of other cultures, too...so many sensuous memories...so many regrets and failed hopes and sadness, ...all coming at us as the light moves into darkness. Even if it is a dream, it is a bit of a scary dream, isn't it?




In a long Buddhist slogan-teaching-phrase--there is a multi-pronged approach to overcoming resistance. I'm not going to break it down, here, because I've only begun to wrestle with it in my own life. However, one tiny part has jumped out from the text and moved onto my lap. It is about "feeding the ghosts".




It suggest that, like the holy man, Milarepa, in the old days, whose cave was filled with demons, it is only when we befriend the frightening ones and invite them to stay as long as they desire, do they, in fact, disappear. Fastest way to clear out the ghosts is to actually put out a tasty bite for them to gnosh--a bit of cake.(Real cake.) Along with an incantation: take this cake and make yourself at home, because you are truly welcomed. You show me what I'm most likely to avoid. You wake me up, even when I don't want to be awoken. For that, I am grateful. Manga!




I suppose, as I study this new set of tools, I will come upon more subtle ways to deal with my obstacles and resistance. However, in this particular season,(especially as I find myself a grown woman with a past, confined to a childhood bedroom surrounded by a dying present, faced with an unknown future,and few who actually know me, deeply, or even care to), the ghosts rise up in a multitude, invading both waking thoughts and dreams. (Ghosts of Christmas past; Ghosts of Christmas future?)  They all look and sound the same: mostly in the guise of lost lovers and friends; people once so intimate that their passing out of everyday time seemed an impossibility--and yet--they are gone; disappeared; untrackable. Only returning as these whispering memories and unfinished tales.  (Brrrrr.)




So now, I am going out for cake. I will begin to put it out, everyday. (Just tiny ones.) Just bites.(Ring Ding Juniors? Hostess cupcakes?) All with the incantation attached: for my Ghosts; may you actually come by; may you make yourself comfortable and known, finally; up front and visible. Even if I'm intimidated, I am thankful for your visitation.




Amen.  

BABYSTEPS

The first step, the "babystep", in the seven "steps" of mind training, is the basic preliminaries. The actual sitting one's butt down; slowing everything down; breathing, gently; mindfully.  Allowing whatever is going to arise from the muddy bottom of consciousness to float to the surface. See it; own it; examine it; know it is only a memory. A dream thing. Touch it lightly and then: let it go.




Identify these "dreams" as memories; as thinking; as constructs of the mind. Nothing really is real. All dharma is a dream: even the dreams are dreams! (Wowza!!!) Don't let that knock you off your cushion--just breathe in the thought: "Thinking."  Then, breathe out the thought: "Letting go."


A light touch of a feather on  your breath--an image Pema Chodron, Buddhist nun/scholar, offers--works quite beautifully.




No big deal.
If it feels like a Big Deal, breathe it in. Examine it. Welcome it. Breathe it out as "memory" and let it go. No judgment on how  you did or where you will next progress to...no bullying of self (or others). No comparisons. No black dots to denote failure and no gold stars, either.
No big deal. Seriously.



Just sitting. Just breathing. Just compassion for everything--including Oneself.


Namaste.  

LIGHTEN UP...

Sure, things are falling apart. Right. Everyone is more than a wee bit angry; tired; disgusted; stuffed with blame/guilt/stress. For sure. Even as we give thanks for what we've got in the West, we are out there, scrounging for more. Okay. It's true. We can admit it. We can beat our drums, our chests, our heads but the answer might be a lot less pain-inducing.


Lighten up.
With yourself. (Myself.) In our quest for answers. In our meditation practice. In our prayers. Even in our  yearnings and our demands: be gentler. With ourselves. With everyone else. Seriously gentler.
In all regards and situations.


In our lives.


Amid the slogans I am exploring, the next suggestion is to, "Examine the nature of unborn awareness."Pema Chodron, Buddhist nun and sage, suggests this is to "pull the rug out" from under our immediate-fulfillment, entitled selves. (Well, maybe I've paraphrased a bit, but you can see where I'm going.) The moment we get self-satisfied, and all puffed-up with "Enlightenment Lite", or "figuring it out", (for some of us, that can come as early as reading one, thin, twenty-first century volume, on how to attain spiritual awakening...or attending one "life-changing put-it-on-the-credit-card self-help weekend")--it's precisely then that we have lost the point.


IT AIN'T ABOUT FIGURING ANYTHING OUT.


(O boy, this Buddhist stuff is tricky...)


It seems that the point is: the examination of everything, up close and personal.


Examine is the operative word. Including, the examination of the Examiner. (Whoa!)


Examination of the Examiner's smug assertions that, "I've figured it out", or, " Now I'm fixed!"


 See, according to the Enlightened Masters and all the sages and saints who struggled with these ideas from time immemorial, basically, there's nothing to figure out. There's nothing to fix. There's just ...nothing.


Everything around us is ephemeral. Unreal. A shadow of a dream and the dreamer is part of the illusion. (Whoa, again!!)


The more it is examined, via our meditation, the more intense it becomes. However, it is not intensity, at all. It is illusory. It is passing memory. It is a paradox, and, as such, it can't be held down.


(So, why even study these lessons of light and shadow?  Why even sit and meditate and breathe and ponder our entire existence, if everything comes to naught?)


Because, when we lose, not only the solid ground and the rug beneath our feet, but also THE NEED for that solidity, we are on our way to freedom. We are closer to the things that terrify us. Becoming closer and embracing "the  monsters", we are promised that, we will no longer be ruled by that terror.
(Whoohoo!)


So, again, the paradox: we must lighten up. But we must take every detail into account and examine everything. (Terror is not real and should not be pushed away. Yet, it has a capacity to make us miserable and afraid. But the way through it, is to confront it, and finally, to make friends with it.)


How?


By sitting. Being silent. Breathing. Allowing everything we have experienced, and are made of, to come up, and then, letting it go. Lightly. Softly. Gently. (Blessing even the darkest shadows for what they hold and what we don't, yet, understand.) Accepting all of it, with the realization that we will never, fully understand, and that's okay. (As long as we practice compassion and kindness in the midst of this epiphany of insecurity.) It's just what it is.


We can live with it.


  

PUT ALL BLAMES INTO ONE

In these times, as children all around us are murdered; as adults plead  and plot and plan to destroy "the others" that cause their pain; as we leach the planet's blood; burning our collective destiny in the process; as even the light from the stars is hidden by the commercial tinsel halogen false promises of the vendors who pile their plastic wares around our hearts; so many voices cry out, cry past, cry so deeply we  have to put in earbuds just to walk around...there is no room for silence.


Yet, that is exactly what is necessary.


For a moment. For a breath. For a heart's battered beat.


To understand that, when we put all our blames into one scream, it becomes the bomb that shatters the world. And so, just for a nanosecond (at first),perhaps we must put down the rabid dog of blame and feel the collective pain.


We have to, perhaps, own our own grief and own our own responsibility and own our own forgiveness.


 Our own healing. A moment of quiet; of breath.


Even as we admit our culpability in institutions rising around us that have never been for our good. In sins of the flesh; in omissions of truth; in false pride; in greed; in grasping; in letting the suffering of others rush past because it's just too hard; too pain-filled; too much to consider. (Especially because we are all so hungry; deep down. Even the so-called privileged: famished.)Grasping. Gasping for a life which touches the Wounded Child in us all. To actually acknowledge "the others" while we ache in ourselves becomes impossible. So, we turn and strike out and hate...but what if we just stopped, cold? Stopped the analysis and the politics and the emptiness and took that moment to look, inside.


We must not destroy another thing.(If everything is connected.) We must not kill another being. (If all life is sacred. Powerful. A reflection of the Creator.) No matter how heinous or irritating or down-right miserable that person walking next to us is, we have to see OURSELF, reflected. Then, we have to forgive and become better. Not just in touch with our anger. Not just furious with "the other". Not just political, but truly spiritual. Changing the whole self, inside, one breath at a time.


All over this planet, there are people dying. Being killed for all the wrong reasons. Hating and bombing and shattering and hurting and starving and so it has always been. But, maybe, if we learn to stop. (Just for a nanosecond.) See our own tender spots. Breathe. Own our own sins; not shirk from that terrible recognition; and be silent. (Touch down.) Reach for the next person's hands...not in terror. Not in disgust. Not in payback or blame...but in asking for help. (Please.) What if we took a single moment to ask...ourselves and each other?


What would the answers be, then?

IT'S BEEN A WHILE...

I'm not talking about sex, here. I'm not crowing about sobriety. I'm not even ranting about what the Bishop is doing to Gardner, Massachusetts by single-handedly closing down Sacred Heart Church and St. Joseph's...and screwing over the last generation of people who supported, carried on, believed in and stood loyal to these institutions--even when people from other parishes didn't do the same. No, I am not going to lose myself in things that I have given over to a Higher Power. I'm going to write about writing.


Two weeks ago, I thought I wouldn't be writing, again, for anyone. A scary brush with mortality, accompanied by massive bleeding and not a wee bit of pain, had me almost convinced that whatever I've already put down--published and not--would be what the world remembered about my life--if the world cared to remember. Surprisingly, there was a calm about this that came over me like an umbrella. I wasn't afraid. O, I was in pain and I was uncomfortable and I was embarrassed at the mess and the fuss and that even as I tried to deal with the ER situation on my own, in the end, my friends and family arrived (thank you!), however, I was never fearful.


I guess, partly this is because so many people I've known, up close and personal, have passed. I grew up with extended family--many of them as Great Uncles and Aunties--most of them very old. I also became close to many "elders" as I went through college. Becoming friends with people in their later years is like buying a dog...you know, however intense the connection, it will be short-lived. Those relationships prepared me, somewhat, for the AIDS massacre, which I witnessed, first hand and up close, in L.A., working with street prostitutes and teen runaways, from 1978 on. None of us emerged unscarred from those times. All of us emerged humbled...and just a little bit "removed" from taking anything too seriously.


As I watch my parents' supply of friends and older family dwindle, each day brings another phone call or newspaper obit. Death dances outside on the lawn; in the falling leaves; in the rattling bushes. I make long agreements with the "invisibles" around me: don't appear to me, please. I believe in you. I speak of you with respect. Someday, I will join you. For now, though, stay back. Trust you were loved and stay back, please.


In the ER, I was ready for the cancer statement. I was also ready to finish bleeding out. It occurred to me: I have no children who need me. I have no partner who is clinging to my bed. It seems my family can get along fine, without me, most of the time. The new dog has found a forever home with both of my sisters. I have published three novels; I have been anthologized; I have short stories in collections and poetry on at least three continents. My paintings are in private collections all over the world. Now, because of alien (smile) technology, my blog is streaming through the Universe, for better or worse. I have loved and been loved and feel loved, still. Nothing I have ever done has amounted to treasure; no riches; really, no savings, either. My only legacy are the words I've accumulated; the stories I've told. (Okay, maybe the stories I've lived...hah!) So, whatever comes, I'm ready. As ready as anyone I've met.


Of course, when we avoid a bullet, the shock of that experience makes us re-think everything. My sister Ann was furious when she found out I had signed a "do not resuscitate" form. I had to re-think that, perhaps, just maybe, it would be inconvenient if I croaked, after all...hmmm...Then, I had to think about writing: what was left to say? What arguments to illuminate? What great battles and romances still to explore? Was the final tally of three published novels enough? Have I been too easy on myself? The very thing I throw at my students, in High School...was I not living up to the challenges I've been given? It isn't about publishing. It IS about writing. So, was I throwing in the towel because part of me forgets this axiom? Have I given in to the demons of jealousy and envy: the publishing monsters who are not really interested in the kinds of warped visions and skewed analysis I bring to the table?


I didn't die, two weeks ago. Didn't even have cancer. Did have an emergency that necessitated surgery and the surgery was successful. Went back to Gardner High School, last week, walking like a drunk cowboy, but walking and managing to last each day, to the end. This week will be even better. As I finished up with the week, one of my students approached me, after school. She waited till all the other kids had left the classroom. She had a request:  "Ms. Minns, my Dad is dying of liver cancer...he wants me to write his...what do you call it?  Memorial...or whatever it's called. I can't do it, alone. Will you please help me?"


There are reasons we come back. They have nothing to do with glory nor monetary rewards nor lasting fame...Our gifts are to be of service...to each other.


Namaste.           

WALLOWING

When I was little and a family "tease" got too hard, I would run away, to be alone. As a result, I was often accused of "being too sensitive". I was ordered to "suck it up" and to "stop crying for yourself". My recourse was to head out to the woods, to be among the birds and trees, to cry for myself, since it was clear no one else would ever cry for me. Sometimes, these days, returned to the original "set" of my childhood, I feel that same lump rising in my throat.


Parents who had little parenthood training often use their first child as a crash-test dummy. Like all dummies, we are supposed to take the hits and remain silent. Hopefully, something will be learned from the "accidents". My siblings will tell you that little was culled. Except, perhaps, that there is a fierceness and a damming up of true feelings, lest they reveal weakness. Weakness displayed, in my family, is the worst sin one can uncover to the world. These kinds of parents often believe that their children are extensions of themselves--including their own fears and mistakes. While they may not be able to control their own lives, they will control their children...So, the children are not allowed to be emotional; weak; failures.


It has taken me decades to deal with suppressed anger. It has taken me longer to deal with the shrapnel of when that anger exploded. Imagine my surprise when, now back on the set of so much of that childhood drama, I come across the Lojong phrase:  don't wallow in self-pity. Does this mean that now, instead of elders in my family telling me to "suck it up" and "don't be so sensitive or moody" it is now the Universe pointing a finger and laughing? I don't think so.


I believe it means that, as with everything, I must not shy away from analyzing this aspect of my life.  I must watch my childhood self go through its hurts and misunderstandings. I must watch my parents judging, misjudging and re-judging my life, in fear that someone might judge THEM because of who I am. I must accept the fact that my parents never will truly want to know where I have been, what I have done nor who I can be--at least not on any stage where they are not also present. For them, the only act is the one they are starring in, or so it seems to me. It is as if I didn't exist when I was out of their sight.I went away for a lifetime, out of their control. I had to do this in order to see them from a distance; to heal my own wounded heart; to realize I am not an extension of anybody.(I am connected to, but not an extension of...hmmm. Interesting complication, eh?) Uncovering this fact, I find that perhaps returning to the primal scene is not as easy, nor as clean, as I'd hoped it would be. The messy work of being present; being open, is tough.


So, I may cry for that little kid in the woods, alone, who felt no one would ever feel her pain, nor  take her seriously enough to validate that pain, let alone help her alleviate it. I may dissolve the lump of anger, instead of swallowing it. I may continue to experience my parents as separate identities who are learning their own lessons and try to learn along with them.(It doesn't have to be what it once was because I am carrying new tools, with new skills on how to use them.) I am choosing not to wallow in self-pity because I have been given gifts of  strength--given great teachers who have shown me other paths. I have been gifted with people who  take notice of who I really am--who value that insight--who bear witness to the pain--who accept a reciprocal caring. Now, it is time to use gentle mindfulness-- on myself; no matter what has occurred.   

AMBUSHED!

Coming from a past that included people always smiling in public, private life was often scary. One never knew, moment to moment, what unknown (or unrealized) "sin" might be dredged up and force-fed to one. Perhaps these emotional ambushes were meant as "teaching moments"?  (What they taught was "Be careful with your heart."..."Don't trust anyone, completely."...) Perhaps they were meant as discipline. ("Suck it up, Baby!" "Toughen up! Don't be so soft!" ) Or, perhaps, they were simply the bad habit people may acquire, of waiting in ambush.


Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron, suggests that the Lojong slogan, "Don't wait in ambush", is a "naked truth" teaching. It reaches into our hidden psychic corners and rips us out into the light. (The only way to deal with darkness.) She goes on to point out that waiting for the "right moment" to lay some heavy trip on someone, or spring negative criticism on them, isn't the way of the warrior.  It is a cowardly action. Holding back gossip ,or even witnessed mistakes, until you are in a place of anger, THEN hurling them into the open, like knives, doesn't make anyone "better". You aren't using ammunition to win an argument. You aren't "fighting fairly". You aren't even communicating--except, perhaps, hatred. Smiling and keeping silent, until the exact moment when you want to mortally wound a friend, because of an upset in your own heart, isn't about "control".In a parenting situation, it isn't about "discipline", either. It is about lashing out; getting even using the Big Ace Up The Sleeve. It is a destructive activity. All parties come away wounded--perhaps even mortally so.




There have been times when I was happily sharing space, conversation, activity with a loved one. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a smile became the mask of shaming. Issues long ago resolved (or believed to be resolved) came hurtling to the forefront. Past history was unrolled like a soiled carpet. Itemized "mistakes" and "wrong doings" were enumerated faster than I could blink! Where had so much stored vitriol come from? (Was I really that unconscious or horrible? How had I caused this hate to build up, like pus, inside a closed wound?) I would usually flee the scene, throwing back some comments of my own in my wake. I would retreat, trying to recover, trying to understand. Even after, when things had calmed and it was possible to return, to talk "rationally", something was changed: inside me. I could forgive the thunderstorm, but never forget, never fully trust that person, again.




Today, I am unearthing tools to open my heart. I am working on healing all the tender spots--using what remains "sore", as lessons--into myself. I take responsibility for my own "thunderstorms" of the past, and try to clear out the dark corners of my psyche, so I don't hide, waiting in ambush, for anyone, either.


We become what we experience. Understanding that, working on repairing that flawed knowledge, this is what Lojong and Tonglen practice is teaching me.


Namaste.


 

DON'T VACILLATE

Vacillate means to waver; to sway; to be undecided.  In the world, I tend to see myself as pretty straight forward when action needs to be taken. Most often, if I'd hesitated just a bit longer and thought about the issue, before jumping in, I might have saved myself some pain--or, at least, some painful memories.

Most recently, an "ex" contacted me after thirty-years and wanted to know if I'd consider meeting up, outside of Boston, now that I'm "back in New England". Getting together could have meant any number of things. As the "ex" is in a long-term committed relationship, I doubted it involved romantic re-enactments; however, one never knows for sure, as I've come to discover. Meeting up could simply be a face-to-face shouting match, as we never ended with a peaceful parting. (Older now, but how much more wise?  I wonder...) Re-connection could be a couple of hours of tooting- of- horns: "See, this is what I've accomplished over the years--I didn't turn out to be the flake you always accused me of !"  Or, " I have been here, there, everywhere and own this, that, and other things--what have YOU got/done/created?" (Maybe not so negative. Maybe a humble re-affirmation and apology on both sides--for past sins and past hurts--even past joys?) A request for a loan? A shoulder to cry upon? An invitation to parts unknown, or connections to shared friends? Coffee?  Brunch?Dinner? An opening? A reading? An event? The meeting of a new family? A new spouse? The answer to a burning question? An unfinished mystery? A simple curiousity? The comparing of age spots, wrinkles, ailments? Lost dreams? Found definitions? Or, the need for new story lines?


Given all the dramarama in my swirling imagination, coupled with the welling emotions that came up when I found the invitation posted on my Facebook page, I needed to sit with this. I needed to contemplate; meditate; process, pray and reflect upon not only the invite, but also my heart's response to seeing the name and words after so many decades of silence.


So, that was my response: I need to sit with this.


(Was this "vacillation"?)


Not in the Buddhist sense.
Vacillation is letting the everyday waves of existence unseat one, causing consternation, paralysis, fear and upset to reign.


I know what to do with memories of pleasure.
I know what to do with ghosts of pain.
I know what to do with conflicting emotions and uncomfortable thoughts.


Breathe in. Breathe out. Bless with pleasure; sending out Light and Hope and Spiritual Love. Give it away, freely.


With fear of pain, it is almost the same: Breathe in. Breathe out. Sucking away all the nasty sides and transforming them, making friends with them, understanding and using them as tools. Let go. Don't hold on. Don't waver in this commitment to exploration and understanding.


(So, I needed to sit with a response before taking ANY action...)


It took two days.
My friend could not wait. The retort was, that I was correct in my hesitation. The answer was that(without my reply yet made), perhaps not meeting was the correct path.


Hmmm.


Breathe in.
Whatever arises.
 Keep the heart open.
Know that the entire picture may not be presently clear.
Breathe out a blessing.
Wish for others, whomever they are, (whatever the external circumstances), happiness.


That's it. That's all.     

EVEN IF YOU HAVE A COW...

Lojong slogan of the week: "Don't transfer the ox's load to the cow".


More than trying to duck work, I think this radically enters our emotional life. (At least that is how it translates into my life.)We must own our own "stuff". If we are pissed off, we have to admit it to ourselves and deal with the feelings--or the situation, if the situation can be dealt with in a compassionate way. If we are dreading a meeting or feeling that we must spend time with people who drain us or must attend an event because it is "expected" that we do so, I think we have to own the negative emotions swirling around these situations, and examine them. (Why do I dread this so much? What about this person drains me? Why do I dislike attending this meeting?)


So often it becomes "the cow's burden". That is, instead of exploring our own emotions, we (I) push them off--onto "the cow"-- and treat people poorly when it is not the people, but the situation I hate.
I also feel this coming from people around me, at times. (And if everyone at the meeting, or the mandatory dinner, or the bad performance, is feeling this way, it can become a veritable nightmare.)


 Anger, pettiness, jealousy, lousy comments, mean-spirited judgments, (even fighting) breaks out. (Or is this just a "tribal" thing?) People leave, vowing not to return, not to make further connections, not to work, again, with this individual. Or, they (we) spend the rest of the evening altering our consciousness, and becoming snarky about the rest of the "attendees". (Not a pretty sight at any time.)
What often gets "passed off" as entertaining quips, or sophisticated insight, may only be unexamined hostility hosed down by a few cocktails.


Putting our ox-load of emotional baggage on the back of the cow, instead of unloading, unpacking and maybe even discarding the contents, is what the Lojong phrase implies. (Or so I feel.)
Of course, if you are one of those people who constantly tries to delegate everything away from yourself, perhaps you do need to take the phrase literally...


We unpack the emotional baggage via meditation. Instead of pushing it down or pretending it isn't at the core of upset, we bring it out, into the light. Examining it; owning it; naming it; dealing with it, is allowing "the ox" to carry the load.


Besides, the ox is the stronger animal. A cow is easily broken when used as a beast of burden... Nobody wants a broken cow.  

DON'T TALK ABOUT INJURED LIMBS

At first glance, this seemed to be a Buddhist saying about not complaining when we are wounded. (Somehow, being stoic after an amputation is rather severe, if you ask me...) Further investigation revealed a more everyday piece of advice: if someone has a blemish, don't bring it up. Not in public; not around the coffee maker; not in casual conversation. Don't discuss the "defects" of others. Period.


You know how that one goes--over lunch a friend drops the line about Susie's bad haircut--which opens the door to remarks about how Susie ALWAYS has bad hair--which leads to the fact that Susie's make-up needs an overhaul, as well--not to mention her choice of accessories! Pretty soon it's Susie who is the main course, not the chopped salad. An "injured limb" can be any sort of "minus" we perceive another person possessing. Questionable taste; a dull sense of humor; offensive breath; lousy dance moves--you name it. (Or rather, you DON'T name it.) People have enough lack of self esteem, they don't need others to pick at them.


The Buddhist scholar-nun, Pema Chodron, takes it one step deeper. She suggests we also meditate on our sideways remarks -- those little barbs that point out the "injured limbs", but not so sharply as to bring down criticism on our own heads. ( "God, Minns, that was a catty remark!") Some of us have distilled this practice into a fine liqueur, refusing to acknowledge what we are really cultivating.


Meditation, especially Insight Meditation, aids in getting to the core of our actions--the honest appraisal of our deeds is a way to great peace and Enlightenment. Of course it's scary. Of course it's embarrassing. Acknowledging, owning, repairing our mindlessness is lifetime work. Yet, if we are to become truly kind, it is seminal work.  

PAY IT FORWARD...SOMETIME

It seems I may finally have a job--beginning in the fall. Most of the jobs I've ever landed have started in autumn. Perhaps it is because I come from a county that is famous for it's late-year colors. From the orange of pumpkins still in the fields, to azure skies and fiery foliage, New England is the poster child of this coming season. Even the sea takes on a particular green, more moldavite or tourmaline than emerald. These raging hues still spin my brain, no matter where I find myself in September. The result is a restlessness and a focus that seems to manifest in finally beginning new chapters of my life. Often, that has meant a new job. So, too, after a hiatus of  these many months, I believe the journey will once again lift off. (Please and thank-you Great Spirit. Amen.)


Of course, realizing this, I tore into my "seven boxes". (All that remains of my past life in California...). What might be utilized? Which books? Any posters? Any art supplies? (Do I still have "professional shoes", or clothes that mark me as more than just a passing "sub" in the lives of students?) What haven't I already cannibalized?


When I first arrived, nothing I owned was appropriate for winter. As no one in my family is the same size nor shape (let alone having similar tastes), I was relegated to thrift stores and holiday sweaters no one would wear. Luckily, my taste for leather blazers allowed a rolling wardrobe for the sparse substitute jobs I landed. (I had stuffed five of them into one of the seven boxes, unwilling to leave those hard-earned items on the West Coast.) I'm sure I resembled some sort of outlander: leather and turtlenecks one day, the next with a reindeer and Santa sweater. Any "extra dough" I earned usually went into the rusting Subaru or shoes. (Still haven't mastered my "sneaker jones"...)


My family and friends were kind these last twenty-plus months. I am well-fed (as always); I have gas in the car to get where I need to go; people offer rides when I need to go farther. There is a clean bed; a roof that does not leak; air-conditioning in the hottest months. Still, an unkemptness follows like Pig-Pen's "cloud". My spikey hair does need upkeep. I like to smell like a girl. My glasses were five years old and my eyesight had changed several times, already. My sister's cast-off boots were too small and my brother's hand-me-down gloves were too big. So, I bundled my head in beanies and scarves and stuck my red hands in my pockets. Sneakers, I found, do have some traction in the snow.


My students, even those I tutored (and their families) didn't mind. In shredded jeans and hi-tops, I'd arrive at their homes, Shakespeare under my arm, a cup of coffee in my hand. (Friends and family were also generous with Dunkin Donuts gift certificates--which got me through two of the worst winters of my life!) The issue seemed to be resolved by my ragtag appearance: this teacher isn't going to judge us; all she cares about is teaching. So, in a very roundabout way, the Universe carved a niche for me, knocking any false pride I might have clung to right out of my grasp.


Now, the end of summer is in the air. You can smell it, here. Something in the ground and trees. The way the pine needles show silver edges in the wind. August and already, the last of the corn has come in. A few leaves are browning. The sun is fierce, for sure, when it arrives. But more days are clouded. Deep into the night, there is a beginning chill. I know autumn is on the approach. It makes me shiver with quiet excitement. Like the kids beginning to realize a new year is upon them, I both worry and welcome the challenge.


Going through the boxes, again, there is nothing unexplored. My first day of school will be met with worn clothes and sneakers scuffed. Thank God I love black. The formality will be intact. The mystery. Something to dangle in front of the imagination of my new class. I will pick my favorite summer night outfit and those neon green agro-soled "kicks". I have updated glasses, finally, and will see everyone clearly--as I hope they will see me. In a month, I can start rebuilding my life, here. Payback old debts. Pay up new ones. Save for my own continuing education--and a newer car to get there. And then...clothes that may be just a bit less faded; a bit less rumpled or worn.


As I resolve to make the best of this, I go down to breakfast. On the table is an envelope with my name on it. I assume it's from my sister, who has fled to Maine, with the niece and the dog, for vacation. (My "allowance" is not in effect this week because there is no dog to care for...perhaps this is pity money, for gas?) I tear open the edge. I pull out a note: "Pay this forward...sometime."  Then, a hand-drawn heart, wrapped around one hundred dollars!


"I found it on the porch, when I went to put my flag out, " Dad says.
Mom knows nothing about it.
No one recognizes the printing, nor the envelope.
Clearly, it's not a family member.


A huge lump rises in my throat. Only a few friends realize I possibly have this new position--or that all of the money I earned this past school year has run dry--I'm totally busted--until my first paycheck--a month from now. Gas and bills have eaten my earnings away this summer. But I haven't really shared this with more than a few closest to me.


I have ideas who my angels are...
I also have ideas that to thank them, or confront them in a grateful manner, would embarrass them. They are the types of folks who believe any good deed should be done under cover of darkness with only God as a witness.
They delivered this amazingly generous gift in that deep night, even as I tossed and turned, worried, upstairs, in my bed.


I will have gas in the car to begin my school year. I will have school supplies in my briefcase. My hair will be kempt. I will smell like a girl. I will be, like most of my students, wearing an outfit that lets the world know I am ready for this new chapter--thanks to all of my angels; my family; my allies.


Rest assured: it will be paid forward. In your name. Soon.


Namaste.      

SEEKING OUT THE PAIN OF OTHERS

Mass bombings, vanishing children, lost or losing campaigns, the daily news, planetary pollution rates, continuing unemployment, religious wars--we don't have to look far to witness the agony of others. But what about those times when we actually seek out the pain of our neighbors? Rejoice in the suffering of ex-friends, lost lovers, rivals at work? What then?


There is a Buddhist teaching which suggest that we "Don't seek others' pain as limbs of our own happiness". 


Boom! Another direct hit in my third eye! Ouch.
How often have I slipped into that crevice? Smirking (inside), when someone I have a long grown "issue" with, falls down on their face? Someone who "did me wrong" gets a public flogging, or is caught in another duplicitous situation, exposing them for who I always knew they were? Hmmmm.
Or, even on a minor level, what about when I feel a tiny ripple of satisfaction when a family member is proven wrong about an issue we have argued over? Why does my heart allow such petty emotions? My own happiness is hardly pure when it is watered down with the bitter failure of another, and yet, I do find myself secretly responding.


Gossip is like this, too. How often have I found out a juicy "tidbit" about a long-ago rival, only to pass on the negative news, even if I haven't fully investigated the story? Why does the "fall-down" delight me? The person isn't currently in my life--has no effect on any outcome of any endeavor I'm invested in--probably never thinks of me at all. Yet, my mind is still "hung up" on a long-ago hurt. My pride won't allow me to budge--to let go or seek out a smoothing of that hurtful event. Why? Even as I abhor injustice, torture, inequality, racism, ageism, looksism, homophobia, etc. I still am tickled (inside) when someone who has sleighted me socially, doesn't get the new job, or the new posting, or the great review. I can mourn the death of a friend's child or a co-worker's beloved pet yet still delight when someone I haven't seen in a decade but who unfriended me, loses a bid for office.
Why am I so petty and yet so sincere at the same time?


Because I am human.
As a twenty-first century human, it is easy to be aware of global horror. It is upfront, illustrated, photographed, given a sound track and pushed into our face almost every second. Even if I don't want to look, every place I glance, the reality of suffering is there. However, the personal and petty dealings of my own past are locked away. I am taught there is no time to truly examine those pains. I hear that I should simply "push those past hurts out of your mind and focus on the positive, on the future, on building a better dream". That's the problem. It's all a dream. And if I want to wake up to the reality, I must deal, first, with those secret dark corners of my own heart. I have to be the one who chooses to turn on the lights.


I have to be willing to walk into the shadows of my own soul and find what I've tried to hide. If secretly delighting in others' pain in hopes of increasing my own happiness or self-worth is part of that discovery, then I guess I must own it. Dust it off. Pull it out of the corner and examine it in the middle of the room. Only by "understanding" what it is and where it came from can I ferret out why I have chosen to hold on to it. Why have I kept it secreted in the black void, at all?


I am a human being in this life. I am experiencing all that means. Owning my shadow-self and discovering what answers it holds for my complete understanding is part of this journey. All the slimey, slippery, ugly little bits hold clues--even as the glorious golden ones do. Accepting all and uncovering everything is the challenge.    

PONDERING OTHERS

Pondering others is a tough one for me.
I'm a writer. Most of my "character development" comes from the eternal internal dialogue I have. Going over past scenarios, memories, tragedies and accidents provides lots of "stuff" to write. Now, if I follow the lojong slogan path, I'm supposed to stop going over these scenarios in my mind. Hmmmm.


I think that I need to go deeper into this slogan. My gut reaction about not pondering others is that it truly means if we constantly access the "doings" of those around us, including and most importantly, those around us who give us a royal pain, then, of course, that leads to judgments that we have no right to make. In addition, it widens the split between us and "the others". It doesn't allow us the energy to put ourselves in their boots, even for a moment of contemplation. Instead, we waste precious energy in going over their "sins" and even, (mea culpa) attributing the commission of our own "sins" to their negative influence in our lives. (You know: "I lost my cool and shot the bird when this jerk in an Acura cut me off from the exit!!!!!!!"  Not: "Breathe. Send light and calm to the guy to make him a more attentive and courteous driver. Focus on how to get to the next exit in one piece, and make your appointment! Breathe.")


If I find myself contemplating a bad scene and attributing "reasons" to other people's actions, I probably should just sit with it and label it "thinking". Then, use it or let it go, but not get hung up on it nor let it affect me. This is tricky stuff, this sitting and breathing and letting go and blessing.
Hmmmm.


When I look at the wars in the world and listen to the debates from all sides, what emerges is this: NONE of us know what is really going on...seriously. There are forces all around us, encircling us, above and below and beyond, that we , in our human incarnation, just can't grasp. What we can do, however, is to understand this and to try to feel which debates get us going--make us really rabid and make us stop listening--or even begin to ponder the person taking "the other side". War is hated by all--except those making a profit from afar. (Afar being the operative word.) Put their family or themselves in the middle of a firefight and see if they still applaud battle! We all abhor war. We all fear pain. We all seek A LIFE well-lived--a life of respect, basic comfort, love. I'm going to try to concentrate my pondering on these facts.


The rest, I'll label: thinking.   

IDIOT COMPASSION

"We don't get wise by staying in a room with all the doors and windows closed."
                                                                                            Pema Chodron




Because I have a retinue (historical and sometimes hysterical) of passionate friends, even when we are all attempting to come from our pure heartspace, it can get loud. (Same with my family...I'm sure there is a reason I've chosen this stewpot...) When I first began to study Buddhism, I believed that "being quiet, being open to everything without critical thinking" was the route to Bodhisattvahood.
Wrong.


In the same way that running off into the woods and living in a closed-up cabin, cut off from the world and her people, doesn't get you anywhere (Thoreau and Buddha-before-enlightenment discovered this fact!), so, too, simply zoning out, ignoring conflict and bad behavior, gets you nowhere. (Always: The Middle Path.) Sometimes I think that that is where my frustration with lots of "New Age" workshops, literature, teachings and practices comes from: inaction around the tough stuff. Always "being nice" and "ignoring the negative" isn't an answer to anything.


A Buddhist nun friend of mine, in L.A., had just finished taking her vows. She had made the decision to shave her head and wear her robes, full-time, even as she continued working as a social services nurse at a clinic for at-risk teens. For her, this was a huge step--to come out of the closet, not only as a Buddhist, but as a full-fledged practicing nun! (Around teens whose world-view and educational experience didn't include much about Eastern religions nor philosophies.) Still, she took the chance. Surprisingly, it wasn't the kids who gave her grief, it was the mainstream, upper middle class "professionals", rushing around Los Angeles, throwing money at any situation they couldn't control to their own benefit, who gave her the most problems.


One day, after lunch, she returned to our agency, red-faced and huffing. She'd gone to the bank to make a deposit. A man wearing an Armani suit, imported sunglasses, and smelling like a boutique in Beverly Hills,blew past her (and all the other customers in line), actually elbowing my middle-aged nun friend out of his way. As people stood there, in shock, he tossed an explanation over his shoulder:
"I'm in a hurry--my Mercedes is in a red zone!".


In the long bank lines (those kind that look like Disneyland rides, with the ropes and posts making people snake along, waiting their turns till the next teller is available), everyone is frustrated, of course. Everyone is usually on their way to someplace else. I am always surprised at the basic civility most people express, as they wait their turn. This man was an anomaly, for sure. So, everyone was taken by surprise, and stood there, quietly muttering, but not saying anything to him, directly.
Then, my friend took action.


My friend walked up behind the man, as he began making demands of the teller. She tapped him on the shoulder. She informed him that not only had he cut in front of at least two dozen people who were before him, but he also elbowed her in the ribs, as he made his mad dash to the window. She didn't understand these aggressive actions. There was no hurry, because the bank was open for another four hours. His choice, to park in the red zone, was not a reason everyone else had to suffer. She would appreciate it if he would step down and go to the back of the line, as everyone else had done, upon arrival.


The man looked at this sixty-year-old-white-female-hundred- and- ten- pound-bald-robe-wearing-nun, and spat out: "I thought you Buddhists were pacifists! Show some compassion, Lady!"
 
He completed his transaction, still blocking her. The teller, stunned into silence (and probably wanting to diffuse the situation as quickly as possible and get rid of the guy before there was a riot--or a "scene") put her head down and gave the man his deposit slip. Then, the guy in the thousand dollar suit, rushed past the booing crowd, jumped into his Mercedes SLR, and screeched away.


My friend was trembling with upset and rage, when she returned to the office.
"I am so mad--at myself--for letting what happened affect me.  I know I had to say something to him--what he did to everyone in that bank was rude and wrong--being silent would have been equally wrong. But letting his actions get to me so deeply and shake me up? That's where I have to work!"


I was moved by the story--by her courage, her conviction, her sense of injustice for other people,( and herself) and for the set-up of a societal situation we all were living by (banking). I was also touched by her taking of her vows, her moving into the monastery, her wearing the robes--yet still participating in the outside world-- in a compassionate way. Mostly, though, the fact that she knew where her real "lesson" was--letting this man's stupid actions and ignorant words "unseat her"--after she had done all she could do to rectify the encounter--owning that lesson. Wow.


Today, as I read Pema Chodron's words about "idiot compassion"--about people zoning out, smiling in a blissed out state, and allowing people to run amok, all over them--because the blissed out ones misidentify silence for sainthood--I think of this story. The lojong teaching of "Don't misinterpret" seems to me, to speak directly to this situation. We must be present. We must pay attention. We must learn to really LISTEN, and then, only then, speak and take action, to reap the most benefit for the other people involved--and for ourselves.


We can't mask "control" for compassion.
We do have to risk dropping our agenda--being willing to risk whatever the Universe has in store for us without desiring our own, flawed plans, as the ultimate outcome. Yes. But we must also be ready to step in and be clear. To listen, observe, decide to do that which most benefits the situation--trusting our clean hearts. Sometimes this is scary. (Sometimes it is risky.) But, I think, if our intentions are  aimed to the highest good, and we don't let the outcome knock us off the path, we remain seated in our practice.


As was my friend.
          

GOSSIP GURU

The lojong slogan of the day is simply: Don't malign others.


Well, not exactly simple...of course.
Easy to understand, the need to work on not saying bad stuff about anyotherbody, of course, of course. Easy to understand how it is bad karma and unwise for one's own mental health to gossip about people, in general. However, "not maligning" doesn't just let it rest on saying/repeating negativities.


Of course.


"Not maligning others" makes us take a look at how, when we repeat "crap" about people, there is something in that fertilizer that makes ugly stuff in us bloom. (If I repeat, or feel, and then share, how "Mary" bugs me with all of her constant whining, perhaps there is something a bit deeper than "Mary's" tone of voice.) I may follow my criticism of "Mary" with the justification that I want to "fill my life with only positive energy". However, what if I took a bit to get to understand where "Mary's" dissatisfaction is coming from--that is, to get to KNOW "Mary"...what then?  Perhaps "Mary" is suffering.(Or, perhaps "Mary" is the most positive person I might ever meet again, but just going through a bit of a rough patch.) What if I stuck around a little longer? What if I paid attention a bit more closely? What if I risked honestly getting to the heart of  "Mary"?


Maybe it isn't even "Mary" or her whining...perhaps "Mary" reminds me of someone in my past?  An "ex" who used to complain, even after winning the Lottery?  A boss who sighed, because his Mercedes wasn't the "correct shade of champagne", off the lot ? Another author whose newest book ONLY made her a hundred thousand last year?  Or my parents, disappointed with the fact that my report card had one B+, amid all the other A's?  Who does "Mary" stand-in for, in my life? Why do I find it so easy to conjecture what makes her "a pain in the butt to be around because of her negativity"? Why do I repeat every bit of gossip I hear about her--to as many people I meet, after hearing it? (Why is it the last thing I think about before falling asleep on the day I receive the tidbit--and maybe the first thing I ponder, upon waking?) Why is MY consciousness hooked on spreading rumors about this person?


See? Not so simple. (Of course.)


In my life, gossip, both bad and good, has also scarred me. I have had experiences of projection, whereupon people placed their own "scenarios" on my head. (No, I did not participate in that particular activity! No, I was not at that specific location! No, I did not make a pass at that individual! No, not only did I never state that fact, I never even thought that thought! I don't hold ...whatever belief...! ) The list goes on and on. How often I may forget how hurt I was, because of an erroneous assumption made by strangers--some of whom later became bosom buddies--after taking time to ferret out the facts and to get to know me. The true me. The truth about me. (The heart-space.)


My meditation, these days, contains this lojong phrase, because it applies, directly, to all the soft places I am trying to expose.


Let's call them: "Mary".*




*(No reference to any Mary, living or dead.)


    

GODS AND DEMONS

"...along with this longing and this sadness and this tenderness, there's an immense sense of well-being, unconditional well-being, which doesn't have anything to do with pleasant or unpleasant, good or bad, hope or fear, disgrace or fame..."


                                Pema Chodron,START WHERE YOU ARE, 1994






I had to have another blood test this week. A regular event every few months, monitoring blood pressure meds, cholesterol levels, all the usual stuff. Like most everyone, I hate going to any medical appointments. Because my sister, the nurse, takes care of most of my parents medical meetings (as their proxy), most of my hospital "visits" are on the front-end of an emergency situation--or the back-end of one, visiting. I handle my own med situations, solo. I've been "private" for as long as I can remember. Even when friends and lovers offer, I usually manage, solo.



The hospital, with its raw odors, revolving staff, curving hallways and fluorescent lights, makes me feel as if I'm on a spaceship with humans, and friendly aliens, working together.(It isn't exactly "abduction flashbacks", but it isn't a roller coaster at Magic Mountain, either.) Even for the fairly banal check-in for the bloodwork, I can feel my blood pressure begin to rise.




The entire operation is over in less than fifteen minutes. I arrive the moment the lab opens and park in a fairly empty lot, closest to the main entrance of the hospital. I usually get the "end of shift" nurses taking last specimens of their night. That's cool. I  kid them about my sister being a nurse and working the graveyard shift in Worcester. I even forgive the sometimes "pinching" stab that a weary technician can administer just before taking off for the weekend. For me, seeing the blood pumping via my heart's own efforts, into the vial, means that I'm alive and I've taken responsibility for the contractual agreement between me and my doctor. (The "hard part" is the follow up visit, next week,  facing a cute practitioner who is half my age.) Her advice is smart, well informed and to some extent, "caring". (Of course, I have to believe this...) On the other hand, she is young, a bit cocky, sleek, toned, tanned and has most likely been that way all of her life. I wonder what she truly "gets" about closing in on 60--let alone being " a rebellious writer"? I wonder if she's ever experienced losing everything, more than once--including relationships that were meant to be lifelong-- or having to rebuild, in extreme humility. (Even these visits are humbling.) Has she ever been in a place where, educated, knowing what one "should do/need to do/mean to do" gets t-boned by life's unexpected demands: professional, personal, familial, emotional, spiritual?




Our discussions about pharmaceuticals and side-effects: possible death...Her answer: "Well, every drug has side effects--you have to look at the statistics and insurance warnings!" 
Yeah.
But what of the thousands of words I've read regarding conspiracy theories and control of the drug companies by a military industrial complex led by the wealthy families "at the top, forever"?  What about the spiritual risks and considerations of not accepting one's life for what it is: mortal? What about the stress of stress-reduction activities forced upon one's life when one simply wants to simplify? Or the feelings of judgments and failure when one doesn't comply, completely?




Back  home again, my father receives a notice of his upcoming eye surgery for cataracts. My mother, ever the "worst- possible- scenario keeps you prepared" believer (though it makes her a crazed banshee, while she runs around the house arguing and fighting with anyone present, later explaining it all away by: "that's my way of relieving stress!"; never owning that this makes life miserable for the rest of us, while she is engaging in such activity) freaks out, believing my father does not know nor understand the compliance form he is signing. And while the letter clearly invites Dad to call the doc's office and get any of the questions "they" have, cleared up, Mom insists on going to the worst outcome: Dad will be rendered blind.  (She will have to take care of him...)  Of course, HER recent cataract surgery went fine, and now she is bragging how she doesn't have to wear any glasses, even to drive! But Dad has chosen laser surgery--which was not Mom's choice. And so, some of her "triumph" and "I know more than you" braggadocio gets deflated, because he has chosen the more "risky" (in her mind) procedure. Also, her own dark night fears projected upon him...(When I remind her that if SHE went blind, Dad would take care of HER-- all of us are around to help, if either of them would need that care--I get a big roll-of-her-eyes and sarcastic- exhale- of- breath. (I know this translates into: what could YOU do?)
Dad continues to squint and read aloud the final compliance form.






It seems to me that it is a form that covers three alternative approaches and Dad understands this. He also says he will call the office to get clarification--as well as call my nurse-sister. He is clear he is picking the laser procedure. (It is also clear my mother is pushing for him to stay with the manual operation--which she had--though, at the time, she was almost as unreasonable about that operation...) I remind her (stupidly, fruitlessly, angry with myself for not just swallowing my opinion, though, when I do that, she accuses me of "running away from the conversation"--- there is no winning and no participation, either way) all she can do is fire back: "You are too much like your father--you never worry about the worst- case; if you know the worst- case- scenario you can be prepared! Somebody in this house has to do that!"






Perhaps unbeknownst to my parents, I have spent my entire life, from childhood to adulthood, "preparing" for the worst- case of everything. Later, I went through the period of rejecting anything "negative"--including people whose outlook contained those scenarios. Neither approach made me happy; nor enlightened; nor even saved me; far as I can see. Both made me irritable and feeling a bit ridiculous.( Sappy. Uncool.)
 Afraid.


(I have fought nightmares; demons; the idea of alien colonization of us into a penal planet; the death of everyone I love; the death of everyone I know; loss of an entire sense of who I thought I would be; the loss of the religion I'd bet on; even my own end. Worst- case- scenarios my parents would little dream of, have played in my brain, for decades. (Even found their ways into my published work!) Have any of them manifested, outright? Have they prepared me, in any way, except to suffer from increased stress?)






Now, it's time for the Middle Path. Time to breathe. Accept what I cannot change--except to have some small impact through kindness practice and tonglen.  To honestly believe we are all, one breath away from waking up and remembering our reality--not this passing role in this baggy- skin- costume--but who we really are. Time to be brave and just sit, each day, being open-hearted and non-judgmental of self; being willing to touch the soft places inside; breathing out blessings.


For my doctor.
For my Mother.
For my Father.
For my siblings.
For us all.






Worst case scenario? I am The Fool.


Best case scenario?  We are all perfect, just as we are, right now: believe.      

DON'T EXPECT APPLAUSE

Of course, anyone over ten  years old in modern times knows this: if you do something expecting praise, it will usually explode in your face. Lots of sadness;bitterness; self-loathing; revenge; anger and more than a little upset often occurs because people enter into actions simply to reap reward. Small or large, riches or applause, it boils down to the same thing on a molecular level.


While it is always good to GIVE thanks, it must come from the heart. It must not simply be an activity of manners (though Buddhists love manners!). It must truly be felt and be a means of connection to the other being. (All beings deserve thanks for sharing this epic with us...seriously.)
Once again, the simplest gesture is fraught with deep meaning. I guess this is the point: everything counts. (So, Man, if I say "thank you" and you wonder if it was a cursory line or I really mean it, believe I mean it. Please!)


After a year of working in several jammed up situations where I know I positively impacted on what was happening, I find myself still not promoted, still not called into the head office for that "serious discussion about full-time and higher-status work".  I have demonstrated all the factors that they teach you, even now, in professional school: be prepared; be neat and well groomed; be on time; be pleasant; work hard and do more than what is expected; be fair to all; do not engage in gossip or negativity; be clear on goals and current professional standards; love your work. I have new letters of recommendation from past bosses, current peers, colleagues and even students. (Does anyone really read these?) I have made friends among my staff and administration and reaped their approval and recommendations, as well. I have thanked everyone for a good year, honestly, and let it be known I am open and ready for the "next step". However, there is silence.


In the past three  years, "silence" has meant suspension in this place of insecurity. Now, students wonder, too: "Ms. Minns is a great teacher. I really like her. Why don't they hire her, full-time?" It is difficult to keep rising from the floor and seem like you know what you are doing; that you deserve respect of the profession; that you haven't committed some heinous mistake that prevents your being boosted up the next rung. Still, I have gotten up from the sawdust on the floor, trying to smile. Trying to accept what I do not understand. I have attempted to hone my game. To strengthen my portfolio. To be able to "fit" any situation where I have been positioned, even if it wasn't what I expected nor really desired. I did not expect "thanks"--but I guess I have expected some clear professional notice. (I know I've expected a job interview, if not an outright offer...or at least some "tips" on how I might change so to better fit the work environment around me...)


The point I've missed, according to Buddhist teaching, is the endpoint of all: desire. Once we fall into the trap, it dooms the outcome. Or, rather, it CREATES an outcome for which we have no real understanding. Like the story of the man whose son is hurt in an accident and walks, forever, with a limp, coming to realize that that accident has made his son unfit for military conscription, and thus, saved his life, I do not know what is ahead of me, nor why things keep remaining out of my grasp. I do not know.


I don't know why the people who should be seeing the work I put in don't seem to notice. (Others do, and for that, I am forever in their debt. They soothe my soul, even if they don't understand that they do. Namaste.) I don't know why I must continue to put my salary into a car that is rusting beneath me, just to be able to go to work. I don't know why I must teach subjects I am not an expert in, when I have proven I can teach subjects for which I've worked my entire life and am especially prepared to teach. I do not know why I have a life that is "stuck" in a kind of time-warp, when I've just been trying to do what the Universe pointed to as "correct to do". I cannot see what is ahead. Sometimes, I cannot even feel it...yet, I know I must trust the unknown.


Pema Chodron writes, : "Simply keep the door open without expectations." 
(START WHERE YOU ARE; a guide to compassionate living; 1994)


So, I shall. 

MOLLY MALONE MINNS

After a family depression and mourning period--one in which Dad commanded: "No more dogs!" and Ann (mother of Maeve) announced: "No more dogs--at least for a while--at least no more little dogs--at least no more sick dogs--at least no more Cavaliers..."


The Universe opened up and laughed:HARDYHARHAR...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!




Another nurse at Ann's workplace mentioned that her mother had a dog that needed a good home. Her mother had begun a new relationship and just wasn't there enough to give the dog the kind of attention she had lavished when she first acquired the animal. (GRRRRRRR!)




Ann asked the usual questions (after her blood stopped boiling):  "How old is the dog?"


Answer: fairly young...between four and six, maybe?


Ann: "How healthy is the dog?"


Answer: she has a couple of "loose teeth" and needs a new rabies shot...


Ann: "Any weird issues with the dog?"


Answer: no, she's quiet, has gotten used to being alone most of the day, likes to ride, is good with kids and isn't aggressive to other dogs.


Ann: "What kind of dog is she?"


Answer: Do you know what a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel is???????????????????????????????






Ann wasn't sure she was ready. (I knew that this family needed another dog. There will never be one to live, full-time, at 88 Maple Street, of course, but we needed one among the tribe--preferably with Ann, who has the income and situation where a dog can be well cared for, forever, amen.) Ann needed a dog. The  loss of Maeve was huge for her. And while it is a painful reminder of the passing of one's fur-child, it is also a tribute to the passed animal, to adopt another animal in dire need.




"Molly" was in dire need.




(I promised, throughout the summer, to come and doggie-sit. To arrive and take dog for walks, to play with her, to spend quality time with her, to feed her her supper while Ann slept getting ready for the night-shift. I promised NOT to teach the dog anything Ann didn't want me to teach--none of Maeve's Wonder Dog tricks (also called "bad habits KK taught Maeve"...) I promised no non-dog food: no guacamole nor any other spicy stuff; no Thai scraps; no Vietnamese spring rolls; no spaghetti with clams; nada, but doggie high quality stuff. I promised to not coddle the dog but keep her independent and retain only a "dog's place" in the family. No anthromorphic transformations into a "fur person". I would also not play my harmonica in Ann's house; in Ann's yard; around Ann's pool; in Ann's woods--nor Brenda's gardens. I would pick up "hidden poops" and not use a high pitched baby voice when addressing the dog. And if we ever had a blizzard that kept Ann in Worcester, over-night, I would somehow manage to plow my way to Otter River and take care of the snowbound hound--even though Brenda is next door, with her boyfriend....I promised.)




We needed a dog, again.
(I needed a dog, again.)
Ann needed a dog again, most of all.




So, Molly came, with her "first human", to visit.
When she jumped out of the back of the SUV, un-aided, it was as if Maeve had had a puppy and the puppy had grown up and now was with us!
Molly, being an American Cavalier, was half the height and weight of Maeve.
Aside from that, her coloring, markings, freckles, little-puppy-on-an-adult-dog face, brown eyes, all like Maeve's! (So much so, Brenda couldn't hang out with Molly on the first visit.)


She was not as demonstrative as Maeve, but she happily, if shyly, greeted both Ann and me.
She then chose to explore the yard, the grounds, the swimming pool area, the decks. She had NO TROUBLE negotiating all the stairs in the house. In fact, this littler version of Maeve, in her puppy-cut hair and clipped tinier feet, zoomed upstairs and down, sniffing and evaluating everything.


Her "first human" showed us her one "trick": Molly would dance, on hind legs, and then in circles, if the word "treat" was mentioned. She also had this very high tiny whiney bark--but only used her voice (unlike Maeve) when asking for a treat, or to go out.
After ten  minutes on the porch, and several "treats", Molly jumped into Ann's lap and sat there, quietly. It was done.




(However: The BALD TRUTH EMERGED.)


Molly's "first human" had been an uneducated owner of a highly needful breed. Cavaliers, as we had come to know, have lots of health issues. Molly had terrible teeth. Her "first human" had not brushed them nor ever taken Molly to a doggie dentist. And.... Molly was six years old, not four...


Molly did, however, allow Ann, a relative stranger, to look into her mouth: horror!
"If you take her to the vet and you get these teeth looked after, I will take her." Ann was clear. "I cannot take a sick animal. I just got done with thirteen years, almost, of taking care of a diabetic dog with a heart murmur and I can't ever go through that again."
Molly, with the stinky, drooling, decayed teeth looked up at Ann.
Molly's "first human" tearfully agreed. (She was a nice, older woman with a new boyfriend and just not a lot of time or energy to take care of a needy doggie--nor get educated about those needs. But, she had the dough and the will to find a great home for her little doggie companion.)




A week later, SIXTEEN teeth removed from Molly's infected mouth, a newly groomed and much happier, (if slightly swollen-faced) twelve pound Cavalier sprang into our lives.




First night over, Ann tried to brush Molly. (Ann brushes her animals the way our mother used to brush Ann's and Brenda's hair-- harshly. To Ann, as to my mother, this was a kind of "tough love".) Most dogs resent it. Maeve would often "cujo out" when Ann did it. I have the opposite approach: gentle in all things.  (Ann and the family translate that into " ineffective in all things".) However, the dogs seem to agree with me.


Molly yelped that high pitched "yip".
Then, for the first time, she ran away from Ann, and hid in the little round bed that her "first human" had left with Ann--along with four other beds...sigh.


(It didn't take Molly long to forgive, though.) Ten minutes of giving Ann "the stink eye", and Molly was back, bouncing around the parlor.


Soon, her favorite place in the house was upstairs, sleeping with Ann, glued to Ann's side, on the giant Temperpedic Queen bed. Ann got Molly a low stool to jump on, as Molly was afraid of the doggie staircase that Maeve had once used. From the stool, Molly, light as a fairy, sprang onto Ann's mattress, and slept like a compact red and white log, undisturbed by Ann's snores.

Now, with no more infected teeth nor anything rotten in her mouth, she, like Maeve, only smelled of clean dog. Though definitely not as "kiss crazy" as Maeve was, Molly was affectionate as only Cavaliers seem to be. Instead of constant licking of humans, she would softly put her whole face into any human bending in her direction, then, just as softly, bump her forehead against the human head. Or she would nuzzle an extended hand--as long as it moved slowly--rubbing her entire button nose in the palm.  Gentle, dainty, very "femme" (where Maeve was fierce), Molly was the perfect antidote to Maeve's passage.






When her follow-up at the doggie dentist came, Ann had her "first person" get Molly's ears checked. Lo and behold, it wasn't the rough brushing of Molly's curls that caused the yelp...Molly had an ear infection--perhaps caused by the rotten teeth! So now, it was a matter of ear drops--which Ann is an expert at delivering to unwilling patients of all kinds.


Molly tolerated the administering of them, though retreated back to her round bed after the procedure. (The only time she uses that round bed on the floor is after "a procedure".) More "silent treatment: and "dirty looks", but then,  she forgives everyone and is back to prancing and dancing and following us around.






Typical Cavalier: she loves everyone who visits, though, as with many tiny dogs, she is watchful of where people walk or move too fast. She greets everyone,wagging her tail, at the door. If she likes you, she hangs around to play. If she is indifferent, she heads upstairs, to the giant queen bed, and stretches out as if she owns it--which, I guess, now, she does...






We have worked out our routine for the summer: I go over when I am done with whatever. Ann is usually home from work and asleep. Molly hears me slip in the door. She zooms downstairs to meet me. We dance around for a bit. She gets a treat and a walk outside, immediately. She pees, drinks from her bone-shaped bowl, outside, then patrols the yard with me. Sometimes she poops. (Unlike Maeve, who had mighty poops, Molly's are like Tootsie Rolls...) I pick them up and dispose of them. We hang out in the sun for a while. She studies the bird, squirrels, chipmunks and butterflies at the bird-feeders. Then, it is time for her dinner. I feed her the prescribed amount Ann has outlined--a mixture of the remaining "old food from her first home" and the new "high grade food" Ann has purchased especially for her. Molly Malone insists that I watch her eat--something Ann is not happy about, but, hey, I like to eat with people, too. Molly  is very delicate and doesn't make the mess Maeve did when she ate--spitting out the bits she didn't like. ( In fairness to Maeve, Molly is eating only tiny- bite, dry food, unlike Maeve, who had gourmet, cooked soft, dinners, and was twice the size of Molly.) She is always thankful. So far, she eats everything I give her.


After dinner, Molly likes to watch a movie with me. (No lie.) She started hopping on my lap, on Ann's leather recliner, back to me--as Maeve used to do--for "doggie massage".  (I was shocked and moved the first time she did this.) She also burps, like Maeve used to do, after she eats. (No one believed me until I made them notice that Maeve always burped after meals--and sometimes would come to me to pat her on the back and butt, until the burp came up! ) I know of no other breed that does this...but these two Cavaliers surely did and do!




At the conclusion of "doggie massage"-- around twenty minutes of being petted-- she jumps down and stretches out, sometimes watching me, sometimes watching the t.v. Often, she falls asleep, digesting. When the movie concludes and the credits are rolling, she wakes up, drags and stretches like a cat along the rug, and lets me know she's ready for another "outside adventure". This is the "official poop after dinner hour".  Then, I get to swim for a while. (She patiently hangs on the deck, observing the birds and butterflies, for about five laps.) At that point, she's had enough and wants to go inside.) She is definitely an indoor dog--as was Maeve. She will "keen" and dance until I exit the water, opening the screen door for her re-entry to the house. Once inside, she will quietly wait until I am through with swimming. (I find her generosity admirable.)






Upon my return, we play a bit more and she has "dessert". Then, she is ready to go  upstairs, to cuddle with Ann until Ann has to get ready for work. That's my signal to exit. Molly is fine about my going. (As with Maeve, I am merely "the companion", and not "the new first human".) That is how it should be. Isn't that the usual role for every "aunt"?





Molly Malone is less personality-driven than Maeve. She is less overtly affectionate and demonstrative than Maeve. She is smaller,less bossy, and less demanding. (Maeve was a Diva-fierce Queen and was born, knowing that role.) Maeve was Queen of the Fairies (what her Celtic name translated into); Molly IS a fairy (dog). She will never lift her leg to pee. She will probably never "cujo out" when we have to do anything to her. She will never hump her toys, as Maeve routinely did when bored. She won't go after other dogs, just to prove she's "number one". However, she will love us and listen to us and follow us and delight us; it's in her genes; in her blood.




She is her own "fur person"--I don't have to teach her anything.




While she will never replace Maeve: the Wonder Dog, and Maeve's ashes will forever stay amongst us, Molly is a gift of transition that the Universe sent. She is her own little miracle. And like Maeve, we have saved each other.






Namaste to All Beings, Everywhere.


Happy Summer!            

MAEVE'S PASSAGE

Since I've been a child, my birthday has been accompanied by upsetting events. (The fact that Memorial Day has come to be associated with my natal day may add some of this weird energy to the mix.) Sometimes, it has been medical emergencies for me or a member of the family. Sometimes it has been a change in a relationship. An unexpected move or a natural disaster have not been uncommon. Few, however, have been as profoundly sad as this week's passage of my favorite fur- person of all time: Maeve, the Wonder Dog.  Forever forward, my birthday will also mark her departure from life and the life of my family.


I was in California when my sister Ann sent to Ireland for the King Charles Old World Cavalier Spaniel. I had  never even heard of the breed. Ann informed me that they were bred for intense connection with their human family. They were known for intelligence, bravery, beauty and the love they displayed. She showed me reproductions of paintings where the Cavaliers were always in the laps, on the beds, or by the feet of their humans. Ann did an amazing amount of research--educating my family for months before she sent for the pup.


Unfortunately, the research also revealed intense in-breeding--especially in North America. This had resulted in genetic problems involving heart issues, joint problems, skull deformities, and a host of other physical concerns. Many spent their adult lives in rescue shelters, because ignorant owners didn't know what they were getting themselves into. Ann had the spendable income and the background information. She assured us: the breed was worth the trouble. At the "large end" of the toy dog continuum, they were gorgeous. Silky-coated, red or black and tan or white mixes; long eared; long tailed; they smelled of popcorn and kept their puppyish looks into adulthood. Best of all, they were one of the smartest and most entertaining of breeds--keying off their owners, yet never slavish or dull. Ann was hooked and she hooked us, in return.


For years I would get Christmas cards, birthday presents and copies of photos of the wee Cavalier who came to be named "Maeve: Queen of the Fairies". She flew all the way from Ireland, from a reputable breeder, along with her litter- mates. Ann, my sister-in-law, and my nieces went to pick her up when she arrived. Maeve was the largest and most independent of the puppies. She was also very "butch" and "bossy". From the first, Maeve lifted her leg to pee...(Of course, this appealed to my nurse sister, Ann, herself independent and bossy!) So, Maeve picked Ann and Ann picked Maeve and so their love-story began.


Maeve came home sick, however. Giardia plagued her. This was followed by issues of a heart murmur and then reproductive problems (which made her unable to be bred).This insured that Maeve would reign Supreme, never to be upstaged by her babies! Ann stuck by the little dog through all of this. As my family has often said, if Maeve had gone to anyone else, she wouldn't have survived past puppydom. But she had come to Ann. Ann got her the best specialist care available. It also made Maeve the first and only dog my Mother (an animal disliker, for the most part) tolerated. (Something about Maeve's physical challenges mirrored my Mother's own and so they bonded-- as much as Beverly can bond, with an animal.) Even years later, when Maeve became diabetic, requiring two shots a day, Bev happily administered these (as did my Dad), when Ann was not around.  The entire family enjoyed her loyalty, her antics, her adventures, and pitched in to keep her healthy for the duration. In fact, Maeve was approaching twelve, last week--and right up until the end, was "present" and full of life--a milestone for many Cavaliers.


When I had decided to return to Gardner, after my Mom's cancer flared again, I was wondering how the little dog would react to me moving in. Ann assured me there would be no problem. (She knew I'd always had dogs in my life, but more than that, she knew Maeve.) The night we arrived from Logan Airport,(late, late, late) my brother Kev, niece Mer,  Ann and I, were greeted by both parents in the kitchen. With them, was Maeve.  Immediately, I could see how beautiful this dog was--even more appealing than her pictures. Red and white, about twenty pounds, long hair flowing, eyes intelligent and focused, assessing the situation, little teeth in a wide grin, she rushed in front of my parents and stopped short, in front of me.  The moment I bent over to pat her on the head, Maeve jumped up and began to lick my face. I sank to the kitchen floor-- exhausted from the long trip and the emotional toll of leaving my entire life of 35 years on the West Coast. Maeve seemed to "get it" in a way that my siblings and parents did not. No one really wanted to hear any details about my life "away". (They weren't even convinced that it was necessary for me to move back, though Ann had told me that Mom and Dad "werent' long for the world", and if I wanted to see them kicking, I better come home.) It seemed clear to the family that I had "morphed into A Californian". (Decades away on the "Left Coast" had transformed me in ways that they would never, truly understand). The lines were drawn; if I was going to stay, I would have to accept that.


Maeve didn't care. Once I was sitting on the linoleum, all she wanted to do was to know me better. She wouldn't stop licking my face and wiggling into my lap. (Of course I came to realize that she basically greeted most humans with this kind of welcome. ) On that first night, though,  it seemed that no matter how ambivalent everyone else was, I had a new friend in my corner. Like her, I'd flown thousands of miles, alone, and now ended up on the kitchen floor. We were "buds", for life.


I give all credit to my sister Ann and to her generosity in sharing her darling dog. I don't know if she understood that Maeve could get close to me in ways no one else would, or if she just was so sure that Maeve truly loved her BEST and ALWAYS, that there was no worry about competing affection. In either case (both true), Maeve sort of adopted me in the family structure in a special place. It was almost as if I'd arrived as a long lost litter-mate. Clearly not on top of the family ladder, but clearly having a bit more "clout" than she did, at least when it came to access to food and transportation. Further, I seemed to have the most free time to spend with her. While my parents were retired, their doctors appointments, and my father's continued service as City Councilman, made their lives less accessible. On the other hand, I was unemployed. Most of my childhood buddies had long since moved away, now scattered all around the world. So, our strange  crossed paths began to be shared.


Of course, as with everything else in this family, I was hit with a hailstorm of "advice". First off, I was warned that Maeve didn't do "tricks". She was so willful that she wouldn't submit to being taught even so much as raising a paw on command. Having had many dogs in my life and the lives of my friends, I had never found a dog who wasn't into performing. So, we began playing games that extended over the next three years, beginning with giving me her paw on command, to posing like Lassie (collie from the famous t.v. series) when I sang the Lassie theme-song. (Maeve used this ploy on everyone--learning that, not only did it elicit gasps of delight, but also peanuts, dog treats, back rubs and specialty snacks from even the techs at the vets' offices in two states...) The way to Maeve's heart was twofold: lots of absolute praise, and food.


Maeve had a very human palate. Of course, she had lived most of her life with my family, but it was "blamed" on me that her tastes for Mexican, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, Italian and other world cuisines was uncovered. (Only Indian food seemed to be refused, when offered.)  All other spicy flavors delighted her. It was as if when she saw "K.K. eat something" she assumed she would also enjoy it. So, seated between my father and myself, on the floor, at meals, she joined us at dinner. She also joined me at breakfast-- or would sneak up to my room if she smelled a snack in the offing--popcorn, guacamole, peanut butter. Sometimes she didn't want any, but she always had to check it out--yelping until I relented, letting her at least have a sniff. Now, of course, everyone else would sneak her treats--as they had for seven years before I came back. But Maeve's willingness to listen to me, follow me, and learn tricks from me, were all "explained" by the fact that "K.K. feeds her"....(Maeve and I knew there was a whole lot more to it than that.)


Maeve also greeted all of my closest friends with delight. Childhood buddies who welcomed my return back to New England were embraced with doggie warmth the moment they came to visit. (Even as I let people know of her departure, last week, sympathy notes poured in, friends remembering how sweet, inclusive and affectionate this dog was.) When things became "complicated" with my family, Maeve didn't lose sight that I was worth knowing. Always first in loyalty to her "mother"/Ann, even when Ann would get mad at me, Maeve would hang out and give me love. I could creep upstairs, as she guarded Ann, asleep in Ann's bedroom door, and Maeve would open an eye, see it was me, and sneak into the hallway to play. Sometimes Ann would wake up, yelling, but Maeve wouldn't desert me. She knew I was there to play, or scratch, or take her outside. I was the person who gave her "supper" and "breakfast". I was the person to take her to Dunn's park, for walks in the woods, or around the pond. When  her "mother" was at work, or unavailable, we'd go for  adventures and she listened to my voice in a way that was different from everyone else's. It was my sister-in-law who noticed that fact the first Christmas I was home. "Maeve behaves differently with you than with the rest of us," Laurene noted.


"It's because Karen feeds her all the time!"  answered the Family Chorus...(Right.)


Maeve did have quirks that irritated me. She was a "whole being" in that way. In later years, she didn't tolerate toddlers or strange, loud men. On Christmas Eve, my parents held a yearly open house, filled with said demographics. This meant that Maeve and I had to hang out somewhere else. I was her "Companion", as my niece jokingly re-named me--Maeve's long lost litter- mate, who could drive. One Christmas we spent at my sister-in-law's. One at a hotel. (There, every hour on the hour, we walked the long walk down the corridor, from the dog-friendly suites, to the front of the hotel, to "wee in the snow". Of course, the few guests who were also marooned in the place couldn't help but stop and pat her on the head. At which point, she would sit, grin, hold her paw up to them, and if they were not obnoxiously loud, lick them on the face when they bent down. This elicited dog treats from the front desk each time we went out.) After several in-room movies and  shared room service, we were allowed to return home. Last Christmas, while Ann and Brenda hosted the Christmas Open House at their new home,  Maeve and I just snuggled in for the night, at 88 Maple Street, where she really was "Queen".


She had her own stocking on the mantle. She had as many gifts as any of the rest of us. She hated the stupid hats my sister Brenda insisted she wear every Christmas morning, "At least for one picture". She relished every present--guarding even the smallest offering as if it were gold. Having to bark and run around the middle of the room, watching each gift get unwrapped, wildly excited, but patient for her "turn", it was as if we had a perennial five  year old in our midst during the holidays. (What will this year be like?)


Maeve didn't consider herself a dog. Probably because, from the first day, she was not treated like a dog. Oh, we have had other pets, before her. But this time, she was Ann's "kid", and Ann would let no one forget it. Maeve didn't need a lot of encouragement along those lines, anyway. I am sure it is because of this that my parents have remained in as good health and mindsets as they have--"the Baby" needed them (when Ann wasn't around). Maeve, of course, doted on this treatment--making my father feel especially macho when it thundered or stormed loudly. She would seek him out, wherever he happened to be, and then put her little head on his feet, her body as close to the rest of him as she could manage, trembling. Thunder was the only thing she was scared of... Dad would drape a light blanket over her entire body and there she would remain until after the storm. For a man used to being "The MAN of the House", this regenerated him.( I wondered if she realized how much her "needing us" fulfilled us, as a family?)


Often when there was nothing for my parents and I to agree  upon, or even converse about (since all their medical needs were already in the hands of each other and my siblings and I was always "the extra wheel" while their politics were so different from my politics any discussion only ended up in arguments and increased resentments), Maeve was the bridge. How she was feeling/acting/doing that day. Old stories about her before I arrived; things we had to do for her/to her/with her while Ann was at work, etc. The silence in our house was huge when there was no little dog to fill it.


She would "herd" the family together at every event: birthdays, barbecues or anniversaries. She would gather everyone for dinner and reprimand us if dinner went inordinately long. Then, leading us back to the livingroom, she would claim her spot in the middle, watching all of us, satisfied that we were gazing lovingly at her in adoration. She let us know she didn't think of herself as "a dog". She would pick fights with all other mutts, regardless of size, age or pedigree. When out on a leash, we would have to call across streets to folks with friendlier pooches, begging them NOT to let their dog come and greet our little girl...if they pooh-poohed us (owners of other dogs often thought Maeve was a wind up toy, too cute to be dangerous) and allowed their dog to cross closer, they, and it, would be rewarded by a sharp nip to the nose--or testicles--whichever was closest. Maeve was never admitted to a dog park nor Doggie Day Care. She spent her life in the company of Humans--which is how she liked it.


Because her breed has toenails that are very long, thick and fast growing, it takes a strong hand to clip them. Also, she hated to have them clipped. Her own specialist vet refused to take on the task because he didn't "want her upset" when he had to do "real medical procedures"...right. I don't know what Ann did, actually, before I arrived, but it became my task to find a local vet (no mere grooming spa) who would kindly clip her nails twice a month. I located Tender Hearts in Gardner. After the first session where it took two vet techs plus moi to hold her down, calm her, and get the nails clipped, and where she picked a fight with a Malamute while I was trying to pay the bill, we had an on-going appointment, first thing on every other Saturday morning, before other dogs and people arrived. The receptionist and vet techs didn't believe that I wasn't Maeve's rightful owner--or that my sister Ann was really my sister (as opposed to a long lost lover...)--since the only person they ever saw with the Cavalier was me. However, they went along with my slightly embarrassed explanations and relationship with the dog, finally falling under her spell, themselves. Two of them brought her special liver chews (from their own homes) because she wouldn't eat the vet- provided, generic , low fat "treats", given at the end of all sessions. She would take them, politely,never  holding it against the vet techs that they had to do the clipping--but then, she would drop the  vet-treat at their feet, giving them those very-human eyes. If they did fork over the special liver chews, she would reward them with happy hops, kisses on the face and hands, and a gobbled morsel. Days they forgot to bring the treats from home, she would look so sad that the techs followed us out to the reception area, apologizing to the dog!
(I have to write a note about Maeve's passage to them, tonight, too...sigh.)


When we would travel for vacations to Maine or the White Mountains, I was relegated to sitting in the back, with Maeve. Side by side, she would lean against me, always nudging me away from her preferred "middle spot"--where she could put front paws on the console between the front seats and see out of the windshield (or kiss "her mother" while Ann drove).


The first time I went to spend a weekend in Maine, we were running along a deserted beach, with Maeve on a hundred foot lead. She came back to us, soaked and sandy, carrying a giant stinking clam (quahog?) almost as big as she was! She then proceeded to eat the entire thing...our first indication that she had a taste for sushi...


Once she chased a wild duck into the harbor and disappeared past the breakwall, leaving my sister Brenda hysterical on shore, surrounded by a gaggle of baby ducks. Ann thought surely Maeve would be swept out to sea and never be found, again. But, Ann kept calling and minutes later, a tiny white head appeared on top of the waves. Maeve crawled up a wall of slimey rocks, shivering and shaken, but alive. Maeve: Wonder Dog.  That was her longest swim. (Ann and Bren bought her a Dolce and Gabana life vest the next summer...) I never could coax her into my kayak. When I'd swim at Ann's pool, Maeve would remain on the deck, watching me, in the shade, dry, by her water bowl and bone. I liked to think she was dreaming of being a life-guard.


She would let me bathe her without a fuss--though Ann told me she would be terrible. She liked it best in a kitchen sink--secure in the tiny basin, the warm water and suds flowing freely--my hands massaging and untangling her. She never shook herself until back on the floor. The next hour was spent in wild play as she let me chase her through the house with a big bath towel, only allowing capture a few times. She knew I wouldn't use the blow dryer on her, for fear of hurting her ears. She also knew I was more gentle with her--which Ann insisted was ridiculous--especially since I never (EVER...sigh...) "got all the soap rinsed out"...just as I never (EVER...sigh...) brushed all the tangles out of her long hair...etc. Maeve knew the truth, and always let me bathe and brush and towel dry her. In fact, I taught her what "doggie massage" meant, so that each morning, when I got downstairs, she would greet me, after I got my coffee, sit with her back to my knees, look over her left shoulder, and wait until I began to do the daily massage. When I'd worked all the muscles from spine to toes and tail and back, she would get up, go on her way and smile. I know it helped her arthritis. Often, she would come back and give me a kiss.


As she got older, her diabetes grew worse. I took over from the parents when Ann was not around and gave her her shots. She would come up to me, at eight in the a.m.  and eight in the p.m. and wait for me to give it to her. She knew she would get a treat if she came. How she told the time, I don't know, but I've never had a dog that was so good natured about needles. She knew we were trying to help. Same when she got "skunked"--which was several times. I wasn't around in the first years. But I was around twice, in the last three. Once, Ann was  not home, and so I had to carry a stinking, dripping dog, upstairs, to the bathroom shower, then get into the shower with her, while the parental units prepared a de-skunking concoction. Of course I smelled as bad as she did for two days. Luckily, I wasn't tutoring, then...Ann had her own adventures with Maeve and skunks. Maeve looked as miserable as any animal, or human, I've ever seen, on those occasions. I think a lot of this had to do with embarrassment. (She just couldn't help herself.)


Dad taught her to chase cats. When she was a pup. She didn't bark much and he was used to hound dogs howling. Worried something was wrong, to get her going, he would sit in the window with her and point out cats in the yard. Ann liked this because it kept the neighborhood cats from killing too many of the songbirds she fed.
I didn't like it because it was yet another confrontation, in public, I had to watch for. Maeve relished it...She was the only animal, besides squirrels, which she surprisingly tolerated when we weren't looking, allowed in the yard.


Oh there are stories too numerous for a blog...most I need to keep secret and close to my heart. I will share these final few: Maeve was the only family member who liked my harmonica playing. And while we all sang to her--even my father at times--she would let me sing her to sleep. In fact, these last six months, there were nights she would bark and bark until I came downstairs from my bedroom, interrupting my writing, to "put her to bed". I had to walk her to her cushy bed, give her a treat, stroke her for a few minutes, then sit and softly sing to her until she closed her eyes. She would wake up when I turned out the lights, but as long as I did the ritual, she would stay in bed, happily.


She saw invisible things. She tracked ghosts we couldn't see. Ann called it "dementia". I called it psychic dog sense. She guarded our cars, especially if we were in them with her, growling through the window even at gas attendants as they filled up the tank. If we got out of the vehicle, she would then revert to licking and greeting the same attendant...She would only eat French fries with ketchup--both of which she shouldn't have had. One time Ann was angry with Mom; we'd gone for lunch at a hot dog stand. When Mom asked for a paper plate to put  her lunch on, Ann reached around and gave Mom the one that Maeve had just had HER hot dog on.... It is a secret Ann and I and Maeve shared, though now, every time I am around hot dog stands with Ann or my Mother, I end up laughing hysterically.( Mom chalks it up to MY dementia...)


While Maeve was ever Ann's dog, and Ann had to make the brave decision-- after a long weekend of Maeve being listless and refusing to eat (except when I got her home and from my hand...) to take her to the specialist--to put her to rest, Maeve and I had a special connection that no one understood. Except us. Now, forever, silly or demented as it sounds or seems, my birthday will always carry her in it, indelibly.


Vaya con Dios, Maeve; Queen of the fairies.