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.
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.
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