THE GREAT BEFORE-YOND

I have been thinking further after yesterday's post about the premature death of our friend and neighbor...

I recall a conversation with him quite a while ago, before he was diagnosed with the affliction that would take his life--and long before he could imagine he would die so young. I was expressing my familiar doubts, I think, about life after death, and about the whole notion that this human life on earth is but a step along a much longer path, the cycle of life, death and rebirth that is central to the teachings of the dharma. Our friend, on the other hand, entertained no such doubts. He was clear in his mind that life in some form persists beyond death and that it is surely, as he put it, "in a better place."

The clarity of this belief gave him a cheerful, optimistic perspective on his life here on earth, and it leads me to wonder whether he is not now in that better place. I hope so, for his sake. After a long period of depression as his health declined, I heard that he spent the last day of his life expressing the gratitude and love he felt for his wife; and that he returned, on that day, to the state of serenity his affliction had denied him. The thinking behind karma, insofar as I understand it, is that choices are made at the moment of death which define the nature of one's future incarnation--choices that also determined the current form of our existence at the end of our previous incarnation. It is important, then, to be prepared to die with ease and grace.

I have also been thinking about another aspect of choice in the moment of one's death: the choice to leave this world. I remember my conviction, now nearly two years ago, when my sister died, that she had in fact chosen to cross the threshold into what she called, fearlessly, "the next great adventure." I am tempted to believe that our friend also made that choice. It was clear that his mind was deteriorating, along with his physical health, and the path ahead promised little but further confusion and pain, both physical and emotional, for himself and those who loved him. In such a circumstance, the choice to step out into that great "before-yond" might be a clear and comforting one.

These are mysteries, of course, that we are not given to understand. When I have expressed my doubts to one much wiser and much further along the Buddhist path than I could ever hope to be, the answer has always been a simple one: it profits us little to spend time worrying about a question to which we know we'll never have an answer. Better to devote your energies to leading a good life here and now, he tells me. And be prepared in mind and body to make wise choices at the moment of your death.

BAD BACK

I remember what my mother used to say: "These things are sent to try us."  I think it was my mother.  I think that was what she used to say...  Anyway, a Christian sentiment.  I have been spared this peculiar--yet familiar!--agony for quite some time.  I attribute the respite to a friend's suggestion, years ago, to sleep with a pillow between my legs.  Whether it's that now nightly habit or not, I have no way of knowing.  But I do know that, aside from the occasional twinge, soon passed, my back has held up remarkably well.

Until now.  This present pain was heralded several days ago by warning signs--an unease in the lower back, a quick signal to the brain.  When it came, it was not sudden as it sometimes is: I've put my back out.  No, this time it was slow in its arrival, taking its good time to blossom into its full, unquestionable presence. As always, the dilemma is this one: whether it's better to exercise the back gently, to "warm it up" and trust that movement will keep it lubricated; or whether to lie flat and remove the pressure entirely--and for how long!

My mother's wisdom is not out of line with Buddhist teaching.  It's just that the lesson is different.  The back pain is not some kind of punishment sent to test our faith, but rather a simple fact of life to which it's better not to get attached.  I try to remind myself of the old saw, that pain is inevitable, but suffering optional.  Just notice that it's there and let it slip away.  As with all teachings of the dharma, it's easier said than done.  Simple, as I often tell myself, but usually very hard to do.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

It's a haunting, daunting question.  We usually use it to challenge someone's overly inflated ego, their high opinion of themselves, when they're "getting too big for their boots."  Do I remember it from a John Lennon song?   (Yes, it's Instant Karma... "Who on Earth do you think you are?  A superstar? Well, right you are.  And we all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun...")

And of course that's all we are, stardust, accumulating moment by moment into the constantly shifting forms we assume for the journey through our lives.  As to the rest, we are who we think we are--no more than the fabrication of our minds, a projected image on the screen of who we want to be, or alternatively fear we might be.  The flesh and blood part of us is transitory, no matter how long it lasts, the reality of at most a hundred years or so--or, in the thirteen point something billion-year history of the universe, by a factor millions of millions less than the blink of an eye.  A fast fleeting reality, then; and as such, the illusion of an illusion.

Still, the question popped unbidden into my head as I woke this morning.  Who do you think you are?  The context?  With my assistant, Maggie's help I have been sending out emails to museums and colleges, some on the East Coast, some on the West, hoping to attract interest in the presentation I have devised for a public lecture/demonstration, based on the One Hour/One Painting experience.  The latter, for those unfamiliar, is an hour-long exploration of single painting, combining the time-tested skills of meditation (closed-eye) and contemplation (open-eye) skills.

I have been offering these sessions for years now, in museums and galleries, mostly in the Southern California area.  I think--there I go!--that it's a great teaching piece, something I have learned for myself and am eager to pass on to others.  It's not only a great way to look at art, it's also a great way to learn the value of paying that kind of mindful attention to everything else in one's life.  Those who come to a session invariably have good things to say about the experience, and it's gratifying to know that I have managed to open a door for them.

But "One Hour/One Painting" works best only for relatively small groups.  How many people can sit in front of a single painting on the gallery wall, with the kind of sight lines needed to explore its surfaces as exhaustively as I intend?  The maximum, I've found, is a couple of dozen participants, give or take.  So something in me (ego? altruist? teacher? attention-getter?) wants to take this visual adventure further, to reach more people, and expand my reach to the East Coast, particularly New York, still the epicenter of the art world...

Call it ambition, call it intention, I don't know.  It's just something I have in heart and mind to do.  So I have devised a way of bringing the "One Hour/One Painting" experience to larger audiences, in this lecture/demonstration called "Slow Looking: The Art of Looking at Art."  As I envision it, it will allow me to use the technology of power point and a big screen to project images, rather than an original painting.  Pixels, I know, lack the substance of oil or acrylic paint, so the experience will necessarily involve more preaching than practice, more teaching than experience; but at least I should be able to convey something of the benefits of slowing down and paying attention (in this case to art) in a culture that seems too often to value speed and surface.  I believe it's wanted and it's needed.

But here's where the "who do you think you are?" conundrum sneaks in.  I think I have something of great value to offer and put out the offer into the world, and in response receive... silence.  I encounter the great, echoing void.  Though I have been writing articles and reviews for national magazines for decades, I can't pretend to have the "name" that generates instant--or even slowly dawning!--recognition.  Even in my own small corner of the art world, where I have somewhat greater name recognition, eliciting a response is problematic at best.

People everywhere are busy, naturally, with their own preoccupations and priorities.  And in part, of course, it's the competition.  There are so many brilliant minds out there in the public speaking market who have something of real value to offer.  Then there are the financial contingencies to be reckoned with: everyone is strapped for funds in the cultural world--schools, college galleries, museums... The steady withdrawal of public funds from the arts since the 1970s, has let to an increasing reliance on other than public resources--private patrons and supporters whose priorities must now include world poverty and hunger, medical research, and other pressing issues.

In which broad and increasingly urgent context, of course, I am brought face to face with that question: Who do you think you are?  So this was what I was wondering about this morning as I lay in bed, after waking with those words echoing in my mind.  Who do I think I am?  Which brings me back--my mind keeps coming back to this--to the question raised not long ago in my exchange with Ken McLeod: "When you say you see Peter, what exactly do you see?"  First thought: I see an image of what I imagine myself to be.  Second thought: well, actually, nothing.

Here's an invitation: try it for yourself.  Who do you (really) think you are?

ANGER

You know how it goes. You think you understand the mechanism, you've been meditating for many years, you've done your best to follow the teachings of the Buddha--but then it happens. Something or someone comes along to trigger you, and you lose it all. You get mad.

Here's what happened yesterday: I had just stepped outside the front door for our morning walk when our neighbor and fellow-walker hurries up and says, You'd better take a look at what they're doing to your hedge. Alarmed, I looked around the north side of the house and found workers slashing down the few last remnants of the fine green hedge that had separated us from our immediate neighbor's driveway and acted as a secure backing for the platform we built many years ago to hide our trash cans.

I was outraged. I made no attempt to hide my anger from the workers, who claimed to be acting on instructions from their employer. Why was she doing this? Why had she not at least consulted us before tearing down our hedge? "Our" hedge, so we thought. The leader of the work gang assured me that the hedge belonged to our neighbor. He pointed, with something of a smirk, I thought, to a pink line spray painted on the curb. I did not appreciate the smirk, and made no bones about telling him so.

We felt violated, exposed. Something of "ours" had been stolen from us--as had the privacy we had always enjoyed between our houses, along with protection from the street. We called our neighbor, who was already at work. We let her know of our anger, our sense of violation. We wanted her to understand just how outraged we were. She told us she had not known they were about to do this work, that she had intended to consult us. Too late for that. She promised to share her plans to build a fence and a wall, to replace the hedge...

The anger stayed with me all morning. After the initial explosion, I usually get very quiet when I am very angry. The anger roils around inside. Not matter the justice of the initial cause, I understand that the suffering is my choice. Still, I attach to it--as though, because my gut assumes it's justified, it were somehow helpful. It's not. It served only to poison my day.

I think I was able to let it go in meditation this morning. I explored that sense of violation and the anger that it triggered. The sense of exposure, the loss of something that was "mine", the rupture in the proper order of things on which my sense of security depends, my inability to control events in the external world. Then moved on into the practice of compassion--first for myself and then for all those who have experienced violation. I thought, particularly, of those who had suffered from far worse injury than the loss of a hedge: those millions in Syria, for example, whole families robbed of their entire home and their means of living... So many human beings violated by their fellow human beings.

Next, a much harder but necessary step: to practice compassion for the violators, most immediately for my neighbor and her workmen who had been the target of my anger; then for all those human beings who rob others of their livelihood, their home, their very limb and life...

I know there are those who scoff at what they believe to be the overly compliant, docile quality of Buddhism; there is a powerful ego part of me that wants to agree with them. Why should I be the enabler for those who wish me harm, or inflict it with impunity on others? Am I not a fool to accept insult or injury without returning them in kind? But then I remind myself that to practice compassion is not a passive act, but a powerful means to address the suffering we all experience in our lives. If I want to avoid the suffering that anger causes me in both body and mind, this is the best, perhaps the only way I know to let it go.

THE BOAT

Re-reading "Reflections on Silver River" in accordance with my promise to myself, (the link is to my review,) I have worked through the Invocation, the Homage and the Intention, and have arrived at Verse I, where I meet a daunting challenge.

I'll paraphrase the predicament  briefly, and far less eloquently than the author.

I am standing at the end of a pier, looking out over the dark ocean.  A well-provisioned boat  is tied up at my feet, ready to carry me out on the great adventure into the unknown, the realm of total freedom and, perhaps, eventually, enlightenment.  Behind me lie all the enticements of the life I have built for myself, all the things I like to think I own, all the experiences I treasure, the identities by which I have made myself known, my pleasures, my relationships, my addictions...

What will it take to step into the boat and cast off, on a voyage with no return?

(Is this, I wonder, Rimbaud's Drunken Boat?)

I think I'm honest in saying that there's not much I could not give up at this stage of my life.  I have come to understand that the "possessions" are all temporary anyway, not truly "mine."  I am fortunate indeed in having acquired so much in the way of material comforts along the way and they are not unappreciated.  But I think it's true to say that it is not these that prevent me from stepping into the boat.  I could let them all go.

The same with pleasures.  In meditating on this challenge, I could think of nothing in the way of all the worldly pleasures that I would not be ready to sacrifice for the adventure of complete, unfettered freedom.  I pondered long and hard about my most valued identity, the one I cling to most obstinately, the writer, and concluded that I have reached a point where even this is something that I'm able to release.

What, then, would it take to step into that boat?  What's the attachment that still holds me back?  It was clear to me, as I reflected on the image of the boat and the great ocean out ahead, that the one thing I am not yet ready or able to surrender is the attachment to family and friends, those closest to me.  It's the love I have for them, and the sense of obligation that I feel I owe them still that I can't let go.

I returned, in meditation this morning, to the understanding that death will come along to resolve this issue for me--and that, in view of the accumulation of years to date, it will not be overlong in coming!  Still, in the meantime, while not yet ready to step into that boat, I am happy to have been challenged to find the clarity in this, and I take it that the point of the exercise was to work toward that clarity rather than step headlong into the boat.  The more I am clear about the attachments that keep me on the shore, the more I'll be ready for the inevitable voyage when it's no longer an invitation, but an imperative.

Reminding myself of the subtitle of Reflections, "Thirty-Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva"--the title of the original 14th century text that it translates, I harbor no illusions about achieving that eminence myself.  The true bodhisattva would have no hesitations about the sacrifices his dedication requires of him--sacrifices that the Buddha himself made in setting out on his own journey, leaving family along with everything else behind.  At least I have the clarity of knowing what I find myself unable to give up. 

Not Now

I was sitting in meditation with members of our sangha yesterday and struggling with an unusually busy mind. I once asked Thanissaro Bhikkhu for his wisdom on the scattered mind and he advised me to tell myself: "Not now..." A simple instruction, yes. But as with all things simple, I have found that it's easier said than done.

Here's the thing: as a writer, I find that the silence and concentration involved in meditation provide me with an ideal time to "write"--not with the pen, of course, but in the head. And because it's in the head and I want to remember each brilliant construction before it recedes into oblivion, I find myself writing and rewriting every phrase a dozen times, committing it to memory to insure that I'll have it ready to write down when I'm done. This leads me inevitably into an obsessive cycle of thought--and out of meditation.

"Not now." What a simple and obvious thing to tell the mind when it gets into this state. And in fact, when I manage to listen to myself and simply postpone the work I got engaged in, I find that the work has been continued somewhere in the unconscious mind and is ready, waiting for me, when I choose to return to it. It's a matter of trust, then, that whatever it is that's engaging me will not be lost--unless, of course, it was so trivial that it need not have engaged me in the first place. Which is, regrettably, all too often the case.

It's the same with worrying and planning--both activities that address a future I am not empowered to know, let alone to determine. It's the kind of futile work the mind delights in, teasing itself with alternate scenarios until it whirls, hopelessly lost in the activity it has created. My mind, as it turns out, does not much like "Not now." It resists, insists, persists. Time and again I bring my attention dutifully back to the breath, and time and again the mind gets back to its wandering. When--and if--I manage to quiet it, though, what a comfort it is, what a relief! To drop back into the simple awareness of the body and its breathing, the ambient sounds and the attendant sensations. When--and if--I manage to bring myself into the present.

Why, I often ask myself, should it be so hard, when the result is so incontestably pleasant? When what awaits me is a kind of ecstasy, or at the very least, an inner calm? I suppose that my mind has been trained since childhood to believe that it should be "doing something," that idleness is somehow reprehensible.

Then there's the horror vacui (I googled the familiar words, to be sure I had the Latin spelling right, and to my surprise I came upon this wonderful painting by the self-taught artist Adolf Woeffli...


... no vacuum there; but I digress)--the "natural" abhorrence of the vacuum, an emptiness too frightening to contemplate. So the mind does its work. It creates structures of words and images, it noodles with the unknowable and flirts with risks and challenges yet to be realized. It considers this action to be its sacred duty, and sulks or sinks into "boredom" when deprived. It thumbs its nose at "Not now" and tells me to get lost. Which I promptly do.

Ah, yes. "Not now." Such a concept, such a challenge. And, when heeded, such a release!  The wisdom of "Not now" is not limited, of course, to meditation.  I often reflect on how much the quality of my daily life might be improved if I could just stay present to what is happening in the present, and quit worrying about things over which I have no control--such as the future, or the past.

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.

War Victims

How many living beings died in the wars of the 20th century? How many had their lives destroyed, both military and civilian? How many lost sons and daughters, mothers and fathers? How many lost limbs and bodily functioning? How many lost minds? Incalculable, I guess. And how many more have suffered similarly, already, in the twenty-first century?

These thoughts were prompted the other night by watching the recording we had made of The Rape of Europa, the documentary film that tells the story of the looting of Europe's private and museum art collections by the Nazis during World War II. This part of the story would have been horrifying enough by itself, but the film goes further: it also tells the story of the vast numbers of art works and irreplaceable architectural landmarks that fell victim to Allied bombs and artillery, and of their wanton, systematic destruction by retreating German forces. It includes amazing footage of the hordes amassed by Nazi leaders--Field Marshall Goering for his own aggrandizement, Hitler in order to fulfill his overweening ambition for a "Reichsmuseum" in Linz, Austria, the modest town of his birth.

That some significant part of the European patrimony survived is thanks to the efforts of many who risked their lives to pack, remove and hide the treasures from the Nazi invaders, and to those who prevailed upon the Allied armies to respect, where possible, the artistic heritage of the countries they liberated--no easy task, as the film makes clear, when infantrymen in the field, under attack from fortresses like the monastery at Monte Cassino in Italy, were forced to make agonizing choices between that heritage and their own lives.

It's an inspiring and, in may ways, a horrifying film, in which we learn much about the boundless greed and vengeful fury that warfare inspires in the souls of men. To steal or destroy a country's art is to disempower it by draining its cultural lifeblood: the toppling of that Saddam Hussein statue in Baghdad is but one recent example of the powerful symbolism involved. So, too, sadly, was the destruction of the Bamyan Buddhas by the Taliban not many years ago in Afghanistan.

And yet... and yet... From the Buddhist point of view, of course, all these things are just that: things, no matter how beautiful or filled with symbolic or spiritual value. Transience, in this view, is a relative term: even the mountain crumbles in the course of the millennia. Life, on the other hand, transient though it might be, is the ultimate value. Given the choice between art and life, I assume that for the good Buddhist there is no contest. But the great achievement of "The Rape of Europa" is in reminding us just how morally complex and emotionally agonizing those choices can be.

Vengeance

Last week's dreadful events in Mumbai had me thinking, in a previous entry, about death. They also triggered some thoughts about vengeance. Thus far, India has been commendably restrained in its response--at least insofar as action is concerned. There have been the press reports about high officials laying the blame for the attack on Pakistan but, to my knowledge, no rattling of sabers or deployment of troops to the border as in that earlier incident, back in 1992-93, when terrorists attacked the Indian Parliament. The exchange of angry words is inevitable; the return of violence for violence is not, if reasonable minds prevail.

The desire for revenge is understandable. Humanity 101. You slap me in the face, my hand itches to hit you right back. The Mumbai incident, obviously, provoked memories of the attack on the World Trade Center on September 11, and of the American response. Most of us, including my not-quite-completely Buddhist self, could not but feel that urge to respond to bloodshed with further bloodshed. The attack on the Taliban leaders in Afghanistan, whose support and training had enabled the 9/11 hijackers, seemed to me justified as an effort to protect ourselves from further harm.

In retrospect, though--and particularly in view of the current deteriorating situation in that unfortunate country--I question whether the American initiative was either practical or necessary. It has certainly proved ineffective in the long term. My sense is that the practical necessity for self-protection was so clouded by the spirit of revenge that intentions became unclear and confused, with the result that the real mission was left incomplete. The return of the Taliban today surely gains strength from that same spirit of revenge. The cycle is tragic and unending.

Insult to mind or body offers opportunity, however. I can respond in kind and give myself the momentary, illusory satisfaction of having repaid the offense; or I can swallow my pride and, in the words of that other great prophet, "turn the other cheek." In the latter case, I risk appearing weak in the eyes of the world, and of showing myself as a person to be taken advantage of--a risk not to be taken lightly in today's dangerous world. The risk, though, is perhaps even greater and more imminent if I choose the other path, returning violence for violence, satisfying my ego but opening myself to further retaliation.

I hope that India will seize the opportunity with a measured response and an invitation to continue along the path of peace. Under our current reckless leadership, we set the worst of examples. Had we responded soley with our attack on the Taliban and the terrorists they harbored, we might perhaps have stood justified in the eyes of the world. In following that up with the invasion of a country in no way related to the provocation, we lost our moral bearings as a country. An eye for an eye is poor policy for a great nation. Two eyes for one--and more--has proved an unmitigated disaster. Let's hope that India chooses a wider path than we did.

The Buddhist teaching is pretty clear: in exacting retribution, I am likely to do more harm to myself than to my enemy. As always, though, it is easier in the theory than in the practice. To follow the teaching requires some honest and fearless inner debate.

Blogging: The Buddha Diaries

A couple of responses to my entry yesterday (thank you!) set me to thinking, not for the first time, about what I'm doing here on The Buddha Diaries. I have thought about it primarily as a "writing practice," not unlike my meditation practice: something I just do (almost) every day without having to worry too much about what I'm doing or whether I have anything "to say." It has been a great way to be the writer I have been throughout my life, minus the concerns about publishing: where to publish, who the readers are, how much to get paid--most often barely, or not at all. The Buddha Diaries--and The Bush Diaries that preceded it--have given me the opportunity to be the amateur, in that good, old sense of the word: a person free from any and all obligations, who does it simply out of the passion for getting it done.

But yesterday the word "wondering"* came to mind. I like the two associations of the word: To wonder means not only to ask questions but to stand in awe. I have known since leaving academia twenty years ago that I am not a teacher--or only incidentally. I do not set out to tell anyone what I know, or think I know, because they don't know it. I tend instead to marvel at the world and the fact that I have some small place in it and ask my questions not out of existenial angst, I think, but out of curiosity about my own humanity and that of those with whom I share this planet; and out of the sense that, through honest and scrupulous self-examination, I can become a better, perhaps even a wiser human being and thus live a fuller, more rewarding life.

What appeals to me about Buddhism is less what it teaches than what it asks me to learn. I love its practicality and practicability. For me--and perhaps this is why I resist embracing it as a religion--it's not about shoulds and ought-to's, beliefs and tenets, but rather about what works and what doesn't, what produces healthy results and what leads to more unwanted suffering. As I suggested yesterday, there are realities with which I continue to struggle: even though I "know" the answers, I keep struggling with questions. I learn, and something comes along to remind me that I have forgotten what I learned, and I have to learn it all over again. It seems to me that this is simply human.

The Buddha Diaires, then, at its best--for me, at least--offers me a place where I can look out at the world and my own place in it, and ask those questions, and learn those things about myself and about the world, and forget them, and learn them over again. It's a place where I don't want to pretend to "know" anything, but where I can find provisional understandings that serve me for a moment; a process that uses medium (language) to find out what it is I need to say, with the understanding that I may easily contradict myself the following day. It pleases me more than I can say to know that I have friends out there who want to read this stuff and who take the time to think about it and respond. It's the ultimate reward for any writer, and I am happy to have found a place where I can be true to myself without constraint or embarrassment and still find those who are willing to go along the path with me.


*In this context, a note: My nephew, Naftali, now approaching his mid years, has just started a blog called The Wandering Jewish Dreamer. It was originally called "The Wondering Jewish Dreamer"--I suspect a typo, but I liked the confusion of the two ideas, one an old cliche, the other perhaps a truth about the author... Naftali, an Israeli sabra by birth but American since schooldays, has always been a wanderer. At present, he's in Prague, thinking about returning to Israel for a spell, then back to Prague before coming "home" to the United States. I'll be interested to see where his wandering--and his wondering--takes him!

Mumbai--and Beyond

This Mumbai thing has me thinking, once more, about death. A father and his thirteen year-old daughter sit at dinner at a restaurant and death comes crashing through the door in the form of madmen with assault weapons, firing at random among the tables. He's a former art teacher, a long-time meditator, visiting the country of the Buddha's birth in search of spiritual enlightenment. She is, well, just a teenager. Barely a teenager, who came along on her father's quest because she thought the experience would give her good subject matter for an application essay to qualify for entry to a private school. The last thing either expected was this encounter with violent death. So, too, the rabbi from Brooklyn and his young, attractive wife... And dozens of others like them.

And then... five human beings set off in a SUV for some unknown purpose and drive off an overpass somewhere in Colorado, crashing forty feet to their death on the concrete below; a store clerk leaves for his job at a Walmart store, and dies shortly after the store opens, trampled to death by the stampede of post-Thanksgiving shoppers...

It's not only the randomness of these deaths, and the countless others in Mumbai, that got me thinking: it's the seeming finality that accompanied them. As an atheist and a not-quite Buddhist who finds the whole notion of multiple lives too hard to swallow, I read about these deaths with little to comfort me. I would like very much to believe that this one life is not all there is, and I do have some inkling that the life-force or the energy that I feel within will persist in some form after my death. My struggle really is with the ego part, the ME that clings to the peculiarly human individuality that is the current manifestation of my being and on which I hang the story of my life. I am hung up by that face I see in the mirror, and by which others recognize me for who I seem to be.

I realize that my meditation practice has not yet brought me to the point where I can let go of these appearances. No matter how much I may "understand," up here, that clinging and aversion bring with them equal suffering, that understanding fails to register with the same power in the heart and the gut. The fact of the matter is that I really like being who I am, and the thought of not being me any more is a painful one.

Readers of The Buddha Diaries will perhaps remember that other little problem I have with death: I'm really hung up on the story, all stories, any stories, and I have a lot vested in knowing the end of them. Thw father and daughter started their dinner that evening in the full expectation that they would get up and leave the table at the end of it, continuing their journey. The store clerk, perhaps, had had a row with his girlfriend the evening before, and went to work in anticipation of the opportunity to repair the damage before the day was out. As for me, there are multiple strands of story going on in my life right now, and I realize there are many whose end I will not know. I'm absurdly grateful to know the end of this past election story--especially since it ended in precisely the way I would have written it, had I been so empowered. But now I have to wonder how much of the continuation of the political story I'll be given to know; and it's unlikely that I'll ever know if the planet we live on will survive the abuses we have inflicted on it. That this particular and current story should even have a foreseeable end is pretty scary. Then the events in Mumbai come along to remind me of the fragility of our global balance and the real possibility of human history ending in a forest of mushroom clouds.

In this context, of course, my own little life seems small indeed... but I cling to it none the less for the knowledge of its relative insignificance. So this morning I sit and try to bring my wandering attention back to the breath. For too few moments, I manage to bring my mind into the present and breathe past the gravitational mass of my own body. I acknowledge the unique wisdom of the Buddha and the path to happiness he has laid out for those of us who try to follow it. And yet I find it impossible, today, to reach anything that comes near serenity...

Lunch at the Huntington

I enjoyed an excellent lunch yesterday in the gardens of the Huntington Library, up in San Marino. Well, the lunch itself was… cafeteria, okay. But the company was excellent, as was the conversation. Long-time readers may remember, back in July, when Ellie and I hosted a party for a dozen or so Caians—alumni of my old college at Cambridge, Gonville and Caius, who happen to be living now in the Southern California area...

My host for yesterday’s lunch was one of these, a distinguished professor of philosophy and religion, scholar, editor, writer, and activist in the field of interfaith understanding. Indian-born and educated by the Jesuits in his native country, he embraces the wisdom and the cultural history of both East and West—he calls himself a “Buddhist Catholic”… or was it a “Catholic Buddhist”?—with a blend of infectious passion and curiosity. A great talker, he proved also a good listener and, despite his outstanding credentials and the breadth of his learning, a comfortable conversationalist. It’s rare, these days, to be able to sit down for a couple of hours and penetrate some important and difficult issues in a shared language of understanding and compassion.

We talked first about politics. Not surprisingly, we found ourselves in agreement: for the good of the country, this is a must-win for Obama. My friend had read “Dreams From My Father,” I had read “The Audacity of Hope,” and we agreed that the man is an excellent writer—one who writes from the heart as well as from a wide grasp of the political and historical moment in which we find ourselves. We agreed on the steady mind and the firm hand. We agreed that the alternative would cast a great pall over the future of the planet.

But the real meat of our conversation came when we turned to more broadly philosophical questions about religion and its role in the contemporary world. My friend is a man of thoughtful faith, who deplores the excesses of extremists, no matter whether they be of Christian, Muslim, Hindu, or any other origin. He dedicates a good part of his life to the promotion of tolerance and understanding between religions, and is a board member of Parliament of Religions--an organization for which he serves as the program director for a 2009 conference in Melbourne, Australia. Being attached to no faith, but rather a skeptical follower of the teachings of the Buddha, I was glad to be reminded that the meaning of the Greek origin of the word “skeptic” is “inquiry.” It’s about asking questions, which I personally believe to be the business of religion, and it dismays me that so much of the religion that is practiced inn the world today is about providing dogmatic answers.

Speaking of the intolerance that pits religion against religion, my friend asked what I thought was the source of that intolerance. Without reflecting any too deeply, I came up with the answer: fear. It’s that old, instinctive fear of the unknown, fear of the “other,” fear of encroachment by inimical forces on our camp site, the fear that what we “have” may be taken from us. If that’s the case, he asked me, what is the antidote? And again without too much reflection I answered: self-examination, a study of the fears that can determine the direction of my life unless I understand them and observe how they function. And what’s good for the individual is good for the institution. Religions, too, would benefit from honest, fearless self-examination. We need to understand when fears serve us—as they sometimes do—and when they serve only to stand between us and those who share our humanity but may have different views.

It was good to be prompted gently into some useful and productive thoughts. I see no way, for myself, to come back to the religion with which I was brought up, and which I abandoned as a young man. I do believe that the intellectual and spiritual roots it provided me then continue to ground me in ways unseen and, perhaps wrongly, unexamined. I value that religious education much as I value having learned Latin and other, living languages in my youth; I would be less well equipped as a writer without that solid foundation of etymology and syntax, and I judge that such humanity as I possess is meaningfully informed by the spiritual training I received. I was much more cavalier about discarding it as a young man than I am now. What I learned about Jesus, though, as my friend and I discussed as we ate our lunch in the shade of some very lovely trees, differs very little in substance from what I learn from the Buddha much later in life: the good part is all about love, generosity, and the spirit of compassion—a part that unhappily seems to have been forgotten by fundamentalists and extremists on all sides.

After lunch, we took a pleasant stroll through the gardens to the new (since my last visit, years ago) Chinese garden, with its beautiful pagoda, green ponds and walkways—refreshing even in the current Southern California heat—talking of professional experiences, and personal matters, and books we love. A very civilized way to spend the afternoon…!

(As a philosophical footnote, a new subscriber wrote to remind me of Gary Snyder's dictum: "Just because you're a Buddhist, doesn't mean you have to be a good Buddhist." Hmmm...)

(And, for good measure, as a political footnote, check out this Rap for Obama

Contraception

(But... before we start, I loved this picture on the front page of the NY Times:




It's actually the detail of a larger image, which features the "brain cells of a laboratory mouse glowing with multicolor fluorescent proteins." And I thought it was a painting!)

NOW...

I have been thinking about contraception since reading the Nicholas Kristof op-ed piece, also in yesterday's New York Times. It's a disgrace that our current administration, driven by its sadly literal-minded "pro-life" ideology, "is quietly cutting off birth control supplies to some of the world’s poorest women in Africa." "Thus," Kristof continues, "the paradox of a 'pro-life' administration adopting a policy whose result will be tens of thousands of additional abortions each year — along with more women dying in childbirth."

The moral issue, I agree with Kristof, is less to do with preventing birth than with causing death--and incidentally promoting the spread of disease and the persistence of poverty. Birth control, clearly, precedes conception, and therefore sidesteps all arguments about when human life begins--unless there are those who want to argue that it begins at the moment of that gleam in the eye that precedes the sexual act. Given the absurd notions of creationists, I suppose that those people might exist, but to allow them into this argument is to give them too much credit.

What are the objections, I wonder, to contraception? That it frustrates the laws of nature--and thus, perhaps, of God? That it encourages promiscuity? I'd hazard a guess that our consumer society, presumably with the blessing of our free market conservatives, does much more to promote sex among the young--and the not-so-young!--than the availability of condoms. And the teaching of abstinence in our own schools, here at home, has done little to prevent the advance of teenage pregnancy, so far as I can tell. The morally righteous folk who so fervently preach abstinence--think no further than the Governor of Alaska--look more than slightly foolish in the context of a world in which their fine advice and proscriptions are routinely ignored by the young.

And that's here at home. Who are we to be preaching the fringe values of the more repressive of our own religious fanatics to the poor in other countries? Who are we, indeed, to impose them by administrative fiat on countries where hunger, disease and poverty are rampant, and where population growth threatens the fabric and stability of whole nations--while their inhabitants themselves are asking for nothing better than education and material support to back it up?

(This is another excellent reason, by the way, to support Barack Obama, who opposes the Bush policies in this matter. John McCain has consistently supported them, and is even shockingly indifferent to the suffering they cause. Kristof writes, "when a reporter asked [McCain] this spring whether American aid should finance contraceptives to fight AIDS in Africa, he initially said, 'I haven’t thought about it,' and later added, 'You’ve stumped me.'” Really?

Since the actions of the Bush administration are based primarily in religious convictions, I spent some time yesterday searching through Buddhist sites to ascertain what teachings on the subject are available. They are sparse, and such as they are they dovetail neatly with broader teachings on sex: the central principle, for lay people at least, is not to abstain from sexual activity but to do no harm--either to oneself or others. The teachings call for skillfulness and awareness of consequences, not for abstention. Thus, "Contraception is accepted by Buddhists. According to Buddhist tenets, the life cycle of a sentient being begins when consciousness enters the womb, and traditionally this has been considered the moment of conception. Therefore, there is no objection to contraception which prevents conception without damaging sentient life."

This, like most Buddhist teachings, is profoundly sensible, compassionate toward humanity and its foibles, and practicable without harm. How very different from Christian teachings, ranging from Vatican Catholicism to Protestant Fundamentalism, whose harm in this regard is widespread and, in view of the rapidly expanding population of the planet, even potentially catastrophic! And how much more realistic and humane. Once more, I find good reason to go with the Buddha...

Angry? Why Not?

Okay, I make a point of accepting a challenge when it comes along. A comment on my past entry has me wondering whether I'm in fact as "frustrated" as the writer says, and whether I'm too "caught up in the tumultuous world." Am I a part of what the current occupant of the White House described, in his absurdly short address to the Republican convention last week, as "the angry left"? You bet I am. It seems to me the only rational response to what he and his administration have wrought, these past (nearly!) eight years. I'm mad about pretty much everything to do with politics. I'm mad, particularly, that the American voting public seems willing to be led about by its me-first nose, allowing the spinmasters to twist every evidence of corruption, incompetence and failure to their advantage.

I'm mad, this morning, in the knowledge that blame the Fannie Mae and Freddy Mac debacle and the attendant bailout will be cast on "government" and "Washington"--not for the truly reprehensible laissez-faire deregulation that for too many years catered to corporate and homeowner greed alike, but for bringing the bill to the door of the almighty "taxpayer." So who gets blamed? Not the free-marekteers, who have obscenely profited, but those who believe that government has a responsible role in exercising due vigilance over the economy.

I'm mad, this morning, about the "bounce" for the McCain campaign as a result of his selection of a person as unqualified to be president as anyone who has ever stood the proverbial heartbeat from that office. I'm mad that the "family values" gang are now ecstatic about the kind of unmarried teenage pregnancy that has previously aroused their ire and condemnation, despite their fanatical opposition to the kind of education that could help prevent it. I'm mad that this governor of Alaska has commanded so much media attention, as fodder for the consuming public's childish need for novelty and excitement, while the important issues that confront this nation go ignored.

And while I'm at it, I'm mad about the senseless war in Iraq and the deceptions that led up to it; I'm mad about the sheer incompetence of its conduct. I'm mad about the seven-year neglect of every other pressing issue in the Middle East including, especially, of course, the simmering conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians that is at the heart of it all--along with the demand for oil. I'm mad about the disgracing of America in the eyes of the world, and about the public shredding of its constitution. I'm mad about the coddling of the rich and the neglect of the poor. I'm mad about the denial of scientific evidence and the shameful delay in addressing the issue of global climate change. I'm mad that vast numbers of citizens in this richest nation in the history of the planet lack adequate access to health care. I'm mad that cour children's education lags so far behind that of children in other developed countries, and that we are so busy attending to our own needs and defending our own rights that we lack the will to make the improvements that are needed.

So, yes. I'm angry. It seems to me the only sane and reasonable response to what is happening in this country. And yes, I confess to being "caught up in this tumultuous world." I was gifted by my parents with a social conscience that will not allow me to walk away from what I see to be madness, injustice, abuse of power and economic exploitation. As for being one of a "frustrated bunch of Buddhists"... well, call it frustration if you will. And yet I have said repeatedly that while I learn immeasurably from the teachings of the Buddha and the meditation practice they inspire, I am not (yet?) able to call myself "a Buddhist."

So far as I understand them, the teachings here would not have me deny the anger that I feel. They would ask me to conscientiously explore the source of that anger, and the ways in which it might be relieved. They would not have me ignore the suffering of the world around me, nor my own. Skillfully practiced, though, they would help me to establish the kind of equanimity that might in some measure alleviate the suffering of myself and others. They would urge the kind of goodwill and compassion that is much needed in the world--and in our country--at this time. We would all be getting on very much better if we could remove our own prejudice from the equation and listen with mindful attention to the views of others. I recognize that I myself am not very good at doing that, but at least I'm aware of the need to try.

That said, to reduce Buddhism to the catch-phrase "all is dust" is to seriously misunderstand the wisdom that it teaches. Perhaps, as I understand it, the alternative construction, "there is dust, and then..." might be a little closer to the mark.

Recklessness--Or Discipline: Our Choice

It's important to say this right. I understand that John McCain and his supporters take great pride in the maverick qualities by which he seeks to define himself, and to be defined. And there's something extraordinarily attractive about the maverick--the guy who bucks the system, holds feet to the fire, speaks truth to power, all those old cliches. It's a part of the American myth, the archetype that catapulted Ronald Reagan to power--and assures him seemingly everlasting sainthood in the memory of vast numbers of Americans, despite the evidence that suggests, to rational minds, that his true legacy is far from the unmitigated triumph it is made out to be. It also played an important part in the George W. Bush ascent to power--and its catastrophic outcome.

Now comes shoot-from-the-hip McCain, proclaiming his gunslinger credentials, and it's important for us to understand that the dark side of the maverick's willing--perhaps even romantic--embrace of risk is recklessness. The dark side of the fighter pilot's courage is the flyboy's arrogant impulsiveness and fatal attraction for danger. Am I "unpatriotic" in wondering if we yet need to hear the full story of the events that led to the downing of that aircraft in Vietnam, before McCain's much-touted stay at the Hanoi Hilton? Is it irreverent to ask for an accounting of those events, now that this same fighter pilot seeks to be entrusted with the controls in this country's cockpit and make life-or-death decisions for us all, for the next four, perhaps eight years?

These thoughts arise from my observation of McCain and his vaunted willingness to take a risk and, when all else fails, to throw the hail-Mary pass. (Apologies for the mix of metaphors, friends!) Clearly, the latest example of this quality is the choice of Sarah Palin for McCain's vice-presidential running-mate. And this is not, please, about Sarah Palin. I have no reason to disrespect her, although I suspect I would disagree with her on virtually every issue, from birth control and abortion and a woman's right to control her destiny to her disbelief in the human contribution to climate change. It is particularly not about a seventeen-year-old being pregnant and unmarried. No, this is about a man who spends months building political capital on his urgent promotion of the war in Iraq and on his opponent's supposed unpreparedness to handle the dangers that face us in that part of the world; and who then turns around and picks, as his immediate successor in the event of his incapacity, a person who is clearly, indeed dangerously under-qualified in this very area. And this for no other apparent reason than to appease those social and religious conservatives who have mistrusted him, and to poach democratic votes from the angry, disappointed Hillary support group. Oh, and to have a fellow "maverick" on the ticket.

I don't know about you, but I don't want another risk-taker in that office. I admire the quality in less high-stakes situations, but this is not a game of football. We're talking, now, about the task of steering this country back to calmer seas (ouch, those metaphors!) and re-establishing our position in the world, as Teddy Kennedy eloquently put it, by "the power of our example, not the example of our power."

In contrast to the jumpy maverick qualities of John McCain, I see the quiet, forceful approach of Barack Obama. There are those who like to characterize Obama as aloof, unapproachable--not the kind of guy, they say, you'd want to sit down and have a beer with, unlike the current occupant of the White House. They are fooled, I say, into overlooking the one quality we desperately need in our next president: a true, unflappable mental discipline, a clarity and determination that see past the contingencies of the moment and hold fast to the big picture, the need for sanity, mutual respect and justice in the world, if we are to survive the baser aspects of our human nature.

Drawing, as I often do, on my admiration for the teachings of the Buddha, I honor not only Obama's quite extraordinary equanimity, but also the natural ease and clarity with which he embraces "Right Speech"--his steadfast refusal to advance his interests by slandering others, even those who gladly slander him. Who could fail to admire his immediate, forthright and unambiguous response to the current flap over what is, after all, no more than a family matter? I honor the dignity with which he had consistently refused to succumb to those who demand that he descend into the political mire, or risk appearing weak. His acceptance speech, last week, was ample evidence of strength combined with dignity.

Dignity, it's true, is not the most fuzzily "approachable" of qualities. It risks making its wearer seem a bit remote. But we have had ample time to contemplate the results of electing a folksy, scrappy pugilist and undisciplined thinker to hold our highest office and represent us to the world. Isn't it time for the corrective of some quiet balance, some serious forethought in judgment, some intellectual rigor and, yes, some dignity? Do we really need another reckless jolt into a future filled with known and unknown dangers? For myself, in the matter of global politics, I favor predictability over excitement, the dignity of dialogue over the bloody legacy of the sword.

I'm Back...

... and taking this weekend to get reoriented. The Laguna cottage is just barely livable. We came down here yesterday, after a night in Los Angeles, to find it--who'd have guessed?--less far along than we had hoped. We created a small space for ourselves in the living room...


... surrounded by stacked furniture and boxes.


Of course, we can't remember exactly what we put in which boxes, and the scrawled notes on the side--"Kitchen," say--don't help us to locate the box where we keep the tea bags. It's trial and error--and mostly the latter. The kitchen is nowhere near completion, as you can see...




... but we have a tiny fridge in what was once the dining room...



... and have hooked up the microwave. No stove, no tea kettle. In a few minutes, I'll be trying to make a decent cup of tea in the microwave--a new adventure.

Meantime, more serious and much more distressing, Ellie's injured ribs have started to cause her terrible pain. Her work yesterday at the cottage to make it slightly habitable--lifting and moving things--may have contributed, but the pain last night was such that I had to help her into bed. This morning, then, when she wakes, it's a trip to Kaiser for x-rays and examination. We did manage to sleep some during the night, having cleared a space for ourselves on the bed--it was piled high with clothes and linens, and covered with a plastic sheet to protect it from the dust--and rigged up a temporary bedside electrical supply with the aid of industrial sized extension cords left by the contractor.

In a word, all is not yet right on the home front in Laguna. Today, Saturday, after that Kaiser visit, we will likely return to Los Angeles and leave the cottage to the contractor for the next couple of weeks. The Buddhist teaching, of course, is the practice of equanimity--and for Ellie, the difficult art of non-attachment to the physical sensation. Much harder for her than for me, when the pain is so intense. It's annoyingly easy for me to exhort her to breathe and focus the attention elsewhere. And next to impossible for her.

I'll probably be slow in getting back to The Buddha Diaries, given all this distraction. A big thank you to those who joined me on Travels With George. I hope you enjoyed the trip. I'm planning to tidy up that site and beef it up a bit with more recollections and reflections, with a thought to publishing it in book form, if I can ferret out a more coherent "story" and its meaning. Apologies for not having responded to comments, and for not having visited other sites this past month. As I've said before, I do very much appreciate this community of bloggers, and look forward to getting back in touch. I personally have some thoughts about politics...

A Movie...

... we just couldn't bear to watch, even though I suspect that it's a very good one: The Savages. It had been sitting on our Netflix shelf for a few weeks, neglected for reasons unknown to myself but better known to Ellie, who had read about it, and we took it down last night and slipped it into our DVD player. Twenty minutes later, we pushed the eject button on the remote. Too raw. Too close to the bone. It nettled all our fears about growing old and dependent on others for our care.

I understand that the movie is really about the brother-sister relationship between the younger characters, but the first twenty minutes, at least, were devoted to their aging father and his "girlfriend," who in one memorable early scene sits rigid in front of the manicurist who is pandering to the last vestiges of her vanity. "Very sexy," the manicurist declares, delighting in the color she has just applied to a fingernail and looking up at the wrinkled face in front of her... just as the old woman topples over and dies. Ah, eros! Ah, thanatos! The old man, her boyfriend, the father of the squabbling siblings at the center of the story, is rapidly approaching dementia. Incensed by the insolence of his care-giver in scolding him for not having flushed the toilet, he returns to the scene of the crime and smears the word "PRICK" in his own feces on the bathroom mirror.

We did not reach for the remote, however, until the scene where the old man is strapped by airline officials into a wheelchair to be loaded unceremoniously onto the airplane to return him from Sun City, Arizona, to the nursing home facility his son has chosen for him. (Great exterior shots, by the way, of the Sun City location: curiously symmetrical homes and landscaping, almost surreal, overly bright, and distinctly scary.) Caught short on the plane, the irascible old geezer preremtously yells "Bathroom!" at his accompanying daughter, and again, "Bathroom! Now!" Struggling with tiny, painfully slow steps down the narrow aisle in the crowded plane, both he and she are ignominiously shamed as his pants fall down around his ankles amid the pitiless stares of fellow passengers.

Well, it happens to be my birthday in a couple of days. Not a Big One--no zeros. But the first number in the double digit figure is higher than I'd like it to be. A friend pointed out yesterday at the gym that she still manages to feel young when the second digit is a low one, as mine is. A nice conceit. Still, I have been feeling the weight of years. I notice that my steps are sometimes slower, lacking the energy of youth, and I consciously make the effort to appear more sprightly. I notice with aggravation that those things I liked least about myself--my impatience, say; a tendency to testiness--become more pronounced, and harder to contain. I think much more often about the inevitable end of life. My greatest fear about growing old is the dependency depicted in that movie, the loss of simple dignity, the need for others to take care of me, prop me up when I walk, feed me, clean up after my eliminations...

Which is why the most meaningful part of my metta practice, the first and last moments of my daily meditation, is that line from the chant on the sublime attitudes that comes after "May I be happy" and "May I be free from stress and pain": May I look after myself with ease. It's not often that a film is just too intense for me, but this one was. I never even learned the end of the story--a loss that, as those familiar with The Buddha Diaries know, is a serious one for me. But at least a fine metaphor for the experience of life itself, whose end we are rarely privileged to know.

I'm sure I'm not alone in any of these feelings. I'm hoping you might share your own...

Le Tour: Suffering

It's a word that's constantly on the lips of every rider interviewed, every coach and trainer, every commentator on the television coverage. Suffering. It's hard to imagine how much suffering those men incur for twenty-one days on their high-tech machines, riding often over one hundred miles a day, and up mountainsides, day after day, any one of which would challenge the strength of most powerful of men on a single day. They must have been grateful, yesterday, to reach the finish line on the Champs-Elysees in Paris. The Spanish rider who won the race, Carlos Sastre, credited a former team manager for having "taught me to suffer."



All of which led me to wonder what the Buddha might have to say about the Tour de France. He didn't own a bicycle, of course--though I enjoy the image of the Buddha on a bike. He walked. He walked great distances, accompanied by his closest disciples, I suppose with many stops along the way to teach what he had learned. Walking such distances may have caused discomfort--the occasional blister, surely, and sore muscles in the legs--but nothing like the suffering incurred by choice in competitive sports events like the tour.

We suffer enough in our daily lives. Is it "right effort" to incur more suffering by choice? Or is it mere human vanity? No doubt but that it's a discipline requiring incredible focus and concentration--perhaps even an extreme form of meditation, and certainly an extreme test of the stuff we human beings are made of. The slightest weakness is laid bare, the slightest vulnerability exploited by the competition. There's no room for self-pity, no room for distraction, no room for excuses.

The Buddha himself completed a marathon of a kind, in the course of those years of ascetic wandering, when he was reputed to have survived on nothing but a grain of rice a day. (An irreverent aside: I've often wondered how that grain was prepared. He can't have eat it uncooked, can he?) His conclusion was that this form of self-inflicted torture was unnecessary to achieve the goal of happiness. It was not necessary, he discovered, to intensify the suffering in order to find the way to end it. On the contrary, suffering is intensified by what we add to it to satisfy our ego-driven needs.

Egos abound, of course, in an event like the Tour de France. It's a daily battle to win--to win the sprint, to win the stage, to win the daily awarded jerseys: white for the best young rider, green for the best sprinter, polka-dotted for the best climber, and the famous yellow for the overall Tour leader. The competition is intense, and it's easy to get hooked on it--as I have been, this year, for the umpteenth time. Team strategy and individual performance are intertwined in plots and patterns that get more complex by the day. Wild surprises and bitter disappointments alternate to compel attention and wrench the emotional response.

Hardly a Middle Way, then. Strangely, though, it's Buddhist values like concentration and persistence--and of course equanimity in the face of suffering--that pay off in the Tour as in any other challenge that life offers. Depending on how you look at it, it's all a teaching.

A Dukakis Moment; and Who's the Boss?

A Dukakis moment for McCain? While Barack Obama was striding around the Middle East sounding very sane and looking very presidential--and being driven by the King of Jordan himself to his O-Force One jet--Republican hopeful Senator John McCain was getting his own joyride aboard a dinky golf cart, piloted by the aging (sorry, senioring) former President Bush (the nicer one.) I couldn't help but think of the image that so diminished then-presidential hopeful Dukakis, absurdly helmeted as he played solider on that tank. McCain, with a toothy grin that never fails to strike an off-key note, also managed to look more than a little absurd, old-boyish, golf-y, superannuated, out of touch.

And talk about whiners! The best McCain and his campaign have been able to come up with in the face of the wild Obama success in the Middle East is that whiny one-liner, "he'd rather lose a war than an election." Ouch! The media, of course, can hardly wait for the Obama gaffe. They had to settle, yesterday, for his slip in saying that "Israel is Israel's best friend"--or words to that effect. Intending, of course, to say that the United States was Israel's good friend. To call the slip a gaffe is to stretch the meaning of that word. (It did give me pause to wonder, though, how my own reaction might have been different had McCain made that same slip. Would I have been jeeringly condescending, rather than easily forgiving, as I am with Obama? Perhaps. I like to think not.)

It does seem to me that Obama is maintaining remarkable equanimity in that hornet's nest. From what I can gather from news reports--and I freely admit that they are hardly to be trusted--those he meets at the very least feel listened to. What he had to say about his differences with Gen. Petraeus, greatly touted by the press, seems entirely right to me. Who IS the boss? The abject deference to this general or any other is dismaying. Should he be determining our national priorities? I think not. That he has been allowed to do so by the current occupant of the White House is an abdication of responsibility. That McCain would continue to defer to him is sufficient indication that this Republican would be equally derelict in that responsibility.

Equanimity. A good Buddhist aspiration, and one that Obama rather successfully embodies. How very different from what we have experienced in politics for the last nearly eight years. How much what is needed in the face of our current challenges. As the late John Lennon famously wrote, and as TaraDharma sagely concluded in her post yesterday: "You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one." To which I'd add, "I hope some day you'll join us, and the world will be as one."