FUNK

 I woke this Monday morning in a horrible blue funk, dreaming of fire lines approaching a city with a mayor who could or would do nothing, and images of a patio covered with fresh dog shit that no one had picked up. Sound familiar? The profound depression in my mind was matched by a body in pain everywhere, mostly (age-related!) aches in every joint, and muscles that felt depleted of all physical strength. 

Not a good way to wake up!

Meditation was a challenge, with words darting everywhere in my head--words trying to describe what it was I was feeling as I sat. Well, "writing." It's my mind's way of dealing with what's troubling it. Namely...

... a country in chaos, with one political party mindlessly obstructing every effort of the other to reach out and help the millions of Americans who are out of work, hungry and, too many of them, sick and dying; with a leader coming in from the golf course to issue senseless and unhelpful executive orders in an attempt to project the impression of powerful action; a leader who so badly needs adulation that he calls in dozens of his hundreds-of-dollar annual fee golf club members to applaud him loudly at a "press conference..."

... a country riven by discord, mutual hatred and mistrust, one-third of them fed on a day-by-day, hour-by-hour diet of misinformation and outright lies, and driven by a hateful fear of the invented specter of "liberals" and "socialism..."

... and a personal sense of dislocation and disorientation: what am I even doing here, in this, my adopted country, that now feels so alien? Where do I belong...? 

I breathe in, I breathe out. That's one saving grace. The other is more mundane: it is that I have enough "English" left in me to get up from my chair and head off to the kitchen to brew up the solace of a morning cup of tea.

MEDITATION PRACTICE

It's not easy to keep a practice going over the holiday season. For myself, the visit of our five year-old grandson made it particularly challenging. He wakes early every morning at precisely my usual meditation time and needs attention. To leave the bedroom for my customary sitting spot in the living room before he wakes, even on tiptoe, is to risk waking him even earlier. I have been resorting, then, in the past few days, to maintaining my practice as best I can while lying prone in bed! Not the best solution; inevitably--and seductively!--it invites further sleep, and the attention tends to wander off very easily into those pleasant daydreams one enjoys in the early hours.

This morning, then, with the family gone, was the first opportunity to return to my familiar place for a sit. First, though, Jake the dog needed his pee and poop walk. With a storm approaching from off the coast, I wanted to get that done before the rain came. So we took care of business at 6 a.m., and Jake then joined me on the couch, snuggling up comfortably beside me as he usually does. I don't think he meditates; I think he just sleeps. But who knows? After a few moments to scratch and settle himself, he stays very still...

A pleasure, then, to return to my routine, and to enjoy a good half hour's concentrated sit. And now the rain is falling steadily.

EIGHT MINUTES

Such a dreadful event, yesterday's plane crash in the French Alps.  So many young lives lost...  Images from the site show nothing but small fragments left of what was once a jetliner.  The impact must have been one of unimaginable force.

I find myself fixating on those last eight minutes, from the time the plane started its "controlled descent" from 38,000 feet.  No word from the pilots.  No distress call.  What could have been happening in that cockpit?  And were the passengers aware, for those eight minutes, that their plane was headed for destruction?  They must have been wondering, at the very least, why they were headed so soon toward the ground.

Impossible to imagine how much they knew and what they felt as those 150 human beings hurtled toward their death.  I try to place myself in one of their seats, with full awareness, and use those minutes in meditation to prepare myself for the end of my own life on earth...

But it's a fantasy, of course.  Easy for me, sitting quietly, out of harm's way, in my living room.  Well, not easy, even so.  But relatively benign, without the terror I would surely have experienced in that circumstance, had I been aware of what was happening.

To say "my heart goes out" to the victims and their families seems an inadequate expression, but we have little more than this cliché.  To empathize, as I try to do in meditation, feels equally inadequate.  To try to rationalize... impossible.  There is no sense, no justice to be found in disasters of this kind.  Just human tragedy.

QUIET TIME

I caught the tail end of an NBC Nightly News "Making a Difference" segment while recording something else on the television last night, and was so impressed that I went online to check it out.  The report is about a meditation program at Visitacion Valley Middle School in San Francisco where, outside the school, violence, vandalism and other social problems are the norm, and where students were struggling to keep up.  The "Quiet Time" program introduced two 15-minute periods of silent meditation each day about four years ago and the results--no surprise, surely, to those of us who have been practicing for a while--have been significant: the kids are calmer, happier, less prone to violence and anger, and the school's performance statistics have improved dramatically.  There are far fewer suspensions, fewer absences, and grades are significantly improved.  Outside the school, the kids are better prepared to deal with the daily stress of an impoverished urban environment.

Here's a report from SFGate, whose reporter, David L. Kirp, writes, "I've spent a lot of time in urban schools and I've never seen anything like it."  The report continues:

In this neighborhood, gunfire is as common as birdsong - nine shootings have been recorded in the past month - and most students know someone who's been shot or did the shooting. Murders are so frequent that the school employs a full-time grief counselor.  In years past, these students were largely out of control, frequently fighting in the corridors, scrawling graffiti on the walls and cursing their teachers. Absenteeism rates were among the city's highest and so were suspensions. Worn-down teachers routinely called in sick. 

Unsurprisingly, academics suffered.  The school tried everything, from counseling and peer support to after-school tutoring and sports, but to disappointingly little effect.  

Now these students are doing light-years better. In the first year of Quiet Time, the number of suspensions fell by 45 percent. Within four years, the suspension rate was among the lowest in the city. Daily attendance rates climbed to 98 percent, well above the citywide average. Grade point averages improved markedly. About 20 percent of graduates are admitted to Lowell High School - before Quiet Time, getting any students into this elite high school was a rarity. Remarkably, in the annual California Healthy Kids Survey, these middle school youngsters recorded the highest happiness levels in San Francisco.

I knew that meditation had proved notably successful in prison populations, but this is the first time I heard of an inner city school introducing such a program.  The improvements at Visitacion, it seems, resulted in the adoption of similar programs at other middle and high schools in the San Francisco area.  Despite initial skepticism on the part of administrators and teachers, they too are bringing about remarkable transformation in both attitude and performance.

Can we foresee--could we hope for--a time when the practice will be introduced into school curricula nationwide?  What a difference that would make to a country that is suffering so much, these days, from ignorance and delusion!

BRAINY

So yesterday I joined Dr. M. A. Greenstein and a few dozen of her closest friends to celebrate both her birthday and the launch of her latest enterprise, GGI, named in honor of her late father, Dr. George Greenstein, a pioneering orthopedic surgeon.  GGI is envisioned as "a think tank dedicated to delivering truly applied neuroscience into the hands of learners and leaders.  We design and generate programs for brain awareness, brain health, as well as new arts and neuroscience learning for diverse communities and organizations." Finding myself amongst a crowd of brilliant young people, I had been invited as one who seeks to explore the ground between meditation and the contemplation of art works, monitoring the relationship between the brain and what it sees.  

Once we had all settled down for the presentation after brunch, the first question, posed by the birthday girl herself, was this: "How many people here have a brain?"  Every hand in the room shot up enthusiastically.  Mine was slower than others.  My thoughts took a spontaneous side-track in the direction of Alice in Wonderland and that (to me!) memorable poem recited by Alice at the behest of the caterpillar.  For some reason, I have retained it in memory since childhood.  The first two verses go like this:

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
And your hair has become very white;
"And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."

It's how I feel sometimes.  Well, a good deal of the time!  But yes, M.A., I confess that I do have a brain.  And, yes, I agree that perhaps the most interesting and hopeful work being done today concerns the brain--and the power of the human mind.  The way is being prepared, I dare to trust, for a great shift in human consciousness, much needed if we are to survive our own wanton destructiveness; and the more we can learn about the way our human consciousness works--and the ways in which we can modify its action--the greater the chances of our survival as a species. There is a mountain of current research on the structure and functioning of this delicate and complex organ that nestles within the protection of our skulls.  

Neuroscience has been generating a great deal of truly fascinating findings, and we were treated by some of these extraordinarily bright young people to an overview of some ongoing research projects.  What the indefatigable Dr. G is doing, as I understand it, is to create a forum--both actual and virtual--in which great minds can come together, share the results of their creative work in both arts and sciences, and find the common ground to work towards that future.  She believes in the limitless inventive power of the human brain, and in learning how that power can be unleashed to lead us toward a more peaceful, just and mutually beneficial world.  I'm particularly encouraged by her faith in children and their infinite potential, and by the emphasis she places on the role of creative education.

I personally come at this, obviously, not as a scientist.  But as a practicing meditator of some years experience, I have at least the glimmerings of an understanding of the reach and power of the mind.  I tend to make a distinction between brain and mind; I see brain as the engine of the vehicle we travel in, and mind as the whole vehicle, the road ahead--and the road behind--as well as the surrounding landscape and what lies beyond it.  Mind, as I see it, is that big.  My purpose is to familiarize myself ever more precisely with the potential of my own mind, and to learn how best to make it work for me, rather than in accordance with its own devices, and minds tend to do when left neglected.

I would certainly want to do what I can to further the goals that Dr. G has set for her institution, and one thing I can do is to spread word amongst my readers on The Buddha Diaries.  So this entry will alert you to an enterprise worthy of your interest and support, and hopefully stimulate your curiosity to know more.  Go here for further information about GGI; and be challenged here at InventioBrains.com.    We certainly have much work to do, and fortunately we have the brains to do it.

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BRIEFLY...

This is turning out to be an unusual busy week.  This morning, I head out to Santa Monica for a studio visit with my friend, the painter Gregg Chadwick.  This afternoon, an appointment for an eye examination...

Meanwhile, an announcement: For those in the South Bay area, the classical accordionist and friend of The Buddha Diaries John Torcello will be performing with the Peninsula Symphony on Sunday, February 17 at 7:00 pm in Shostakovich's "Suite for Variety Stage Orchestra," a collection of eight beautifully orchestrated and accessible concert and dance pieces.  Click the link for further information.

And, noted: The first paperback publication of A Guide to Zen: Lessons from a Modern Master  by Katsuki Sekida.  Originally published in 2003, this is a distillation of Sekida's 1975 Zen Training, a classic work ranked alongside Suzuki Roshi's justly renowned Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. Edited by the long-time Sekida student Marc Allen, the Guide is everything you need to know about Zen--in a nutshell.

I'm not a Zen man myself.  I find the aesthetics infinitely appealing, but the practice itself does not call to me; sitting nose-to-nose with a blank wall strikes me as too reductive an experience, too pure for this one extremely fallible human being.  I personally find vipassana to be more compassionate as a practice, kinder and gentler, even..., well, more Buddhist.  But that's a matter of personal judgment and choice.  More important, A Guide to Zen is a marvelous little handbook, rich in insight and practical tips for the determined sitter. From posture to breath to samadhi entry to "pure existence," it's a step by step, easy-to-use instruction manual that manages to find clarity even in some of the fairly impenetrable aspects of Zen thought.  As the Sekida quotation featured on the back cover notes, Zen "is the hushed silence of the snow-clad Himalayas.  Or it can be likened to the eternal silence of the fathomless depths of the sea."  It's a matter of utterly inarguable beauty.

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The Worst Sit Ever

No exaggeration. Well, barely. Ellie and I joined our sitting group yesterday morning for our usual Sunday hour-long sit, and I had what has to count as my worst sit ever--and I've been doing this for fifteen years! Perhaps some of my meditating friends out there could help me with their insights.

Here's how it went: I noticed something "wrong" from the start. It usually takes me no more than a few breaths to get settled in, to slow down to meditation speed. Yesterday, though--and for no discernible reason--my heart was pounding at an unusual rate and my breath was jerky and uneven. I tried the usual tactics. Keep breathing, watch the breath. I moved on into metta, the goodwill practice, first for myself, then for family and close friends--I went through all the usual faces--then those I don't know and have no judgment about one way or the other, those I dislike or distrust, those in power, those without it, who are suffering from hunger, disease, or violence. My mind kept wandering, nowhere in particular, and my body was inordinately restless. Legs, arms, neck... I did my best to bring some rest to them with the breath. No luck.

Undeterred, I moved on to my body scan, starting at the centerpoint and working through the abdomen, the flanks, chest and heart, neck, head... and down the back to the legs and down from the shoulders to the fingertips. I could NOT get settled. Neither mind nor body. I ached, literally, to be out of there. Several times, I nearly got up and left. I resorted to measuring the passing minutes against the breath, and every minute seemed like a half-hour. It wasn't as though there was anything particular on my mind--not that I could identify, though I resisted trying to identify it.

Then came the panic. This was perhaps forty minutes into the sit. It manifested first in the form of body heat. I felt my body begin to burn, a kind of fever which intensified into a sweating anxiety. My head kept saying, gotta get out of here. NOW. Fighting the panic, of course, results only in more panic. I had to MOVE. I found small ways to release the tension, a shift in the position of the legs, a slight stretch of the neck. Small comfort. My head began to go into black-out mode... Fearing that I would quite literally and imminently pass out, I leaned forward, placing my head between my knees.

Then it was over. For perhaps no more than the last five minutes of that long, long hour, I managed to find a place of serenity. I began to breathe easy. I managed to let go of everything that had gone before. My mind was content to accept stillness and peace. Then the bell rang. I was never so happy to hear that mellow sound...

I wonder, then, if any of my fellow meditators have had similar experiences? I have, in truth, had minor episodes of this kind in the past--particularly the body heat and, of course, the struggle with the mind and the breath. But never this intense, or this prolonged. I wonder to what extent it might have to do with our current global malaise, about which I'll be posting more tomorrow. Have you been losing sleep?

Meditation/Contemplation

Very

This very
morning
as I sat
in meditation
I heard the very
first tiptoe
of the rain
drops as they
fell, a very
lovely sound


Sangha, yesterday. Always a joy, to sit in the company of our band of meditators on a Sunday morning. It's a different feel from the lone weekday sits, a common energy generated in that hour of delicious silence.

Afterwards, in our discussion, I picked up a useful piece of guidance, relayed on to us by one of our number from a conversation with our teacher. There are times when the contemplation of an issue becomes an important part of a meditation sit; it's not always just a matter of training the mind to steady its attention on the breath, because we each have hindrances that stand between us and that desired goal. Sometimes it becomes necessary to examine what it is that distracts the mind and prevents us from achieving the serenity and the equanimity we strive for.

At such moments, a focused, thought-ful contemplation is what's needed to help sort things out, to come to an understanding that can release us from the grip of unhelpful patterns of mind activity. Now, I have made a practice of starting right in on that process after my few minutes of metta--sending out goodwill. Not the best way to go about it, says Than Geoff (that's Thanissaro Bhikkhu). Better to prepare the matter for examination before the sit and have it in mind as one goes about the meditation in the normal way, excluding thought where possible and, when the matter at hand comes up, postponing it gently with a simple "Not now," as one redirects the mind's attention to the breath. Then, later, toward the end of meditation only, one can allow the thoughts to surface and explore the associated thoughts and insights them at will.

A fine clarification. What is likely to happen, of course, in following this process, is that the unconscious mind will get to work while the consciousness is observing each movement of the breath. Much of the work, then, will have been done by the time I get around to that contemplation I have determined in advance to be needed, and insights are more likely to follow effortlessly when the moment comes. The hard part of course, as always, is the "Not now," because the mind is a stubborn faculty that delights in going its own way, no matter what I ask of it.

A Sunday Sit

What a pleasure to be sitting once again with Than Geoff (Thanissaro Bhikkhu) late yesterday afternoon, after a long period of absence. Than Geoff (more properly Ajahn Geoff, since he has been for some time now not just a monk, but the abbot of the Metta Thai Forest monastery in Valley Center, north of San Diego. Long-time readers of The Buddha Diaries may recall that he comes up to Laguna Beach on the second Sunday of each month to lead and teach our little "Laguna sangha." Ellie and I have been away so much in the course of our remodel, and often simply unable to spend our weekends down here, that we have missed his regular sessions, as well as his occasional weekend retreats. And while I have been able to maintain my own daily sits, the sangha sits each Sunday and the monthly sessions with Than Geoff have been an important part of my practice since the mid-90s, when I first joined the group.

A glorious pleasure, then, to arrive at sunset for our hour-long sit and to be enchanted, first, by the lovely spectacle at the wide window across from where I sat, of the red glow of the setting sun over a deep purple ocean. Dark clouds and the outline of the eucalyptus trees gave depth and contour to the vista--a sight to rouse the soul before even closing the eyes for meditation. Eyes closed, I found it easy to be guided by Than Geoff's steady, familiar voice, the depth of his calm, and the knowledge of his long dedication to the practice. As usual, he guided us through the observation of the breath for a half hour, then left us in silence for the remainder of the time. It has been quite a while since I reached so intense a meditative state and so profound a relaxation.

Our hour's sit is followed by a question time, and I led off with a question about healing. During meditation, my mind had wandered off frequently to a friend who is fighting off a severe attack on her health, and had been formulating my question despite my best efforts to keep it focused on the breath. Addressing it to Than Geoff, I gave that context, along with the memory of my father's powerful (Christian) belief in the laying-on of hands and my understanding of the Tibetan healing practice of tonglen, and asked whether, in his own tradition, there was any similar healing ritual and, more particularly, whether there was anything I could do in my practice to be of benefit to my friend.

I could actually have predicted Than Geoff's response before I heard it. To his way of thinking, it's more about the state of mind than it is about the illness. Healing, then, is about developing a state of mind that serves to reduce the suffering rather than cure the disease. The practice of metta--sending out thoughts of goodwill--can facilitate the more peaceful state of mind required for a return to health. I responded that it felt somehow impertinent, to me, to wishing happiness for a person experiencing so much pain, but he reminded me that "happiness", in its broader context, embraced the notion of physical well-being, of health itself.

Still, I wondered, were there any rituals in his practice related to the healing of the sick, as in so many other spiritual beliefs? Had he himself had any personal experience of healing? Than Geoff smiled as he recalled an episode when, during meditation, he felt the pain of a bite on his finger. In the dark, he was not able to see what creature had bitten him, but within a few minutes his finger began to swell, then his wrist, then his arm... In some alarm, he consulted with his abbot, who gave him an amulet blessed by his teacher, Ajahn Lee, to place against the wound. In short order, the swelling was reduced.

Amulets, then. I suppose it is the blessing that infuses such ritual objects that is the source of their power.

As usual, though, Than Geoff had neatly turned my question back into myself. The mind, certainly, is the most powerful weapon that we have in and and all contingencies--a weapon that we too often forget when pain comes along and we turn to others to relieve it for us. It happened, yesterday, that I had put my back out earlier in the day, and I found the meditation period useful in relieving the pain. It was afterward that it began to make its presence known again. Ironically, I have found that sitting is the very thing that is the worst for a bad back--especially when the time comes to attempt to stand! Better to keep it warm, I find, by keeping it in motion. Thus it was that I decided to leave the session before the whole two hours were up. But I was extremely glad that I had decided to go.

Self-Portrait Revisited

I've been having further thoughts about that last entry since I posted it. It was only after the fact, surprisingly, that I realized the connection between my "self-portrait" and the piece I had written a couple of days before about sitting for Don Bachardy. My mind must have been storing these things up and putting them together in ways of which I was not consciously aware. Interesting.

The piece also produced some interesting offline responses. I heard from an artist friend in New York, for example, to say that it had inspired her to do the same--in her own medium, of course, not mine. That was gratifying. I heard from several others to the effect that they admired what they saw to be the courage that it took, first to stand there and look that closely at the body that has carried me around for so many years, and second to put it out there in public. I did think long and hard before hitting that "Publish Post" button, and nursed a good deal of anxiety about "what others would think"--a concern that was instilled into me as a child. It felt like a release, though, to finally let it go.

Most surprising to me, on reflection, was the fact that it took three passes through the piece to reach the recognition that this "stuff," the flesh, is really "not me, not mine, not who I am." Materiality, including the body, does seem enormously real to us, and it takes me a while to recognize, once again, that it's really nothing but a bunch of molecules held together by a peculiar energy. I'm finding that feat easier, these days, in meditation, where I find that I can fairly easily reach that point where I watch the body dematerialize as I sit. It's really a very pleasant feeling, that sense of dissolution, a kind of swimming apart of everything that seemed so persuasively put together in one piece. A kind of freedom from the earthly chains...

And now it's Monday morning, time to put everything back together--including, after meditation, the body--and get down to the gym for exercise, and back onto the freeway to Los Angeles. Have a blessed and peace-filled week...

A Pleasant Evening; and a Strange Night

We enjoyed a wonderfully pleasant evening yesterday, driving down with our friends Brian and Mary to the village for dinner, indulging (myself and Brian) in the luxury of a martini as well as a glass of wine with dinner and returning, as the heat of the day waned, to the patio behind our cottage for a cigar (myself and Brian) and a glass of Grand Marnier.  Good conversation, relaxed company, a beautiful evening, what could be better?

And then this strange night: I woke up from a dream in which I was attending some art event as an invited panelist, with my usual fears of appearing in public and trying to look intelligent and well-informed.  Ellie, not on the panel but sitting close, started finding fault with me in a very public way, much to my annoyance, beginning with a complaint about  my cigar.  The panel discussion had not yet begun, and she complained that I had taken off my nice brown cashmere jacket (which I do not possess) and rolled up the sleeves of my pink shirt less tidily than she would have wanted.  Meanwhile, talk of my cigar persisted until I tried quelling the talk with a loud "Enough about me!"--to which no-one paid the slightest attention.  Then Ellie piped up with the observation that she was surprised by my use of the word "cigar", knowing me for a plain-spoken man who eschews circumlocution and everyone knew that "cigar" actually meant "penis."  At which I recall exclaiming that this was too embarrassing, and I promptly woke.

On waking, I stumbled blearily to the bathroom for an early morning pit stop and, feeling somewhat dry in the mouth--thanks, no doubt, to the martini, the wine and the Grand Marnier--fumbled under the sink for my white plastic bottle of Biotene mouthwash.  I had taken a big swallow from the bottle and was about to gargle when I realized something was seriously amiss.  I checked the bottle in the dim light and realized that instead of the mouthwash I had picked out a similar container of Eucerin moisturizing cream.  So much for early morning bleariness...

Which reminds me that we had a terrible night a couple of days ago with George the dog wakeful, watchful and restless for the entire night.  I had just been reading in the New York Times about the China earthquake and the strange behavior of the pandas shortly before the quake hit, so I had earthquakes on the mind and of course we are long overdue, here in Southern California, for another "event"... So I was convinced that George's weird behavior heralded some imminent disaster and lay awake for hours making plans for our escape and eventual survival.  In the morning, though, on awakening, I noticed that the covered plastic cup where we keep George's late night snack had remained unopened: the poor dog had been deprived of his habitual bedtime treat.  He could hardly have made his point more eloquently if he'd had the power of speech.

This morning, I woke again at ten past six and slipped out to the garden for a lengthy sit.  A truly lovely meditation, accompanied by the songs of countless birds.

Forgive all this personal stuff for a Sunday entry.  You didn't have to read it.  If you did, my thanks for your tolerance.  And blessings all around...  

Memories

I did not know Leonard Rosenman, who died earlier this year at the age of 83. I did, however, by reason of our family connection, join the throng of friends and family who gathered yesterday afternoon at the Eastwood Sound Stage at Warner Brothers Studio to honor him and celebrate his life.

An extraordinary life it was. A composer of note who turned his primary attention to scores for film and television, he was "discovered" by the young James Dean in the 1950s and composed the music for both Rebel Without a Cause and East of Eden, along with an innumerable list of other movies; drank beer with Dylan Thomas and bummed around with Leonard Bernstein; joined Albert Einstein (who by then, according to the account we heard, had become somewhat hilariously tone deaf) in a chamber concert; studied with Arnold Schoenberg; made more friends than could possibly be imagined; won Oscars and Emmys; and of course, with his music, reached the ears of countless millions of those who did not know him.

All of which would be impressive enough in itself--a rich, luminous life, lived to the full, and an important contribution to the history of both music and film; and, on the personal front, a wonderful, loving and mutually supportive family, many of whom were there on this occasion to offer their own tributes. Almost more impressive, though, was the twilight of his life. Diagnosed in his 70s with frontal temporal dementia , a degenerative brain disorder, he lost certain capacities of his formidable brain but, as one of his daughters put it in her tribute--and here I paraphrase--found a way to live, instead, more fully in his heart. He lived those last years of his life, I heard reiterated many times as those who loved him spoke, exclusively "in the moment." Last to take the stage in his honor was the group of young, creative people known as "Leonard's posse," care-givers who discovered in his energy and joie de vivre, and in a capacity to love that transcended his disease, a source of inspiration that changed their lives.

There was the opportunity, of course, as is inevitable on such occasions, to reflect on the fragility of life and the advance of years. Particularly moving, for me, was the moment when the octogenarian actor, Robert Brown, a contemporary of Leonard's, spoke with personal intensity about the experience of watching the body in the process of its inevitable changes as it ages--something I myself am keenly aware of. And toward the end, the presiding rabbi spoke of memories--"the only thing we truly have," he said. I see what he means. Our own memories, and the ones that others form of us, exist on a plane that is quite different from that of material reality.

Still, in my understanding of the Buddhist teachings, I find myself in disagreement with the rabbi on this point. Memories, like everything else, are illusory and fleeting; they come and go seemingly as they will, often in conflict with our own needs and desires. We each have our different ways of remembering: Ellie has an incredible memory for faces, but searches in vain for names; I can often supply the names, but fail to recognize the faces. Like everything else, our memories fade and disappear. Leonard's short-term memory was pilfered from him by the peculiarities of his disease; but, not long before his death, we heard, in the comfortable home to which his family had entrusted him for his health and safety, he sat down at the piano one day and played, beautifully and to everyone's surprise, the theme he had composed decades before for "East of Eden."

One thing, of course, is certain: that Leonard is more fortunate than most of us in that his memory will live on in his music. Those listening to it, years from now, will have no living "memory" of the man who wrote it; but they will have the evidence of the music itself to identify and communicate with the human spirit from which came into the world. The impression I was left with was that this Leonard was a truly happy man, who spent his life devoted to what he loved the most--whether his art, or the people who supported him in his practice of it. May we all find such happiness in our lives.

The Debate--and Chamber Music

The anger subsides. I spent some time yesterday morning checking out media and blog responses to the infamous debate, and found that the vast majority agreed that it had been a disaster , not just for the candidates, but for the ABC TV network, its ill-chosen moderators and their ill-considered questions.

Much later in the day, I had the opportunity to put these things into perspective at a chamber concert by the Beaux Arts Trio in the series hosted by Ace Gallery. The main fare proved to be two late piano trios by Franz Schubert. Largely ignorant of the history of classical music, I learned that this composer died at the age of 31 in 1828, and that the two trios in question were written in the last six months of his life, with adumbrations of his approaching early death. The music, to my unskilled ear, was alternately light and somber, delirious and mournful as I listened with closed eyes and tried to focus on the track of each of the three instruments simultaneously--a demanding task that required full mental concentration.

Listening to these musical masterworks, I found myself reflecting on the basic, but still interesting phenomenon that it's impossible to conceive of quiet without loud, slow without fast, joy without sorrow, delight without suffering. And I was not surprised, as many times before, to notice how precisely the simple, practical wisdom of the Buddhist teachings sheds its light on every aspect of human experience.

In the light of Schubert's music, his short life, his intense, passionate dedication to the work by which he is still known today, the absurdities of current political events gave way to an appreciation of the deeper realities, the deeper truths that provide the too often unheard bass line of our lives, the work of the human spirit. I myself have already been given more than twice the number of years than those Schubert was allowed. All the more important, then, to be listening for that bass line in everything I do.

Meditation

A very peaceful meditation this morning. Usually, when I am as busy as I am this week--with reading, with interviews and preparations for my next "Art of Outrage" podcast, and with the other writing chores that preoccupy me--my mind is all over the place; trying to find directions, trying to find solutions, trying to find words... This morning, though, I was unusually successful in finding and maintaining focus and concentration. And at the end, I was rewarded with a curious sensation that I cannot remember having felt before: all the molecules in my body seemed to start swimming apart and at the same time to merge with everything around it, leaving me with the sensation of pure energy. I have felt that sense of the contours of the body melting before, when the distinction between self and other simply disappears; but never, that I can recall, this sense of swirling, almost dizzying energy. And I notice that the feeling persists, even fifteen minutes after meditation.

I have been reading a manuscript on the concept of "becoming" by Than Geoff these past few days, and just yesterday came upon a section on the jhanas--the states of deepening experience in meditation; and I wonder whether this was one of the jhanas I was experiencing--or whether my mind was fantasizing such an experience, based on the reading? It was by all means a very pleasant experience, and one that I will watch for in the future. I should also go back into the text today, to see whether it corresponds with anything I read with less than full attention.

Dying: A Challenge, Part II

A couple of weeks ago, I posted this challenge on death and dying from Joan Halifax Roshi, along with the promise that I would return to steps two and three in the process she proposed. As a reminder, the first challenge was a meditation on this question: "What is your worst-case scenario of how you will die?" I offered my own worst-case scenario, and received several others in return.

I've had plenty of opportunity to ruminate on death and dying in the past week: the history that abounds in Savannah and Charleston almost demands it. In touring the houses of the one-time wealthy, the visitor can't help but sense the ghosts of those who lived and died there--both the wealthy and the enslaved peoples whom they owned. Death, the greatest of all equalizers, visited them all regardless of wealth or color, social standing or religious conviction. Those who were abominably unequal in their lifetimes suffered equally at the approach of death. I've heard that the Civil War, fought in these territories, brought dreadful ends to more Americans than any other war, before or since. And the epidemics of yellow fever and malaria took the lives of many thousands more before their time. Life expectancy was much shorter than it is today, and much that has been learned about medicine, personal hygiene and health care was unknown to these earlier Americans.

So, yes, I could not prevent myself from thinking how it might be to die of yellow fever, in one of those spacious bedrooms in a rice plantation mansion--or in one of the bleak cabins deemed fit for slaves. I could not prevent myself from imagining myself wounded, fatally, by some stray bullet in the chaos of battle. The spirits of those who died in these ways, so many years ago, seemed awfully close to me. It seems entirely imaginable that those whose lives were taken from them before they reached completion would find it hard to consent to the finality of death.

But back to Joan Roshi's challenge, part the second, her next topic for meditation. Here it is: after meditating on your worst-case fears, "How do you really want to die?"

Some, I know, envy those who slip away quietly in their sleep. I don't know about you, but my own great wish is to die conscious, at home, in my own bed. To still be fully in command of all my senses and bodily functions, to be alert in mind and aware of each stage of the process, surrounded by those I love--and those who love me. To be strong enough to keep sending out loving-kindness to all living beings. To be so fully conscious and to have reached a state of such equanimity that I have no fear, and can simply watch and treasure my presence in those very last moments here on earth. My heroes are those monks reputed to have died sitting up, in the meditation posture, conscious to the end; and perhaps, who knows, beyond, through every one of the bardos described in the Tibetan Book of the Dead--though I don't wish this for myself.

The challenge, then, is to meditate on those last moments as one would wish to experience them--a much more pleasant prospect, I think you will agree, than the preceding one. If you're up for it, I'd certainly be interested to hear how it works for you.

Blushing

Today was one of those days when the thinking mind gets the better of me: I sit and try as I may to bring the attention to the breath as I have been taught, but the mind keeps wanting to wander off and play, and manages, despite my best efforts, to occupy all of my attention. I sat for very nearly an hour, imagining that if only I persisted I would succeed in getting the puppy dog leashed. But no. It never happened. I thought, and thought, and thought...

The thing came up in one of our groups last night, when Ellie and I sat down with artists to exchange all manner of things that matter to people involved in creative work. Ellie played the DVD of an artist speaking about his work, his process, his passions, recorded at an annual gathering of painters to which I myself have accepted an invitation to speak this coming June. Instead of paying attention to what this artist had to say, my mind was invaded by an all-too familiar panic, the fear of standing up in front of people and speaking... as though I'm supposed to know something of importance to share with them.

It's a fear that has plagued me throughout my life. Irrational, stupid, unfounded it may be, since I actually do it reasonably well. But it never fails to come up--in this case, months ahead. One of our artists yesterday wisely suggested meditating on its possible origin, the "kernel" from which it grew into what it continues to be to this day; and I thought about all those times, as a child, when I felt that I looked foolish in the eyes of others. Blushing was the outward symptom of a dreadful inner fear of mockery.

Were you a blusher? I put this question out to our group last night, and virtually everyone had shared that experience with me--the hot, red, beetroot flush of fury and humiliation that betrays to the world an inner sense of shame, of having been exposed for all the inadequacies and absurdities of one's very being, a stripping naked of the tender soul within. I was a blusher well into my adult life. I recall the agony when the matter of sex came up in a graduate seminar on poetry...

It's the risk of exposure, I think, that drives my fear--the risk of being seen for the fraud and the know-nothing that I really am. (Not particularly, of course. Or no more than the rest of us. But reality doesn't count.) That's perhaps why I chose to be a writer. It means being able to practice spontaneity with none of the risks. I don't have to publish what I write. I can always edit out the stupid stuff--or try to, if I recognize it! And no one will see me when I blush.

So what happened this morning was that my mind started doing the advance work for a presentation that I'll be making in three months time! What to say? How to say it? How to look wise and modest all at once, intelligent and well-informed, spontaneous and sure-footed with my thoughts?

Absurd, no? And to think that even an hour of meditation couldn't get me past it... Enough for today. I have to meet with a class full of students tomorrow, and another on Friday. My once-a-semester teaching gigs. I've actually grown quite used to that... Good practice.

Shakespeare, etc.

What a pleasure to spend the afternoon on Saturday in the company of a quartet of actors performing scenes from Shakespeare. Our friend Fred--a frequent visitor and sometime commenter on "The Buddha Diaries"--had invited us to the show that he and his actor friends had been preparing, and the occasion served to remind me of the extraordinary power and versatility of language. No sets, no costumes, just a row of chairs and four lecterns--and words! Shakespeare had written them, centuries ago, and they proved that the human imagination, with their aid, can easily span the intervening years to experience the joys and fears, the pain and anger of those who are given to utter them. Our actors obviously relished them, and their commitment to the words provided us, in the audience, with a rich tapestry of the human experience and a reminder that the dramas in which we play our individual parts are no more nor less illusory than those enacted on the stage in front of us. Thanks, Fred!

Saturday evening we came home to watch The Tibetan Book of the Dead on DVD. Narrated by Leonard Cohen, it's a two part investigation into the way in which that great text still plays out in the life of Tibetans today, illuminating the meaning and rituals of life and death in a remote part of the world where life is at subsistence level and where people still find solace and guidance in the old beliefs. And beliefs they are: here, Buddhism is clearly a religion, as system of beliefs that gives humankind place in the order of the universe and instructs about the mystery of death and afterlife.

Sunday morning we attended a book launch event for Ken McLeod's "An Arrow to the Heart." (A reminder: my review of the book can be found on The Huffington Post.) Ken offered a wide-ranging historical and philosophical introduction to the text of The Heart Sutra and, after a fine buffet lunch, to his book and the process he engaged in writing it. We began to understand more about the differences between Mahayana and Theravada Buddhism and more, too, about their common ground. Of special interest to me, given my intention to launch my "Accidental Dharma" site in the near future, was one of the interpretations of the word "dharma" as "a unit of experience."

It's precisely the intersection of lived experience and teaching--the more common understanding of "dharma"--that I'm looking to explore. Sometimes the richest lessons in life come wrapped in the most unwelcome of experiences--be it some casual insult, a personal disappointment or, at worst, the death of a loved one in a senseless accident like the one described in the Ram Dass "Rachel letter" to which I alluded in the last entry on this site. More of this in the coming week. I hope you'll bear with me.

The Buddha Diaries: Hows, Whats and Whys

My friend Mark over at Marko Polo invited me to participate in his survey of Buddhist blogs. As I answered his questions, I realized that he'd given me the opportunity to take a quick snapshot of The Buddha Diaries and what it's all about. Here are Mark's questions, and my answers.

Buddhist Blog Questionnaire

1. How did you get acquainted with the teachings of the Buddha?

I grew up as the son of an Anglican (Church of England) minister, and my entire education was in Christian private schools. I was thoroughly indoctrinated in my youth, and abandoned all interest in the church—and in Christianity—by the time I was eighteen. I had no interest in religion of any kind until I was about fifty years old. At the time, my daughter was in the grip of a terrible disease (she has since recovered, thank you!) and I needed some more substantial anchor in my life. A friend recommended Soka Gakkai Buddhism—the branch that is based in chanting—and I was attracted to it because I was convinced that I could never simply sit in silent meditation, and chanting gave me something to “do”. A couple of years later, at an Esalen Institute workshop, I was turned on to Ram Dass, and soon discovered Pema Chrodron, whose book “When Things Fall Apart” spoke loudly to my situation. It was at this time that I first embarked on silent meditation, and soon joined a weekly sitting group to support my early practice.


2. What, if any, religion or philosophy do you associate yourself with currently? Could you describe your faith a bit?

I “associate myself” with Buddhism—but without calling myself a Buddhist. It’s more of a practice than a faith, because it doesn’t require me to believe in anything that I can’t actually put to the test through experience. My skeptical mind shies away from faith. I’m with Missouri: Show Me!

3. Which of the Buddhist teachings do you find most valuable in your everyday life? Why?

Breath meditation. Because it helps me train and stabilize the mind, and find some inner peace. Also the Eightfold Path (see Accesstoinsight.org.) It’s a practical guide on how to lead my life with integrity.

4. Describe your blog. What is your approach to writing? Who is your intended audience? What issues does your blog tend to focus on, be they Buddhist or otherwise?

The Buddha Diaries is a meditation on the events of my life seen through the lens of the Buddhist meditation practice. It covers everything from George the dog to George W. Bush, from books I read and movies that I see to travels and family. It’s a way of examining my life—and the life of the mind—as I continue on my journey through life, and its intended audience is anyone who shares my passion to lead an “examined life.” I’m not trying to convert anyone to Buddhist thought or practice, nor to preach the Buddhist gospel (if there were one.)

My writing, like my meditation, is a practice. I do it virtually every day as a means of remaining conscious and taking stock of where I am. The great adage that I learned years ago and have always followed is an old one: How do I know what I think ‘til I see what I say? Writing is an adventure of the mind, a means of self-discovery, a continuing journey. The fact that, through The Buddha Diaries, I have found many who want to share it with me is a source of endless pleasure and satisfaction.

The Heart of the Matter

I have been thinking a lot about the heart this week--prompted, in good part, by the review I have been writing of the new book by Ken McLeod, "An Arrow to the Heart: A Commentary on The Heart Sutra." (The review will be published here on The Buddha Diaries and probably elsewhere within the next few days.) For the better part of my life I was simply embarrassed by the heart. Specifically, my own. Brought up distrustful of every emotion, let alone its public display, I reached maturity--in years at least--obsessed with the brain (oh, and that other organ, down south.) The heart, when I noticed it, was only the source of trouble, discomfort, fear and pain--all things I would rather not have to contemplate. As for "love," that was too risky for me, involved too much giving of myself to others. Sex was a whole lot easier to deal with.

As I have said elsewhere--and perhaps, too, in these pages, though I don't remember--I didn't discover that I had a heart until I was more than half way to heaven. It happened at a men's training weekend, where I had gone at a period of great trouble in my life to find out what I might be able to do to make it better. For the first time in my life, I encountered men who were willing to admit that they had an emotional and spiritual life as well as an intellectual and physical one, and who almost coerced me, in a loving way but much against my will, to get in touch with the heart I didn't know I had.One of the requirements of the weekend was to come up with a mission, a sense of one's life purpose, of what one was given to do with one's time here on earth. The mission I chose has been modified several times in the years that have since elapsed, but I am happy with where it stands today: to mediate harmony in the world by getting to the heart of the matter.

That weekend started me, too, on the path that has led me to this day. One of the signal heart events along the way was a retreat with that same Ken McLeod who wrote the book under review. I forget the name he gave to the retreat, but it concerned the inner warrior, that fierce part we need as our ally to do battle with the inner demons as well as the outer ones. The exercise I remember in particular was a visualization in which we participants were invited to grasp the hilt of a sword with full intention and, for the first stroke, to turn it inward, cutting from throat to sternum to reveal the open, beating, vulnerable heart. Sometimes in meditation, as this morning, I rehearse that powerful movement, opening the chest in my mind's eye to expose my heart to the world.

These days, when I attend to the heart, I am aware of other feelings. I have put in substantial mileage on this miraculous little machine, without--so far--any maintenance at all; and while I have been pretty good about keeping it turned over and exercised, the gas and oil I have fed it with have not always been of the highest quality. Each time I'm in touch with it, I have to wonder how much more service it can be expected to provide, and when the poor old thing might simply decide that enough's enough and leave me stranded in the middle of the freeway. I contemplate that fear, even as I strive to keep the heart open and generous.

I'm grateful to Ken for his book, and for the reminder that the heart is something that I always need to pay attention to. As a final note, if any man feels the need to know about that men's weekend--or any woman who loves him--he is most welcome to be in touch with me and I will supply more detail.

Peace of Mind

I have been noticing that my mind has been more than usually restless in the past couple of days, during meditation. It has been busy trying to write, while I have been busy trying to bring its attention to what I want it to attend to: the breath. I attribute this in good part to the recent conflict of opinions on The Buddha Diaries, in consequence of which I have been questioning my meditation practice, and what purpose it serves.

The simple conclusion that I reach, time and again, is that it works. I have a limited amount of time left to me in this life—and I’m still unable to jump that hurdle into belief in another, or other lives—and a limited amount of energy. Ahead of me lies the strong possibility of some form of illness or debility, and the certainty of continuing aging and death. I want to experience these parts of life with as much clarity and forbearance as I can muster, and that requires peace of mind. When I say that meditation works, I mean that it teaches me the path toward peace of mind.

I do need, still, to be engaged. I need to be engaged in books and movies, in the visual arts which have been the focus of much of my writing over the years, in politics and culture… My mind is still capable of learning, my heart still capable of growing when I immerse myself in such things.

What I don’t need, though, is a restless mind. I’m finding that I can engage just fine without it. For me, intellectual curiosity is not necessarily fed by battles over rights and wrongs or goods and bads. I believe that I have largely surrendered the need to be right, and that position feels comfortable to me. I am not averse to being in a place of comfort.

These quiet thoughts an observations, for a Saturday morning. Metta, then. I wish the world a peaceful weekend, filled with true happiness. And that would be enough, for me.