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.