I'm learning to have very mixed feelings about the word "amicable". It's been several weeks since I've written here. It's been a busy several weeks. I now live in a new home with my daughter. I have a new car. My wife and I have separated and our divorce will be final in another few weeks.
After a 20 year relationship (married for 17 of those years), my wife and I are dismantling our life together and trying to create a soft spot for each of us to land. We're focusing very intently on making sure that our daughter experiences as little trauma as possible. We're trying to salvage a friendship--a good friendship in fact, rather than waging war on each other, which seems to be so common during divorce.
Today I'm focusing on the word "amicable". I'm relieved that we're not fighting. I'm relieved that, although we've agreed that we can't live together as married people anymore, we're being compassionate toward one another. But I think, deep down, I may really hate the word "amicable"-- it's almost always used in the context of divorce--and divorce is awful.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Carousel riders on the storm
It's one of those classic Indiana summer evenings. Folks are at the county fair, sloshing through the mud from the storm that went through an hour ago, watching the western skies for the next storm that is looming on the horizon. Food vendors who make their living selling elephant ears and lemon shake ups are experiencing the storm in terms of lost revenue. Carnival workers are reveling in a few moments of quiet while the games and rides sit still and motionless. Teenagers are absentmindedly sitting amidst the cows, pigs and horses they've worked hard to raise and prepare to be showed. A few young people are forlornly wishing that the storms wouldn't have kept them from riding the carousel with a newfound love--or at least a newfound "like-a-lot."
Although I enjoy the fair, I'm not at all disappointed that I'm sitting at home watching the storms roll in on the western horizon. I've always enjoyed storms and the thunder and lightening that often accompany them. As a child I would sneak out the upstairs window onto the second story porch of our farmhouse and sit in the rain, letting it drip down my face and into my eyes and mouth. As an adult, I sometimes stand on the patio while a storm rolls in and practice yoga, facing into the wind and raindrops as they come. It's easier to be present in the midst of a summer thunderstorm. I simply love a good storm.
I was raised in Coatesville, Indiana. Coatesville's only claim to fame is that it was nearly completely destroyed by a tornado in 1948. Many people raised in Coatesville, especially those old enough to remember the tornado, are deathly afraid of storms. My great-aunt Gracie was known to lock herself in a closet or bathroom when a storm was coming. She would cover her eyes and ears and simply panic while the storm passed through. She was terrified.
I don't know what caused my great-aunt to be so afraid of storms. I suppose it was the tornado. I don't know why I love storms so much that I will often sit in a lawn chair in my open garage, letting the wind whip my hair and the rain fall on my toes and legs. I suppose that a good summer storm is a little reminder of the recently forgotten harsh winter weather--weather that keeps us from going about our daily plans. I also suppose that a strong storm is one of the few ways that we are all forced to deal completely and, often suddenly, with the brute forces of nature. A storm doesn't choose a bad neighborhood or immoral people on which to exact its forces. No one in the area is exempted and we all face a common threat--but not the threat of an enemy. We face the unlikely threat of harm and loss of our homes or belongings. We are completely unable to control our destinies for the duration of the storm. Aside from our ability to predict, be warned, and hide in a closet with our eyes and ears covered, we must simply be present and endure.
I love a good storm in the summertime--even if it means I'm going to miss a ride on the carousel with my sweetie.
Although I enjoy the fair, I'm not at all disappointed that I'm sitting at home watching the storms roll in on the western horizon. I've always enjoyed storms and the thunder and lightening that often accompany them. As a child I would sneak out the upstairs window onto the second story porch of our farmhouse and sit in the rain, letting it drip down my face and into my eyes and mouth. As an adult, I sometimes stand on the patio while a storm rolls in and practice yoga, facing into the wind and raindrops as they come. It's easier to be present in the midst of a summer thunderstorm. I simply love a good storm.
I was raised in Coatesville, Indiana. Coatesville's only claim to fame is that it was nearly completely destroyed by a tornado in 1948. Many people raised in Coatesville, especially those old enough to remember the tornado, are deathly afraid of storms. My great-aunt Gracie was known to lock herself in a closet or bathroom when a storm was coming. She would cover her eyes and ears and simply panic while the storm passed through. She was terrified.
I don't know what caused my great-aunt to be so afraid of storms. I suppose it was the tornado. I don't know why I love storms so much that I will often sit in a lawn chair in my open garage, letting the wind whip my hair and the rain fall on my toes and legs. I suppose that a good summer storm is a little reminder of the recently forgotten harsh winter weather--weather that keeps us from going about our daily plans. I also suppose that a strong storm is one of the few ways that we are all forced to deal completely and, often suddenly, with the brute forces of nature. A storm doesn't choose a bad neighborhood or immoral people on which to exact its forces. No one in the area is exempted and we all face a common threat--but not the threat of an enemy. We face the unlikely threat of harm and loss of our homes or belongings. We are completely unable to control our destinies for the duration of the storm. Aside from our ability to predict, be warned, and hide in a closet with our eyes and ears covered, we must simply be present and endure.
I love a good storm in the summertime--even if it means I'm going to miss a ride on the carousel with my sweetie.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Meditating Across Indiana
I'm sitting on the living room couch, a little sore, a little tired, but with a feeling of accomplishment. Yesterday, I awoke at 4am, prepared my ritual bowl of oatmeal and headed out to Terre Haute, Indiana. My bicycle was cleaned and polished, my water bottles were full, my lunch was packed and I was well-trained and ready for my fifth consecutive Ride Across INdiana (www.RainRide.org).
Riding a bicycle long distances has been an important part of my weight loss journey (www.HowILost100Pounds.com) over the past several years. People who know me well know that I spend many of my free hours on a bicycle, alone. In most years I average over 2000 miles traveled by bicycle. Sometimes I ride in organized events. Sometimes I go on cycling tours with others. Most of the time, however; I ride by myself--many times more than 100 miles in a day.
I'm not sure whether my obsession with solitary cycling was an early sign of my need to meditate or whether I've fallen so in love with this activity because it's a natural way to meditate. As a Buddhist practitioner who practices primarily alone, I meditate, sitting seiza style (on a bench) due to my inordinately tight hips. I meditate, typically once or twice a day for about twenty minutes. I've never done walking meditation, but I've read that it's a completely legitimate way to break up long hours of seated meditation.
In the past year or two, since my meditation practice has started to more fully develop, I've realized that long distance cycling is a very powerful form of meditation. Long hours alone, with only the sounds of my wheels turning, the wind blowing, and occasional birds chirping provides a perfect setting for prolonged meditation. Before becoming more determined with my meditation I used my time on the bicycle to solve problems, contemplate the future, and reminisce about the past. Yesterday, I rode 160 miles in eleven and one half hours. During that time, I mostly focused on my breath, the feelings in my constantly pedaling legs and the 'sickish' feeling in my stomach. (The heat and one-too-many protein shakes took their toll on my innards.) A few times during the day I found myself thinking about work or family or other issues. With those precious few exceptions, the entire day was spent focusing on the present--breathing in, breathing out, noticing the trees, pedaling, shifting gears. I found a remarkable peace that seemed to be consistent whether I was climbing a hill, sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, or stopping to have my water refilled.
Although my body is sore and tired from the day-long ride, my mind was, and still mostly remains, clear and calm. I've read about many types, styles and traditions of meditation. I'm not sure if distance bicycling has ever been explored and cataloged by the great Zen masters but, for me at least, it's a great way to clear the mind, enjoy the out-of-doors and stay healthy.
Riding a bicycle long distances has been an important part of my weight loss journey (www.HowILost100Pounds.com) over the past several years. People who know me well know that I spend many of my free hours on a bicycle, alone. In most years I average over 2000 miles traveled by bicycle. Sometimes I ride in organized events. Sometimes I go on cycling tours with others. Most of the time, however; I ride by myself--many times more than 100 miles in a day.
I'm not sure whether my obsession with solitary cycling was an early sign of my need to meditate or whether I've fallen so in love with this activity because it's a natural way to meditate. As a Buddhist practitioner who practices primarily alone, I meditate, sitting seiza style (on a bench) due to my inordinately tight hips. I meditate, typically once or twice a day for about twenty minutes. I've never done walking meditation, but I've read that it's a completely legitimate way to break up long hours of seated meditation.
In the past year or two, since my meditation practice has started to more fully develop, I've realized that long distance cycling is a very powerful form of meditation. Long hours alone, with only the sounds of my wheels turning, the wind blowing, and occasional birds chirping provides a perfect setting for prolonged meditation. Before becoming more determined with my meditation I used my time on the bicycle to solve problems, contemplate the future, and reminisce about the past. Yesterday, I rode 160 miles in eleven and one half hours. During that time, I mostly focused on my breath, the feelings in my constantly pedaling legs and the 'sickish' feeling in my stomach. (The heat and one-too-many protein shakes took their toll on my innards.) A few times during the day I found myself thinking about work or family or other issues. With those precious few exceptions, the entire day was spent focusing on the present--breathing in, breathing out, noticing the trees, pedaling, shifting gears. I found a remarkable peace that seemed to be consistent whether I was climbing a hill, sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, or stopping to have my water refilled.
Although my body is sore and tired from the day-long ride, my mind was, and still mostly remains, clear and calm. I've read about many types, styles and traditions of meditation. I'm not sure if distance bicycling has ever been explored and cataloged by the great Zen masters but, for me at least, it's a great way to clear the mind, enjoy the out-of-doors and stay healthy.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Not so good vibration
I've recently experienced episode of "phantom vibration." I've been walking, sitting, riding in my Jeep when I feel a vibration in my pocket or on my hip, reach down to grab the offending device, only to find it's not vibrating.
I'm not exactly sure what to make of this phenomenon. I've carried a cell phone for years, pagers for years before that. On my person, at almost all times are three devices capable of an inorganic vibration. I carry my phone on my belt next to my insulin pump. My continuous glucose monitoring system is usually in my hip pocket. Two of these devices routinely vibrate to let me know that my diabetes needs some attention. My phone rings routinely to let me know that someone else needs attention.
The phantom vibrations tend to happen when I'm at work, between tasks during a busy day. Most of my days are busy. On the positive side, the phantom vibration causes me to be mindful of my diabetes and, by extension, my health. That's not so bad. On the other hand, it's fairly annoying and, frankly, makes me think I'm a little nuts. At this point, I've not found a lesson in this weird occurrence--it's just weird and a bit annoying. Perhaps there will be more on this later...
I'm not exactly sure what to make of this phenomenon. I've carried a cell phone for years, pagers for years before that. On my person, at almost all times are three devices capable of an inorganic vibration. I carry my phone on my belt next to my insulin pump. My continuous glucose monitoring system is usually in my hip pocket. Two of these devices routinely vibrate to let me know that my diabetes needs some attention. My phone rings routinely to let me know that someone else needs attention.
The phantom vibrations tend to happen when I'm at work, between tasks during a busy day. Most of my days are busy. On the positive side, the phantom vibration causes me to be mindful of my diabetes and, by extension, my health. That's not so bad. On the other hand, it's fairly annoying and, frankly, makes me think I'm a little nuts. At this point, I've not found a lesson in this weird occurrence--it's just weird and a bit annoying. Perhaps there will be more on this later...
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Stages
I have been a serious recreational bicyclist for over five years now. In a "good" year I'll put between 2000 and 2500 miles on my various bicycles. Most of those miles I ride by myself. This weekend I will participate in my fifth consecutive Ride Across INdiana or RAIN ride, in which over 1000 cyclists ride over 160 miles, across the state of Indiana, in a single day.
As part of preparing for the RAIN ride, I've spent the past several weekends increasing my mileage. I start with 30-40 mile rides in the spring and by this time of year, I'm usually getting in a "century" (100 miles in a day) most weekends. Last weekend I rode 120 miles from my home in Danville to West Lafayette, Indiana. The route I took wasn't particularly scenic, hilly, or interesting. In fact, at one point, I realized that after I turned left onto a four-lane state highway, that I would be riding 30 flat miles without any turns, hills or any place to stop for water or supplies.
After a mile or so, I found myself focusing on my breath. I occasionally noticed a car passing a bit too close or a bird flying through my field of vision, but mostly I focused on my breath. When cycling, my breath is a little more labored--not extremely so, but it's still a little more than when I'm walking or at rest. Several minutes later, I realized that I had ridden several miles without realizing that time had passed. I wasn't asleep or unaware of the road during that time, but time didn't pass as it normally did. In fact, at the end of the ride, which took almost ten hours, I realized that the time passed very quickly. It made me think about the types or "stages" of meditation that I have studied. It made me wonder if I had experienced a type of "samadhi," one of the points in meditation in which you become intensely focused and the mind becomes still and concentrated.
Although I'm not a huge fan of bicycle racing, the Tour de France happens to be going on at the same time that I'm training for the RAIN ride. In "The Tour" each day is called a "stage" and is made up of a different type of riding. Some days are mountainous, some days are made up of "time trials" or sprint-type races. Each day is focused on a different type of riding, demanding different skills and strengths from the riders--all of which are challenging.
All of this made me realize that I've been retreating to cycling for the past five years or so as a source of retreat. Prior to cycling, I was an avid gardener. Prior to gardening I enjoyed fly-fishing. Each of these activities happened in solitude and took several hours. I think I have been using these activities as a meditative retreat, for many years, without realizing it. I think that, although I've only been formally practicing Zen meditation for a year or so, I've actually been experiencing something very similar for all my life. Not too long ago, I disclosed my Buddhist practice to my sister. I sort of expected a surprised reaction from her. However, her reaction was not surprised at all. After I explained a few of the key components of the practice, she said "Bub, I think you've been a Buddhist all your life and you're just now realizing it."
As part of preparing for the RAIN ride, I've spent the past several weekends increasing my mileage. I start with 30-40 mile rides in the spring and by this time of year, I'm usually getting in a "century" (100 miles in a day) most weekends. Last weekend I rode 120 miles from my home in Danville to West Lafayette, Indiana. The route I took wasn't particularly scenic, hilly, or interesting. In fact, at one point, I realized that after I turned left onto a four-lane state highway, that I would be riding 30 flat miles without any turns, hills or any place to stop for water or supplies.
After a mile or so, I found myself focusing on my breath. I occasionally noticed a car passing a bit too close or a bird flying through my field of vision, but mostly I focused on my breath. When cycling, my breath is a little more labored--not extremely so, but it's still a little more than when I'm walking or at rest. Several minutes later, I realized that I had ridden several miles without realizing that time had passed. I wasn't asleep or unaware of the road during that time, but time didn't pass as it normally did. In fact, at the end of the ride, which took almost ten hours, I realized that the time passed very quickly. It made me think about the types or "stages" of meditation that I have studied. It made me wonder if I had experienced a type of "samadhi," one of the points in meditation in which you become intensely focused and the mind becomes still and concentrated.
Although I'm not a huge fan of bicycle racing, the Tour de France happens to be going on at the same time that I'm training for the RAIN ride. In "The Tour" each day is called a "stage" and is made up of a different type of riding. Some days are mountainous, some days are made up of "time trials" or sprint-type races. Each day is focused on a different type of riding, demanding different skills and strengths from the riders--all of which are challenging.
All of this made me realize that I've been retreating to cycling for the past five years or so as a source of retreat. Prior to cycling, I was an avid gardener. Prior to gardening I enjoyed fly-fishing. Each of these activities happened in solitude and took several hours. I think I have been using these activities as a meditative retreat, for many years, without realizing it. I think that, although I've only been formally practicing Zen meditation for a year or so, I've actually been experiencing something very similar for all my life. Not too long ago, I disclosed my Buddhist practice to my sister. I sort of expected a surprised reaction from her. However, her reaction was not surprised at all. After I explained a few of the key components of the practice, she said "Bub, I think you've been a Buddhist all your life and you're just now realizing it."
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Yoga-versary
On June 23, 2004, I was on a trip in Washington DC with my family. I was horrifically out of shape, overweight and unable to walk for long distances without pain. That night I decided to turn my health around. I went to a local bookstore and purchase a book called Yoga for Wimps. That night I read the book and followed along for a ten-minute yoga practice. I did the same thing the next night, and the following night. I have practiced yoga every single night since.
Tonight, I will do yoga under the stars, in a campground, on a bicycle touring trip. I am about 100 pounds lighter than I was six years ago. I will ride nearly 500 miles on my bicycle in hill southern Indiana this week. Today marks six years of daily yoga. That is 2,192 days of practice without interruption. I have a tattoo of the sacred "Om" on my right shoulder that reminds me, every day, that yoga is now part of who I am. Yoga let me to meditation, which led me to my newly-found Zen practice. I am grateful for teachers and practitioners who have carried the yogic traditions through the generations so that we may learn and benefit from the wisdom contained therein.
Namaste.
Tonight, I will do yoga under the stars, in a campground, on a bicycle touring trip. I am about 100 pounds lighter than I was six years ago. I will ride nearly 500 miles on my bicycle in hill southern Indiana this week. Today marks six years of daily yoga. That is 2,192 days of practice without interruption. I have a tattoo of the sacred "Om" on my right shoulder that reminds me, every day, that yoga is now part of who I am. Yoga let me to meditation, which led me to my newly-found Zen practice. I am grateful for teachers and practitioners who have carried the yogic traditions through the generations so that we may learn and benefit from the wisdom contained therein.
Namaste.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The ups and downs of impermanence
I am sitting at a public library in Nashville, Indiana. This week I am on a bicycling trip that involves about two hundred cyclists, camping and riding the hilly roads between some of Indiana's nicest state parks. It's a great group of people and the camraderie is one of the best parts of the trip.
I am also fining a number of zen lessons while on this trip. We rise and go to bed with the sun. It's amazing how naturally a person can slip into that rhythm. It feels good to be on nature's schedule.
It's also interesting how, when dealing with day-long physical exertion that hydration and nutrition becomes urgent. I realize that I often take for granted the availability of food and water when all I have to do is stop my car at a gas station, shell out a few bucks, and merrily slurp and crunch along my way.
Hills are a lesson in impermanence. This week, the weather is in the 90s and there is a chance of thunderstorms each day. We are riding in the hilliest parts of Indiana. If you think of Indiana as one of those flat mid-western states, you've not spent much time south of Bloomington. There are some significan hills here. However, as I sweat and gasp for air while I will one foot in front of the other, I realize that the agony of the climb will soon be replaced by the air whipping through the grooves in my helmet and, if I'm fortunate, I will get to spend a few effortless moments pedaling along a bubbling creek. However, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the challenge that it takes approximately a bazillion times longer to climb a hill than it does to whip down the other side into a valley.
I hope to check in again from my trip later this week. Until then, keep breathing.
I am also fining a number of zen lessons while on this trip. We rise and go to bed with the sun. It's amazing how naturally a person can slip into that rhythm. It feels good to be on nature's schedule.
It's also interesting how, when dealing with day-long physical exertion that hydration and nutrition becomes urgent. I realize that I often take for granted the availability of food and water when all I have to do is stop my car at a gas station, shell out a few bucks, and merrily slurp and crunch along my way.
Hills are a lesson in impermanence. This week, the weather is in the 90s and there is a chance of thunderstorms each day. We are riding in the hilliest parts of Indiana. If you think of Indiana as one of those flat mid-western states, you've not spent much time south of Bloomington. There are some significan hills here. However, as I sweat and gasp for air while I will one foot in front of the other, I realize that the agony of the climb will soon be replaced by the air whipping through the grooves in my helmet and, if I'm fortunate, I will get to spend a few effortless moments pedaling along a bubbling creek. However, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the challenge that it takes approximately a bazillion times longer to climb a hill than it does to whip down the other side into a valley.
I hope to check in again from my trip later this week. Until then, keep breathing.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
in between
I turn the corner and exit the stairwell, hurriedly, only to abruptly encounter one of my employees "Boss, did you get a chance to sign that expense report?" As I tell him that he can walk with me to my office for my signature, my waistband buzzes to let me know that the text message that came across 5 minutes ago still hasn't gained my full attention. We step through the threshold and up to my desk while the friendly "chime" that lets me know an important email has arrived draws my attention to the screen. I see a note from an auditor suggesting--which translates into demanding--that we spend an hour together sometime today to go over some financial testing protocols for the grant I oversee. As my mobile phone receives another text, my secretary announces that there is someone in the lobby to see me and reminds me about a report that's due tomorrow. My desk phone starts ringing as I retrieve my pen from my pocket...
Inhale.
There is a breeze caressing my face and the soft smell of sandalwood. In the distance a bird rises slowly from the branch of a cherry tree--blossoms falling ever so lightly into the distance. Wind chimes lean into each other in a beautiful musical sway while two thousand years of wisdom flow into the space between my ears, my heart, my mind, my soul, my being, my...
Exhale.
... and sign the expense report so that I can be on time for my meeting with the auditor.
Inhale.
There is a breeze caressing my face and the soft smell of sandalwood. In the distance a bird rises slowly from the branch of a cherry tree--blossoms falling ever so lightly into the distance. Wind chimes lean into each other in a beautiful musical sway while two thousand years of wisdom flow into the space between my ears, my heart, my mind, my soul, my being, my...
Exhale.
... and sign the expense report so that I can be on time for my meeting with the auditor.
Friday, June 11, 2010
"Shenpa" and the cave dwellers
As I write, I'm sitting in a hotel room in Elizabethtown, Kentucky. My thirteen-year-old daughter has finished swimming and is getting ready for bed. My daughter and I have always been very close. It's always been difficult for me to discipline her and I feel that I tend to err on the side of being indulgent rather than being overly-strict. However, in the past year or two, as she's made the transition from lovingly-curious adolescent into hormonal, eyeball-rolling teenager, I find myself occasionally losing my cool with her. Sometimes I'm ashamed when I blow my lid and end up shouting or cursing at her. It doesn't happen often, but as she has approached and, recently surpassed the age of thirteen, my attitude doppler has seen a slight increase in colorful splotches.
I've especially noticed that I tend to resort to shouting like an idiot more often when my wife and daughter are picking at each other. I think they see their conflicts as minor squabbles when I see them as infuriating and disrespectful attacks on one another. I've been making a conscious effort to try to be as consistent as possible in dealing with my daughter, regardless of who else is in the room. I know is seems simple and fair, but I sometimes struggle with this issue of consistency.
Next Sunday is Father's Day. It will be the first Father's Day since the death of my father and I will be away from my family on a bicycling trip. I'm excited about the trip but I feel a little pang of guilt knowing that I'll be away. In an effort to help compensate for my impending absence and, because I suspect my thirteen-year-old daughter will soon not be interested in vacations with her dad, we're visiting Mammoth Cave together--just the two of us.
Ironically, one of the "Zen of the day" emails I got this morning was a very informative and inspirational piece from one of my favorite authors, Pema Chodron. In this lesson (below), she discusses the concept of "Shenpa" or "getting hooked." She describes that familiar feeling of "stickiness" when our reaction to conflict starts to turn into aggression. The minute I read her description, my mind slammed into recognition of that feeling. That feeling almost always happens a few moments before I completely pop my cork and then shout like a fool.
I'm going to use this trip into the depths of the earth in central Kentucky not only to spend some precious time with my daughter, but to also stay intensely mindful of the feeling of "shenpa." I'm training myself to recognize that "sticky feeling" and, when it comes, keep myself from acting upon it, to focus on the breath, curb my tongue, and remember my role of teacher and nurturer, rather than the hot-headed idiot that occasionally arises.
Here are Pema Chodron's words that inspired this post:
Getting Hooked
In Tibetan there is a word that points to the root cause of aggression, the root cause also of craving. It points to a familiar experience that is at the root of all conflict, all cruelty, oppression, and greed. This word is shenpa. The usual translation is “attachment,” but this doesn’t adequately express the full meaning. I think of shenpa as “getting hooked.” Another definition, used by Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, is the “charge”—the charge behind our thoughts and words and actions, the charge behind “like” and “don’t like.” Here’s an everyday example: Someone criticizes you. She criticizes your work or your appearance or your child. In moments like that, what is it you feel? It has a familiar taste, a familiar smell. Once you begin to notice it, you feel like this experience has been happening forever. That sticky feeling is shenpa. And it comes along with a very seductive urge to do something. Somebody says a harsh word and immediately you can feel a shift. There’s a tightening that rapidly spirals into mentally blaming this person, or wanting revenge, or blaming yourself. Then you speak or act. The charge behind the tightening, behind the urge, behind the story line or action is shenpa.
- Pema Chödrön, "Don't Bite the Hook" (Summer 2009)
I've especially noticed that I tend to resort to shouting like an idiot more often when my wife and daughter are picking at each other. I think they see their conflicts as minor squabbles when I see them as infuriating and disrespectful attacks on one another. I've been making a conscious effort to try to be as consistent as possible in dealing with my daughter, regardless of who else is in the room. I know is seems simple and fair, but I sometimes struggle with this issue of consistency.
Next Sunday is Father's Day. It will be the first Father's Day since the death of my father and I will be away from my family on a bicycling trip. I'm excited about the trip but I feel a little pang of guilt knowing that I'll be away. In an effort to help compensate for my impending absence and, because I suspect my thirteen-year-old daughter will soon not be interested in vacations with her dad, we're visiting Mammoth Cave together--just the two of us.
Ironically, one of the "Zen of the day" emails I got this morning was a very informative and inspirational piece from one of my favorite authors, Pema Chodron. In this lesson (below), she discusses the concept of "Shenpa" or "getting hooked." She describes that familiar feeling of "stickiness" when our reaction to conflict starts to turn into aggression. The minute I read her description, my mind slammed into recognition of that feeling. That feeling almost always happens a few moments before I completely pop my cork and then shout like a fool.
I'm going to use this trip into the depths of the earth in central Kentucky not only to spend some precious time with my daughter, but to also stay intensely mindful of the feeling of "shenpa." I'm training myself to recognize that "sticky feeling" and, when it comes, keep myself from acting upon it, to focus on the breath, curb my tongue, and remember my role of teacher and nurturer, rather than the hot-headed idiot that occasionally arises.
Here are Pema Chodron's words that inspired this post:
Getting Hooked
In Tibetan there is a word that points to the root cause of aggression, the root cause also of craving. It points to a familiar experience that is at the root of all conflict, all cruelty, oppression, and greed. This word is shenpa. The usual translation is “attachment,” but this doesn’t adequately express the full meaning. I think of shenpa as “getting hooked.” Another definition, used by Dzigar Kongtrul Rinpoche, is the “charge”—the charge behind our thoughts and words and actions, the charge behind “like” and “don’t like.” Here’s an everyday example: Someone criticizes you. She criticizes your work or your appearance or your child. In moments like that, what is it you feel? It has a familiar taste, a familiar smell. Once you begin to notice it, you feel like this experience has been happening forever. That sticky feeling is shenpa. And it comes along with a very seductive urge to do something. Somebody says a harsh word and immediately you can feel a shift. There’s a tightening that rapidly spirals into mentally blaming this person, or wanting revenge, or blaming yourself. Then you speak or act. The charge behind the tightening, behind the urge, behind the story line or action is shenpa.
- Pema Chödrön, "Don't Bite the Hook" (Summer 2009)
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Buddhist-ish podcasts
I drive an hour each day, each way to commute from home to my office. That gives me a lot of time in the car to think about life. It also creates a natural separation between my home life and work life. If I have a rough day at work, I am usually over it before I get home.
However, many days I spend that time driving listening to some very good podcasts. Some are specifically Buddhist and some are accidentally so. Here's the run down of my favorites:
(Note: Each of these podcasts are available via iTunes. I'll provide a link to the group's main site as well for reference.)
The Mindfulist - www.TheMindfulist.com: Gwen Bell and Patrick Reynolds are two very cool meditation practitioners who provide a weekly dose of reality-based Buddhist thought. I fell in love with their style as a listener of "Zen is Stupid" which was the progenitor of their current endeavor. Gwen is a brilliant and lovely social media consultant who brings energy and enthusiasm to the table, while Patrick is a laid back, video-game-playing yoga teacher who is the Yin to Gwen's Yang. This podcast usually runs about 20 minutes long and I rarely walk away from it without the nugget of a teaching that follows me throughout the day.
Against the Stream - www.AgainstTheStream.org: If you're an inked up, wild-child, punk-rocker, western buddhist--or you play one on TV--you should check out Noah Levine. Noah is my age, which for some reason gives him credibility with me, and has studied with Jack Kornfield, Raam Dass, and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. He is also covered with tattoos and takes an in-your-face approach to the dharma. His books, Dharma Punx and Against the Stream are both on my night-stand and are very approachable. The podcast is a blend of Levine and his contemporaries providing various guided meditations and dharma talks. Very good stuff indeed!
Buddhist Geeks - www.BuddhistGeeks.com: This podcast is not belied by its tag line-- "Seriously Buddhist, seriously geeky." The program is generally an interview with Buddhist teachers and I enjoy the variety of traditions and lineages represented among them. It's a little more academic than my other favorites, but never fails to have real-world application.
Alan Watts Podcast - www.AlanWattsPodcast.com: The classic philosophy from a classic western Buddhist compiled by his son, Mark. Each podcast is a quick shot of classic Watts and will resonate with you throughout your day--no mind-altering substances required!
All Souls Unitarian Church, Tulsa Oklahoma - www.AllSoulsChurch.org: While not really a Buddhist podcast, this one is very important to me. I have recently "signed the book" at our local Unitarian Universalist Church and enjoy it very much. Because I was raised in a bible-thumping family in bible-belt USA, I still have a very strong cultural need for that Sunday morning, sitting in the pew experience. This podcast from a UU church in Tulsa offers an inspiring and diverse collection of Sunday morning church services that are well-produced and meaningful. Sometimes the various pastors are preaching with spirit in the vein of a southern Baptist revivalist and sometimes it's more like a quiet dharma talk. Either way, the messages are always relevant and colorful.
I'm a bid public radio geek, so here is a list of not necessary Buddhist, but still excellent podcasts that I regularly enjoy:
This American Life - www.ThisAmericanLife.org
A Way With Words - www.WayWordRadio.org
Radiolab - www.RadioLab.org
The Moth - www.TheMoth.org
The Story - www.TheStory.org
However, many days I spend that time driving listening to some very good podcasts. Some are specifically Buddhist and some are accidentally so. Here's the run down of my favorites:
(Note: Each of these podcasts are available via iTunes. I'll provide a link to the group's main site as well for reference.)
The Mindfulist - www.TheMindfulist.com: Gwen Bell and Patrick Reynolds are two very cool meditation practitioners who provide a weekly dose of reality-based Buddhist thought. I fell in love with their style as a listener of "Zen is Stupid" which was the progenitor of their current endeavor. Gwen is a brilliant and lovely social media consultant who brings energy and enthusiasm to the table, while Patrick is a laid back, video-game-playing yoga teacher who is the Yin to Gwen's Yang. This podcast usually runs about 20 minutes long and I rarely walk away from it without the nugget of a teaching that follows me throughout the day.
Against the Stream - www.AgainstTheStream.org: If you're an inked up, wild-child, punk-rocker, western buddhist--or you play one on TV--you should check out Noah Levine. Noah is my age, which for some reason gives him credibility with me, and has studied with Jack Kornfield, Raam Dass, and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. He is also covered with tattoos and takes an in-your-face approach to the dharma. His books, Dharma Punx and Against the Stream are both on my night-stand and are very approachable. The podcast is a blend of Levine and his contemporaries providing various guided meditations and dharma talks. Very good stuff indeed!
Buddhist Geeks - www.BuddhistGeeks.com: This podcast is not belied by its tag line-- "Seriously Buddhist, seriously geeky." The program is generally an interview with Buddhist teachers and I enjoy the variety of traditions and lineages represented among them. It's a little more academic than my other favorites, but never fails to have real-world application.
Alan Watts Podcast - www.AlanWattsPodcast.com: The classic philosophy from a classic western Buddhist compiled by his son, Mark. Each podcast is a quick shot of classic Watts and will resonate with you throughout your day--no mind-altering substances required!
All Souls Unitarian Church, Tulsa Oklahoma - www.AllSoulsChurch.org: While not really a Buddhist podcast, this one is very important to me. I have recently "signed the book" at our local Unitarian Universalist Church and enjoy it very much. Because I was raised in a bible-thumping family in bible-belt USA, I still have a very strong cultural need for that Sunday morning, sitting in the pew experience. This podcast from a UU church in Tulsa offers an inspiring and diverse collection of Sunday morning church services that are well-produced and meaningful. Sometimes the various pastors are preaching with spirit in the vein of a southern Baptist revivalist and sometimes it's more like a quiet dharma talk. Either way, the messages are always relevant and colorful.
I'm a bid public radio geek, so here is a list of not necessary Buddhist, but still excellent podcasts that I regularly enjoy:
This American Life - www.ThisAmericanLife.org
A Way With Words - www.WayWordRadio.org
Radiolab - www.RadioLab.org
The Moth - www.TheMoth.org
The Story - www.TheStory.org
Sunday, June 6, 2010
When a giant falls, the earth shudders.
You might have noticed that there has been a pretty big gap in my blog entries between mid-summer of 2009 and early summer of 2010.
On the afternoon of July 31, 2009 I was working in my office when my mother called my cell phone and said "Wade, you dad has fallen at work and hit his head. They think he's going to be okay, but they're taking him to the hospital just to be sure." I told her that I wasn't working on anything too important at the office and that I would head toward the hospital. I told a few folks at work that I was going to leave a little early and that my dad had fallen and started making my way to the hospital--about an hour drive away.
Within 15 minutes, my mom called back, in tears and said that the situation was worse than they had originally thought and that they were going to airlift him to Methodist hospital in Indianapolis, a bigger hospital with more resources. My heart sank and I turned left on Capitol Avenue. I was closer to that hospital and I knew that I would be the first of my family and friends to arrive. I had some time to think...
------------------------
My father was always a scrappy kind of giant. He wasn't very tall. Most would describe him that way--scrappy. As a child he played little league baseball. In high school he ran track. He carried papers, stacked hay, and was industrious. He was known as a hard worker, focused on his family and an all around nice guy. I take a lot of my physical characteristics from my mother's side of the family, so by the time I was in high school I towered over him, but I never had to wonder who was the more powerful force in this father-son relationship. He was stronger than me in every way--physically and emotionally.
-------------------------
Before long, my best friend, who lives near the hospital, showed up with a bottle of water and a cell phone charger. He's one of those guys who is always thinking and planning ahead and he knew that I'd need to be hydrated and that I would probably need to charge my phone. He's a great guy. He and I started talking about what might have happened to my dad while we waited for the sound of the helicopter on the roof and waited for my mother to arrive. The strange and surreal conversation included a lot of postulation about how my dad, who was at work selling cars at the local dealership, might have fallen and injured his head so badly that he needed to be airlifted to the hospital. We wondered if he had fallen down the stairs or had been in the shop area. It didn't make sense. A car salesman isn't usually exposed to many typical workplace risks that would result in a serious fall.
-------------------------------
My dad spent the first twenty plus years of his life as a self-employed electrician. He and I spent a lot of time working together. I helped him pull wire through the walls of houses. I helped him dig ditches for cables that connected televisions to satellite dishes. We worked in the garden together. My dad was famous for climbing utility poles without safety harnesses. More than once I saw him standing on the top rung of an extension ladder, leaning too far out to reach some live electrical connection and working on a farmer's grain dryer in a way that would make any safety inspector cringe in fear. He was often a daredevil on the job but was never seriously injured. In fact, he went more than 30 years without going to the doctor at all. He never got sick and never got hurt.
----------------------------------
I called my sister, who was just checking into the hotel for her first day of a well-deserved vacation. She and her husband had driven several hours and were just starting to unpack their bags when I called to tell them that dad was hurt and that should be on stand-by. I didn't know how bad the situation was yet, but we were waiting on the helicopter to arrive and the doctors to start giving us an idea of how badly he had been injured.
My mother arrived and, over the next hour, several friends, family members and dad's coworkers started filling up the emergency room's waiting room.
It was about an hour before the helicopter arrived. The helicopter ride should have taken about 10 minutes. It took the doctors at the first hospital almost an hour to stabilize him to the point that the airlift would even be possible.
-----------------------------------
While owning his own business in the same area of Indiana for over 30 years, Dad made a lot of friends and contacts. We used to joke that he knew "everybody and their brother." It only made sense that when dad realized that the satellite dish and electrical contracting business was drying up that he should do something that relied on the many contacts he had made over the years. He briefly considered real estate, but quickly started selling cars. It was a good "retirement job" for him because it wasn't very physically draining and his relationships with many people were already built on trust--trust that can make the experience of purchasing a car much less stressful on the seller and buyer.
That Friday afternoon in July, dad was working on selling cars during the "cash for clunkers" promotion that was part of the government's fiscal stimulus package of 2009. The car dealership was very busy and in order to help car salesmen get to customers on the lot, they were riding on golf carts from place to place around the dealership. One of my dad's close friends was driving one of the golf carts while my dad was riding on the back where the golf bags and clubs are supposed to ride, when he fell backward and hit his head. The cart didn't hit any bumps, nor did it swerve, my dad just simply fell back and fractured his skull, badly, in several places.
----------------------------
Eventually I was allowed to go back into the emergency room and see my dad. It was a gruesome sight. He was intubated and was bruised almost beyond recognition. He was unconscious--he would remain that way. Mom and I held his hand while we waited for doctors and nurses to give him various IV medications and perform tests. Several hours later my sister had made the drive back from their interrupted vacation. We started a three day process of greeting visitors and making phone calls to family and loved ones. We didn't sleep for almost 72 hours and when we did it was fitful, brief and full of nightmares. We were surrounded by support from friends and strangers. We lived in a hospital room and used a nearby hotel room as a base of operations for receiving grim updates from doctors and sharing those updates on dad's condition via phone and internet.
By Sunday night we all realized that dad was not going to survive his injuries and we had many tearful and difficult conversations with doctors, social workers and grief counselors. We were in the process of making the difficult decision to remove life support and allow my dad's life to come to an end. On Monday morning, after we all slept a few hours, we gathered up dad's grandchildren, we asked the nursing staff to make him look as normal as possible by removing all but the most critical tubes and medical gear and we brought his three granddaughters in to say goodbye to their Papaw. They were too little to completely grasp the situation, but I believe that they understood what was happening.
After the girls went home with a dear friend, my mother, my sister and her husband, my wife and I sat and held dad's hand and stroked his forehead while the ventilator and all life support was removed. It wasn't like what you see in the movies. The heart monitor didn't flat line. His battered brain tried to keep his dying body alive. He breathed, agonally, for about two hours. During those two hours we said very little to one another. The few words were limited to a strange mix of reminiscing about the best times in our lives and giving each other obvious updates on the heart monitor that was hanging right in front of everyone. When he stopped breathing in the early afternoon, my mother was stroking his head, my sister was holding his left hand and I was holding his right hand and we cried.
--------------------------
In my meditation practice I often focus on my breath. During these three days my "flirting with Buddhist practice" became solidified. While at the hospital, I took several opportunities to slip away and meditate in the chapel or patient consultation rooms. I found myself taking deep, focused breaths while talking on the phone to my dad's brothers and sister--it helped to keep the tears from coming and allowed me to share important information more clearly. At one point, in a moment of humor, my mom said "Son, you're handling this well. You're like Stephen-freaking-Seagal! Is this a Buddhist thing you're doing?"
During these three earth shattering days, I realized that Buddhism and my meditation practice were going to be key to dealing with this situation and, most likely, a lifetime of other important events. For two hours on the early afternoon of August 3rd, I silently meditated with my dying father and my family. I was focused on dad's breath until it stopped coming and going. I have been focusing on mine ever since.
Namaste.
Phillip Maurice Wingler
September 17, 1949 - August 3, 2010
On the afternoon of July 31, 2009 I was working in my office when my mother called my cell phone and said "Wade, you dad has fallen at work and hit his head. They think he's going to be okay, but they're taking him to the hospital just to be sure." I told her that I wasn't working on anything too important at the office and that I would head toward the hospital. I told a few folks at work that I was going to leave a little early and that my dad had fallen and started making my way to the hospital--about an hour drive away.
Within 15 minutes, my mom called back, in tears and said that the situation was worse than they had originally thought and that they were going to airlift him to Methodist hospital in Indianapolis, a bigger hospital with more resources. My heart sank and I turned left on Capitol Avenue. I was closer to that hospital and I knew that I would be the first of my family and friends to arrive. I had some time to think...
------------------------
My father was always a scrappy kind of giant. He wasn't very tall. Most would describe him that way--scrappy. As a child he played little league baseball. In high school he ran track. He carried papers, stacked hay, and was industrious. He was known as a hard worker, focused on his family and an all around nice guy. I take a lot of my physical characteristics from my mother's side of the family, so by the time I was in high school I towered over him, but I never had to wonder who was the more powerful force in this father-son relationship. He was stronger than me in every way--physically and emotionally.
-------------------------
Before long, my best friend, who lives near the hospital, showed up with a bottle of water and a cell phone charger. He's one of those guys who is always thinking and planning ahead and he knew that I'd need to be hydrated and that I would probably need to charge my phone. He's a great guy. He and I started talking about what might have happened to my dad while we waited for the sound of the helicopter on the roof and waited for my mother to arrive. The strange and surreal conversation included a lot of postulation about how my dad, who was at work selling cars at the local dealership, might have fallen and injured his head so badly that he needed to be airlifted to the hospital. We wondered if he had fallen down the stairs or had been in the shop area. It didn't make sense. A car salesman isn't usually exposed to many typical workplace risks that would result in a serious fall.
-------------------------------
My dad spent the first twenty plus years of his life as a self-employed electrician. He and I spent a lot of time working together. I helped him pull wire through the walls of houses. I helped him dig ditches for cables that connected televisions to satellite dishes. We worked in the garden together. My dad was famous for climbing utility poles without safety harnesses. More than once I saw him standing on the top rung of an extension ladder, leaning too far out to reach some live electrical connection and working on a farmer's grain dryer in a way that would make any safety inspector cringe in fear. He was often a daredevil on the job but was never seriously injured. In fact, he went more than 30 years without going to the doctor at all. He never got sick and never got hurt.
----------------------------------
I called my sister, who was just checking into the hotel for her first day of a well-deserved vacation. She and her husband had driven several hours and were just starting to unpack their bags when I called to tell them that dad was hurt and that should be on stand-by. I didn't know how bad the situation was yet, but we were waiting on the helicopter to arrive and the doctors to start giving us an idea of how badly he had been injured.
My mother arrived and, over the next hour, several friends, family members and dad's coworkers started filling up the emergency room's waiting room.
It was about an hour before the helicopter arrived. The helicopter ride should have taken about 10 minutes. It took the doctors at the first hospital almost an hour to stabilize him to the point that the airlift would even be possible.
-----------------------------------
While owning his own business in the same area of Indiana for over 30 years, Dad made a lot of friends and contacts. We used to joke that he knew "everybody and their brother." It only made sense that when dad realized that the satellite dish and electrical contracting business was drying up that he should do something that relied on the many contacts he had made over the years. He briefly considered real estate, but quickly started selling cars. It was a good "retirement job" for him because it wasn't very physically draining and his relationships with many people were already built on trust--trust that can make the experience of purchasing a car much less stressful on the seller and buyer.
That Friday afternoon in July, dad was working on selling cars during the "cash for clunkers" promotion that was part of the government's fiscal stimulus package of 2009. The car dealership was very busy and in order to help car salesmen get to customers on the lot, they were riding on golf carts from place to place around the dealership. One of my dad's close friends was driving one of the golf carts while my dad was riding on the back where the golf bags and clubs are supposed to ride, when he fell backward and hit his head. The cart didn't hit any bumps, nor did it swerve, my dad just simply fell back and fractured his skull, badly, in several places.
----------------------------
Eventually I was allowed to go back into the emergency room and see my dad. It was a gruesome sight. He was intubated and was bruised almost beyond recognition. He was unconscious--he would remain that way. Mom and I held his hand while we waited for doctors and nurses to give him various IV medications and perform tests. Several hours later my sister had made the drive back from their interrupted vacation. We started a three day process of greeting visitors and making phone calls to family and loved ones. We didn't sleep for almost 72 hours and when we did it was fitful, brief and full of nightmares. We were surrounded by support from friends and strangers. We lived in a hospital room and used a nearby hotel room as a base of operations for receiving grim updates from doctors and sharing those updates on dad's condition via phone and internet.
By Sunday night we all realized that dad was not going to survive his injuries and we had many tearful and difficult conversations with doctors, social workers and grief counselors. We were in the process of making the difficult decision to remove life support and allow my dad's life to come to an end. On Monday morning, after we all slept a few hours, we gathered up dad's grandchildren, we asked the nursing staff to make him look as normal as possible by removing all but the most critical tubes and medical gear and we brought his three granddaughters in to say goodbye to their Papaw. They were too little to completely grasp the situation, but I believe that they understood what was happening.
After the girls went home with a dear friend, my mother, my sister and her husband, my wife and I sat and held dad's hand and stroked his forehead while the ventilator and all life support was removed. It wasn't like what you see in the movies. The heart monitor didn't flat line. His battered brain tried to keep his dying body alive. He breathed, agonally, for about two hours. During those two hours we said very little to one another. The few words were limited to a strange mix of reminiscing about the best times in our lives and giving each other obvious updates on the heart monitor that was hanging right in front of everyone. When he stopped breathing in the early afternoon, my mother was stroking his head, my sister was holding his left hand and I was holding his right hand and we cried.
--------------------------
In my meditation practice I often focus on my breath. During these three days my "flirting with Buddhist practice" became solidified. While at the hospital, I took several opportunities to slip away and meditate in the chapel or patient consultation rooms. I found myself taking deep, focused breaths while talking on the phone to my dad's brothers and sister--it helped to keep the tears from coming and allowed me to share important information more clearly. At one point, in a moment of humor, my mom said "Son, you're handling this well. You're like Stephen-freaking-Seagal! Is this a Buddhist thing you're doing?"
During these three earth shattering days, I realized that Buddhism and my meditation practice were going to be key to dealing with this situation and, most likely, a lifetime of other important events. For two hours on the early afternoon of August 3rd, I silently meditated with my dying father and my family. I was focused on dad's breath until it stopped coming and going. I have been focusing on mine ever since.
Namaste.
Phillip Maurice Wingler
September 17, 1949 - August 3, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Morning Ritual of Oatmeal
In my religious life in the past, I was never one to cling to ritual. In the churches I attended, I sometimes admired the words spoken, songs sung and repetitious motions of stand-sit-kneel for the unison they created among participants, but never really found anything truly sacred in them.
This morning, however, I realized that I have fallen into a pattern of activity that has become a fairly spiritual ritual. It helps me set the mood and build the foundation for my day and, although there are occasional variations, it goes something like this:
Alarm goes off at 5:00 am. Hit the snooze button once or twice.
Let the dog out.
Grab my little oatmeal pot (yes, I have a pot that I use only for this ritual) and place it on the stove. Set burner to medium heat.
Add the critical oatmeal ingredients: One cup of skim milk, one cup of steel cut oats, one cup of frozen blueberries, pinch of salt.
Let the dog back in and, if the weather's not too hot or cold, leave the door open so that only the screen door is between me and the outdoors.
Sit on the couch for a while, check my email, log into facebook, feed the tortoises and geckos and, recently, work on my blog entries.
Fill a bottle of water from the filtration system to be used for drinking throughout the day.
Wait for the oatmeal to start to bubble.
Pour the oatmeal in a bowl, add splenda.
Turn on the kitchen faucet, grab my little pot scrubber and wash my little oatmeal pot by hand, making sure to run my scrubber over the entire pot, but then using my fingers to rub a little ring around the bottom of the little pot where the little pot scrubber sometimes misses a little milk and oatmeal.
Place my oatmeal pot in its place, next to the sink.
Grab a paper towel to use as a napkin.
Sit on the couch and eat my oatmeal, listening to the sounds of the breeze and birds and watch the cat, watching the birds and licking his paws.
From this point, my ritual, depending on the day, involves getting ready for work, prepping for a bicycle ride, or sometimes even going back to bed.
I find that this part of my day continues to grow increasingly important to me. Although I have a yoga practice and sit zazen almost every night before bed, this morning ritual, when I do it mindfully, is more meaningful than any genuflecting, incense, song, or recitation from any church I've attended. Not to mention that oatmeal is really good for you...
This morning, however, I realized that I have fallen into a pattern of activity that has become a fairly spiritual ritual. It helps me set the mood and build the foundation for my day and, although there are occasional variations, it goes something like this:
Alarm goes off at 5:00 am. Hit the snooze button once or twice.
Let the dog out.
Grab my little oatmeal pot (yes, I have a pot that I use only for this ritual) and place it on the stove. Set burner to medium heat.
Add the critical oatmeal ingredients: One cup of skim milk, one cup of steel cut oats, one cup of frozen blueberries, pinch of salt.
Let the dog back in and, if the weather's not too hot or cold, leave the door open so that only the screen door is between me and the outdoors.
Sit on the couch for a while, check my email, log into facebook, feed the tortoises and geckos and, recently, work on my blog entries.
Fill a bottle of water from the filtration system to be used for drinking throughout the day.
Wait for the oatmeal to start to bubble.
Pour the oatmeal in a bowl, add splenda.
Turn on the kitchen faucet, grab my little pot scrubber and wash my little oatmeal pot by hand, making sure to run my scrubber over the entire pot, but then using my fingers to rub a little ring around the bottom of the little pot where the little pot scrubber sometimes misses a little milk and oatmeal.
Place my oatmeal pot in its place, next to the sink.
Grab a paper towel to use as a napkin.
Sit on the couch and eat my oatmeal, listening to the sounds of the breeze and birds and watch the cat, watching the birds and licking his paws.
From this point, my ritual, depending on the day, involves getting ready for work, prepping for a bicycle ride, or sometimes even going back to bed.
I find that this part of my day continues to grow increasingly important to me. Although I have a yoga practice and sit zazen almost every night before bed, this morning ritual, when I do it mindfully, is more meaningful than any genuflecting, incense, song, or recitation from any church I've attended. Not to mention that oatmeal is really good for you...
Separating Religion and Culture
It's been almost a year since I've written here. There's been a lot going on with my spiritual journey and although I don't think I can pick up where I left off, I'd like to try to fill in a few blanks and move ahead.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Over the past year, I've continued my spiritual growth, read many books, and conducted a lot of research into Buddhism. I've discovered something that helps me deal with my mid-western spiritual identity crisis. I'm having a hard time separating my spiritual beliefs from my religious cultural identity. I spent most of my life going to church on Sunday mornings, singing in the choir, going to Sunday afternoon pitch-in dinners and having many close friends--friends upon which our relationship was built upon a shared spiritual practice. So, although, after over a year of study and contemplation, I've decided that Buddhism is the path that makes the most sense to me, I'm still "culturally Christian".
I have been attending the local Unitarian Universalist church, off and on, for over a year and last Sunday I "signed the book" indicating my formal membership. This seems to be a good place for me to be. Each Sunday morning, I go to church, we sing hymns, pass the plate and have a sermon. However, the sermons are sometimes based on the bible, but other times are based on literature, science, the holy books of other faiths. The message almost always is focused on finding those universal truths that lurk in almost every corner of our world.
In the pews of this "UU" church are seated Christians, Atheists, Pagans, Wiccans, Buddhists, Agnostics, and others whose spiritual identity are less defined. The common interest drawing this group together is not a shared dogma or creed, but a simple covenant to encourage each other toward spiritual growth, community service and ethical living. I'm making friends there and I'm excited about the scuttle-butt of a possible "sangha" of Buddhists who are interested in organizing and supporting each other.
For me... for now... it makes sense to work on my Zen practice while attending the UU church. I hope to find time to visit the closest Zen center and see what's going on there. I also hope that the 'sangha' group at the UU church organizes and starts some useful dialog.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Over the past year, I've continued my spiritual growth, read many books, and conducted a lot of research into Buddhism. I've discovered something that helps me deal with my mid-western spiritual identity crisis. I'm having a hard time separating my spiritual beliefs from my religious cultural identity. I spent most of my life going to church on Sunday mornings, singing in the choir, going to Sunday afternoon pitch-in dinners and having many close friends--friends upon which our relationship was built upon a shared spiritual practice. So, although, after over a year of study and contemplation, I've decided that Buddhism is the path that makes the most sense to me, I'm still "culturally Christian".
I have been attending the local Unitarian Universalist church, off and on, for over a year and last Sunday I "signed the book" indicating my formal membership. This seems to be a good place for me to be. Each Sunday morning, I go to church, we sing hymns, pass the plate and have a sermon. However, the sermons are sometimes based on the bible, but other times are based on literature, science, the holy books of other faiths. The message almost always is focused on finding those universal truths that lurk in almost every corner of our world.
In the pews of this "UU" church are seated Christians, Atheists, Pagans, Wiccans, Buddhists, Agnostics, and others whose spiritual identity are less defined. The common interest drawing this group together is not a shared dogma or creed, but a simple covenant to encourage each other toward spiritual growth, community service and ethical living. I'm making friends there and I'm excited about the scuttle-butt of a possible "sangha" of Buddhists who are interested in organizing and supporting each other.
For me... for now... it makes sense to work on my Zen practice while attending the UU church. I hope to find time to visit the closest Zen center and see what's going on there. I also hope that the 'sangha' group at the UU church organizes and starts some useful dialog.
"Dad! The Dalai Lama waved at me!"
Recently, His Holiness the Dalai Lama visited Indiana. His brother lived here until his death a few years ago and the Dalai Lama visits the Tibetan Cultural Center in Bloomington frequently. This time he also gave a talk at Conseco Fieldhouse in downtown Indianapolis.
I decided to "bust my kid out" of school for the day to hear His Holiness' teaching. I'm not sure whether she was more excited about the spiritual opportunity or being out of school when the other kids spent the morning on math and art. In order to help her prepare for the event and get a better idea of my new-found spiritual practice, I got a copy of "Buddha in Your Backpack: Everyday Buddhism for Teens" which does a decent job of explaining Buddhist history and practice in a way that a 13 year old girl can wrap her brain around. After she finished the book we had some good discussions and were ready for the big day.
On the morning of the event, a fortunately twist of events (including a last-minute bathroom break, a kind security guard and a lesser-known entrance between Starbucks and Conseco Fieldhouse) put us in the very front row (although of to the side a bit) and within mere feet of the stage. We waiting patiently and were pleasantly surprised when His Holiness, accompanied by Hoosier rocker, John Mellencamp and others walked almost directly in front of us and made his way to the stage. As we surveyed the crowd, we stopped and waved in our direction. My daughter exclaimed with glee "Dad! He waved at me! He loves kids and he stopped to wave at me!" The look on her face was worth the price of admission and more.
The talk with very good and meaningful and although His Holiness' English is sometimes hard to understand, we enjoyed his words about commonalities among religion, the importance of kindness, and how we could use a little more simplicity in our lives. On the way back out of the fieldhouse, he stopped and waved again. My daughter was, again, delighted!
The next morning a pastor friend of mine sent me a note on facebook saying "Dude, you're in the paper!". It was true that the Indianapolis Star had done a story on the Dalai Lama's visit and focused on a Chinese woman who had driven all the way from California to hear the talk and had hoped and prayed that His Holiness would merely wave at her during her visit. The story went on to talk about how her prayers had been answered and that he had stopped, both on his way in and out of the stadium, to wave just at her.
You'll see in this picture that my daughter and I (blue shirt) are standing right next to this lovely woman as her prayers were answered. http://photos.indystar.com/galleries/slides/9546?page=6
When I showed the article to my daughter, she was thrilled to see her photograph in the paper. However, as she read the article about the Chinese woman and how the Dalai Lama had stopped to wave, just at her, my daughter was infuriated and threw the paper on the floor. "Dad! He waved at ME, not her!" She went on to extol the Dalai Lama's love of children and the physical layout of the stadium vs. His Holiness' angles of glancing and waving. In the end she decided to be content with her picture in the paper and left the verdict of who had been the recipient of "the waves" undecided.
We're still sorting out the lessons from this important morning, but I'm quite certain that I will cherish my morning spent with my daughter and the Dalai Lama for years to come.
I decided to "bust my kid out" of school for the day to hear His Holiness' teaching. I'm not sure whether she was more excited about the spiritual opportunity or being out of school when the other kids spent the morning on math and art. In order to help her prepare for the event and get a better idea of my new-found spiritual practice, I got a copy of "Buddha in Your Backpack: Everyday Buddhism for Teens" which does a decent job of explaining Buddhist history and practice in a way that a 13 year old girl can wrap her brain around. After she finished the book we had some good discussions and were ready for the big day.
On the morning of the event, a fortunately twist of events (including a last-minute bathroom break, a kind security guard and a lesser-known entrance between Starbucks and Conseco Fieldhouse) put us in the very front row (although of to the side a bit) and within mere feet of the stage. We waiting patiently and were pleasantly surprised when His Holiness, accompanied by Hoosier rocker, John Mellencamp and others walked almost directly in front of us and made his way to the stage. As we surveyed the crowd, we stopped and waved in our direction. My daughter exclaimed with glee "Dad! He waved at me! He loves kids and he stopped to wave at me!" The look on her face was worth the price of admission and more.
The talk with very good and meaningful and although His Holiness' English is sometimes hard to understand, we enjoyed his words about commonalities among religion, the importance of kindness, and how we could use a little more simplicity in our lives. On the way back out of the fieldhouse, he stopped and waved again. My daughter was, again, delighted!
The next morning a pastor friend of mine sent me a note on facebook saying "Dude, you're in the paper!". It was true that the Indianapolis Star had done a story on the Dalai Lama's visit and focused on a Chinese woman who had driven all the way from California to hear the talk and had hoped and prayed that His Holiness would merely wave at her during her visit. The story went on to talk about how her prayers had been answered and that he had stopped, both on his way in and out of the stadium, to wave just at her.
You'll see in this picture that my daughter and I (blue shirt) are standing right next to this lovely woman as her prayers were answered. http://photos.indystar.com/galleries/slides/9546?page=6
When I showed the article to my daughter, she was thrilled to see her photograph in the paper. However, as she read the article about the Chinese woman and how the Dalai Lama had stopped to wave, just at her, my daughter was infuriated and threw the paper on the floor. "Dad! He waved at ME, not her!" She went on to extol the Dalai Lama's love of children and the physical layout of the stadium vs. His Holiness' angles of glancing and waving. In the end she decided to be content with her picture in the paper and left the verdict of who had been the recipient of "the waves" undecided.
We're still sorting out the lessons from this important morning, but I'm quite certain that I will cherish my morning spent with my daughter and the Dalai Lama for years to come.
Am I a dummy and if so, which kind? (7-13-09)
With the energy and enthusiasm of a kid discovering fireworks for the first time, I curled up with "Buddhism for Dummies" and starting diving into this new, mysterious world. I quickly learned that Buddhism, while new to me, is about as old as Christianity--maybe a little older. I also quickly learned that there are about as many different types of Buddhists as there are sects of Christians.
After reading about the history of THE Buddha, Shakyamuni himself and how he abandoned a life of luxury for a life of penniless contemplation before becoming enlightened and discovering the middle path, I decided that I needed to figure out which type of Buddhism most closely matched my beliefs. After some research I decided that although I didn't have enough information to make a hard and fast decision about a particular type of Buddhism, I was more drawn to the the Mahayana schools. My original decision was based soley on the fact that I read that the Mayahana schools are seeking enlightenment to help not only themselves, but all living creatures. I work in human services and my mom will tell you that I've been "the helpy type" all my life.
With the thought that I was embarking on a journey toward one of the Mahayana traditions, I quickly confirmed my choice by engaging in another fool-proof determiner of modern spirituality. I answered some questions on the "Belief-o-matic" at www.Beliefnet.com. It turns out that my choice was well made and offered several paths within Buddhism that promised lots of opportunity for growth and development.
With this general direction and because of a television program in which a smiling man in saffron robes seemed to have a smile that garnered the attention and affection of throngs of people, I decided to read some books by His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. That turned out to be a very good decision.
In my next article I'll discuss some of those readings, some of the Dalai Lama's words and their impact on me and a discussion I had (sorry in advance) with "my Mama about the Lama".
next time --> "Mama and the Lama"
Is Howard Stern a Lama? (6-28-09)
OK. This post starts with a true confession. I'm a Howard Stern fan. There--I've said it. I know all the bad stuff about him, but I still find him witty and clever. Also, he's responsible for a portion of my current spiritual journey.
Here goes:
Two things happened almost simultaneously. First, I was listening to Howard Stern's show and he was talking about the importance that Transcendental Meditation (TM) has played in his life. (If this surprises you, I'd suggest getting to know the more genteel aspects of Howard's character.) He described how meditation has improved his situtation as a family man, his career, and countless other areas of his life. Based on Howard's testimony, I started to research transcendental meditation and quickly learned that I couldn't afford to get involved. I did a little more research and found many recommendations for a book that covered much of the same information at a fraction of the cost of getting in involved in TM. I read The Relaxation Response by Herbert Benson and started doing a simple practice that basically amounts to Mantra. I did this for a few weeks and started realizing a number of benefits--better sleep, more focus and a true sense of enjoyment of little twenty minute escapes from day-to-day life. Meditation had always been a part of my yoga practice and this new type of meditation quickly became a natural extension of my yoga practice. At this point, I still was considering all of these new activities very secular and completely unrelated to the spiritual wandering that I had been doing for the previous year or two. (See "Introduction")
About the same time Howard Stern turned me on to meditation the second thing that triggered a monumental change in my spiritual life occurred. A book called If Grace Is True: Why God Will Save Every Person, by Phil Gulley and Jim Mullholland, was recommended to me by a friend. Phil is a best selling author and Quaker Pastor and is also a great guy that I see at our local Dairy Queen from time to time. To greatly simplify the premise of Phil and Jim's book it goes something like this: If God really loves us and made us to enjoy this earth, then why would he even create a situation in which we would suffer eternal torment? It just doesn't make sense.
This book not only rang completely true with me, but it also, for the first time that I can recall, made me doubt some of the core teachings that I had held onto since childhood. It led me to understand that, at least for me, it is completely acceptable to challenge the teachings of the church. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not a feeble minded dimwit. I knew that it was OK, and even encouraged, to question your faith. That is, so long as you eventually come back to believing what the church teaches!
So, with a vague notion that meditation was at the heart of Buddhism, nearly five years of yoga practice under my belt, a rude shock jock's wholehearted endorsement of Maharishi Yogi's meditative practice and a Quaker-inspired new license to question my faith, I made a HUGE decision. You might want to sit down for this--I walked into Barnes and Noble and bought the following book: Buddhism for Dummies by Jonathan Landlaw and Stephen Bodian.
Next time... Am I a dummy and if so, which kind?
How Yoga turned to meditation and how Buddhism is sneaking into the heart of an Indiana farm boy--or--Pretzel yearns for enlightenment. Story at 10!
Pretzel yearns for enlightenment... story at 10!
Over the past few years, I've focused a lot of my attention on losing weight and living a healthier lifestyle. In fact, I'm pleased to say that I've lost 100 pounds and have, for the most part, kept the weight off.
In addition to a passion for long distance bicycle riding, I am a yogi. Actually, as of June 23, 2009, I have been practicing yoga, every single day (or night) for five years. I have not missed a single day of practice--not one. Now, some of my yoga practices have been shamefully abbreviated, but overall, I've been very dedicated to the practice. I started practicing yoga at a moment in which I realized that I needed to increase my physical agility, strenght and balance. Like many people in the western world, my motivation for doing yoga was purely for the physical health benefits. Little did I know that yoga held much more in store for me.
I mostly practice yoga alone. However, I've been attending classes with Crystal from Blue Heron Healing Arts (www.blueheronhealingarts.com) for many years. She has not only helped me with continuously improving my yoga postures, but has also become a good friend and teacher in many areas. Part of participating in Crystal's yoga classes always includes an amazing "relaxation period" at the end of class. Like most of Crystal's students, I've always enjoyed the chance to "mentally check out" at the end of class. It's kind of like the icing on a big yoga cake!
The more familiar I have become with yoga, the more I have become interested in the more spritual aspects of the practice. I have used the book The Deeper Dimension of Yoga: Theory and Practice by Georg Feuerstein as a reference for several years. It explains how yoga postures were originally intended to help yoga spiritual practitioners become more capable of sitting for long periods of time to meditate. As I learned more about the spiritual aspects of yoga, I decided that many of the teachings of non-duality and inter-connectedness of all creatures made a lot of sense. As I was raised in a very rural area, in a farming community, I was keenly aware of the interdependence of people, plants, and animals and the need to share resources and each other's understanding of how the world works. Much of what I read about the spiritual aspects of yoga made complete sense to me, but didn't require me to make any sort of spiritual or religious shift in thought. These concepts were just new ways to describe some of the universal truths that I have always believed and felt. It never occurred to me, though, that they weren't always an exact match for what I had learned in Sunday school every week.
Next time... is Howard Stern a Lama?
Introduction (6-27-09)
My name is Wade. I've lived in central Indiana all my life. I was raised on a farm. I have grown my own food. I have killed my own food. I have been taught to work hard in all that I do. I was raised a good Christian, God-fearing boy. I was raised in the Brady Bunch era but looked more like a kid from Mayberry.
The story begins like this...
As a child my weekends nearly always fit the following formula: 1. Spend the night with my grandparents on Saturday night. 2. Get up and go to church where my grandmother played the organ and my grandfather sang in beautiful baritone harmony from the back pew. 3. Spend Sunday afternoon with my extended family, eating, playing in the yard and enjoying our time together.
During my early years, religion was about the church, the people in the congregation and time spent in a particular brick building in rural west-central Indiana. I have lots of fond memories of those times, but I realize that the United Methodist Church, although providing a good foundation for spiritual growth wasn't really what drew me to religion and spirituality.
Like many people in rural Indiana, I grew up, went away to college and got married. I stopped going to any church and, although I spent a great deal of time studying various religions, never found one that completely fit my belief system.
After college, the birth of our daughter included some pretty hairy medical situations for my wife and daughter and in a moment of dispair, I made a bargain that if my wife and daughter lived through childbirth, that I would go back to church. At that time, it made the most sense to attend a Roman Catholic Church for two reasons: 1. My wife had converted to Catholicism in college. 2. We lived across the street from a Catholic church.
For the next ten years, I attended mass regularly, joined the Knights of Columbus and spent a lot of my time enjoying the social aspects of church, while believing some of the church's teachings, ignoring others and feeling a little bit out of sync with much of what the church stood for.
A couple of years ago, as is common in many churches, my wife and I found ourselves in the middle of a socially-focused battle between the priest and members of the congregation. The conflict became so serious that we walked away from our church of ten years. I spent the next year and a half (or so) visiting all kinds of churches in the area. I visited Baptist, Methodist, Unitarian Universalist, and a few others. Of those congregations, only the Unitarian Universalist (UU) seemed to make any sense to me--"all come and worship in the best way that they can"--seemed pretty reasonable to me. Of the two UU churches in the area, one was a much better fit than the other--unfortunately it was an hour drive from our home, which resulted in us attending very infrequently. Eventually, we fell away from attending church altogether again.
A few months ago, I decided to give the Catholic church one more try. After swallowing my pride and attending our original Catholic church a few Sundays I was able to accomplish two things: 1. Bury the hatchet with the priest and reconnect with many old friends. 2. Realize that my connection to the church was to the people there and had little to do with a true faith-based impulse to attend.
I knew that my spiritual quest had to be rekindled and that in order to remain true to myself, I needed to continue exploring various religions and spiritual systems.
Next time... How Yoga turned to meditation and how Buddhism is sneaking into the heart of an Indiana farm boy.
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