RESENTMENT

It is suggested, by compassionate Buddhists, to always meditate on that which provokes resentment.
Always.
Okay, let's make a list, tonight:
Multiple snowstorms at two day intervals with no chance of melting coming between.
No free parking spaces in the city--any city.
Potholes.
Potholes filled with water and slush that don't seem to be potholes until you run over them.
Street salt, used in snowy places during winter, and its result on steel and iron car parts.
Rust. Anywhere. Any kind. Any time.
The need for batteries.
The need for gasoline.
The need for oil.
The need for taxes.
The need for speed.
The loss of the publishing industry I've spent my entire life aspiring/training/getting educated to work for.
Break-ups.
Traffic jams.
Killer storms.
War. Any and all war.
AIDS.
Cancers other than AIDS.
Child abuse of all kinds.
Animal abuse of all kinds.
Slavery.
Unkindness.
Poverty.
Hunger.
Crassness.
Stupidity.
Insensitivity.
Cruelty.
Ignorance.
Impatience.
Violence.
Hopelessness.
Boredom.
Intolerance.
Bigotry.
Not knowing nor understanding the true history of this planet.
Always feeling like a stranger.
Obsession with body image and materialism.
False control.
Addictions.
Health care inequalities across the planet.
Pollution.
Those who speak for "God".
Those who interpret "God".
Those who claim "God" only for the chosen few.
Searching for God and often not feeling "searched for" by God.
Not understanding the need for death nor the optimum way to approach it.
Not being able to fly.
The times in life when I've felt most alone.
Fear in all its forms.
Pain in all its stripes.
The mystery of who I really am and why I've manifested here.(What the hell am I supposed to do?)


Begin:
Breathe in all the resentments (or one); feel it, fully, examine it completely; breathe out blessings to all who share this trouble; the joy of its departure or understanding; freedom from its bite.


Repeat. 

VENEZUELA, WE ARE WATCHING!

As the Olympics melt on and snow glazes over everything in New England, yet again, somewhere, between the saturated images is the next horror story we aren't hearing about: what is going down in Venezuela. Most shocking is this lack of coverage or mention in the upfront news!


I know that citizen protesters are being gunned down in all sorts of hotspots on this planet of mayhem even as I type, tonight, but the Venezuela thing seems to be on the edge of something huge. I want to know and I want other people in this country to become educated because it seems our government has known what was about to happen for a while now and no one is reporting the story on the night-time news--or in any way that would begin to fill us in so we might begin our own websearch for some eyewitness citizen reporters!


Venezuela, if you are reading this, tonight, know, word is getting out and pictures are getting in, through social media and sideways, but many of us are beginning to get details of your battle. Keep sending the words and photos out. Many, many of us care and are alerting our officials that we want to know what the hell is going down and what is our national involvement in this ?   We want to know!  We will keep searching for the truth...you will be heard and hopefully, helped. 

ALBINO ALLIGATOR

Reflections of all:
Pure
Innocent
Unmarred:


Snowy.




White light  white knight  white hat  white house
white teeth  white hair.




White
owl   white rabbit   white lightning   white hot,


White Christmas;


White Sox
White flag
White wash: white   man.




Preferred couture:
KKK, and the Pope;


In some circles,
how we dress
for


death.




Karen Marie Christa Minns
winter, 2014

IT'S NOT ABOUT GETTING EVERYTHING WE WANT

I am obsessed with snow, this winter. The weight of it on our roofs; our cars; our heads and our minds. I am obsessed with the shoveling of snow this winter: how the act doesn't seem to end; how the sky laughs, spitting in my face, covering my head, even as I try to remove its droppings; how it is an order and an expectation and always, always makes me feel guilty or resentful. (No matter how early I get up, sometimes even before the streetlights blink off--no matter how carefully I scrape and break up the icy mess--no matter how long it takes or how my bones protest--no matter that I am almost sixty and NOT sixteen--everything about being ordered to "go out and shovel"--and then criticized for whatever job I do doing it--bothers me.) Chodron suggests paying attention especially where our buttons get punched...this "chore" holds that promise.


It is not the bitter cold (I'd forgotten that that kind of cold is painful--not simply uncomfortable...) nor the exertion of the activity (I know how to do this without straining my back or getting a heart attack--I know how to bend my knees, use my legs, pace myself and risk embarrassment by saying "I can't do this" when it gets too much...)but it is the ceaseless inanity of the act. Even shoveling while the storm still dumps on my head--because my parents want the walks and porches cleaned off--right then--or do not trust that it can and will be done after the storm. That is inane. (Or their fear? Hmmm...) The never-ending cycle of storms spaced only days apart--and the geography of this city--high in what is now referred to as "the Worcester hills"--a city of seven hills, all tall enough to change our micro-climate and be recipients of the greatest winter storms each and every time. (I have stopped looking at weather maps, onscreen or off. Always, we are the most dramatic swipe of color. Always, the highest precipitation numbers in the state. Always.) So, too, the city plows push tons of compacted slush into all the driveways, every sweep of the street. No matter how effectively my brother snowblows or I chop ice, we are left with minimum of two feet of ice above the driveway proper--about five feet across and another three feet wide. In worse storms it gets higher, still. Over and over, into the following day, like some strange frozen tide. It is a  punch to the face beyond the slap of the storm. It causes deep resentment on top of the futility of trying to please my parents by getting out there, even as the storm rages, and pushing the white stuff away from the house.


So, I try tonglen when I shovel. I breathe in the futility and frustration and tears of barely suppressed rage that ripple through my muscles as I chop ice and shovel snow. I breathe out remembrances of spring. Of flooding streams and banked daffodils and baby hummingbirds I've known. I think of chopping wood and carrying water--the old Zen chestnuts--only here, they are acutely relevant and not simply metaphors. I breathe in the fear of my parents of growing older and death and darkness--even as they protest that they are "ready to go" and "not afraid" and "it's a better place we are going to" and who they will see "up there". I breathe in fear of my own questions: mainly: how to make a good exit?  When I breathe out, I throw the snow or ice chunks and try to bless everyone's death.


This has been the longest winter of my life.


Pema Chodron suggests that the point to all of this Buddhist Dharma study is to realize that it isn't about getting everything we want our way--it truly isn't. What it's about is empowerment of the self.
It's about shoveling snow.
It's about surviving winter.   

IN THE MIDST OF SORROW: LIGHTEN UP

The Tibetan texts call it: "Great bliss arising from the experience of  emptiness".


Pema Chodron, the great Tibetan lineage teacher, suggests that we just not take ourselves so seriously--or rather, not take this entire existence so heavily. We need to lighten our load and stop making such a big deal out of every little experience--all the failures, all the successes, the punishments and the pay-offs.


We need not to criticize ourselves so much. Not loath ourselves so much. Not slam our neighbors for doing or not doing what we would like them to do...or not do.


"Always maintaining a joyful mind" seems almost impossible (in a week that contains two suicides; one murder of a teen-ager I used to teach; one death of an eight year old student in the classroom--an accident just up the street from here; and the Olympics). So much drama. So much sadness. So much criticism and pomp.


Yet, realizing that everything CAN be used to wake up--to inhale the pain and exhale the joy--each and every minute--everything can be used to examine others' and our own sorrow--then, to bless ourselves and others and to send off the joy--holding on to neither. Realizing everything is in transition. (Every single thing.) Even as it feels interminable. Unalterable. Final. Breathe it in and out and let it go...realizing, it is already gone on its own.


Not to be desperate in grasping pleasure, or so worried at its departure, is another step towards lightening our loads. Being happy where we are--being happy in who we are--not needing to be anyone else-- is another radical departure from depression. Coming to understand that, often, it is not our circumstances but how we are relating to them, that causes the deepest wells of sorrow.


(Relate by breathing.)
Relate by watching the breath.
(Relate by sending the breath out, into the world, blessing all.)
Be present in the moment, even if you cannot be deliriously happy.
Be curious about this moment, even if  you are in the midst of sadness.
Chodron suggests, finally, to "do something different" to lighten the load: splash water on our faces; blow bubbles; whistle an opera; laugh out loud instead of sobbing; eat a peach; breathe mindfully.
Even once.

SHAME IN THE FAME

Philip Seymour Hoffman's death was not only a shock to his world-wide fans, but to those closest to him, too. Or so the press would tell us. However, there are some who, in that middle realm, rubbing elbows at Sundance, or recently bumping into him around various theatres and parties, claim that he was giving off "the vibe". (Which vibe?)


I guess I have to wonder, if there was any sort of "vibe", why didn't someone intervene?


Clearly, the actor had a private "space" where he was caching drugs--lots of drugs--heroin among them. Clearly that "space" wasn't a shooting gallery in a seedy neighborhood, shared with other needle users and pushers. It was a well-lit den where he was supposedly "working". Away from his three kids and life-partner. Evidently, even away from his closest friends.  A space where he could hole up and lose himself, chasing a dragon that bit him back. Why?


The man had money; he had family; he had the prestige of world-recognized awards; he had clout in both the film industry and the theatre communities and he had the body of work to back-up that clout. He was surrounded by good friends--friends he worked with--famous friends. He was surrounded by accolades and fans. He did good works beyond his immediate connections--works that helped other struggling actors and their communities. The man was Recognized.


And yet, there was something hidden. Something buried in the core of his being that wouldn't allow him to "feel" those accomplishments. (It isn't Real unless you can Feel, right?)


Something he did, or thought he did, (or didn't do), or should have been or was--something out of kilter around his heart...Are we born addicts? Is it past karma that leads us ever toward the dragon's lair? Is it weakness or illness or an unhealing wound?


Philip Seymour Hoffman did what another acquaintance of mine did, two days earlier.  Both people caved in to their reality. Both people seem to have given up hope that anything would really change--that that "dreadful spot" in their insides would ever heal--or be filled--or go away. Neither was celebrating. Neither was engaging in anything they hadn't done a hundred times before...the difference was, this time, the Beast got them. (The Beast always wins...sooner or later...always.)


In both cases, the one a rich, famous, popular man; the other, an unknown, messed up, single woman, the deaths were sudden, shocking, unplanned, though families in both situations "knew it was coming". There are always "the vibes". (However we ignore them away; pray for their dissolve; refuse to believe what we are seeing/feeling. There are always "the vibes".)


In the news this week, the rise of heroin use in the state of Vermont.
(Why is this shocking?)
Vermont is a state long known around here for its interminable winters; dark days and high rates of depression. People become isolated quickly, especially in winter. People are praised for not talking about what is bothering them. For "sucking up" any personal problems. For not burdening anyone else with their pain. Like all New Englanders, shameful secrets lie buried just below a smiling face. A can-do attitude that doesn't depend on anyone else. A life trying to avoid criticism or softness.


There are similarities here--both in the grief and in the questions that arise. We are a society that is abandoning itself--leaving our critical thinking to machines and software developed by strangers. We are a society kidding itself that we are super-heroes and battle-masters and creators of universes that can be reconstructed in a minute's notice. Human contact is what we are waiting for--but, the unmessy kind--the kind that comes without issues and tough confrontations--contact that may only come with the development of synthetic companions that won't cost as much to befriend. This is who we seem to be turning into...




Till that time, if you can't handle the pain, confronting the shame, dealing with what is at the core, the Beast is in the shadows, lurking. Waiting.
 Everywhere.




The Beast always wins.