Buddha Speak

Have you ever noticed out of the blue suddenly feeling hostile?  It was a gorgeous day, nothing had gone wrong and no one had challenged me over anything.  But I was feeling hostile.  So I asked myself, “Why are you feeling this way?”  I thought maybe I had stuffed away a bad experience from the week.  Or maybe some memory from my past had crept through the brain synapses to trigger a bad memory.  We all have bad memories hanging out in our biological cells.  Nope, couldn’t bring anything to mind.

So then I thought to myself, maybe someone is thinking hostile thoughts about me.  My naïve self wanted to reject that thought as being highly unlikely since I’m such a nice person.  My shadow self said “Yes!  That’s it!  Bad juju is coming down the pike and headed right toward us!”  Who could it be?

I am a firm believer in the power of thought.  I actually liken it to prayer.  I think this mind energy comes from the part of the brain that most of us don’t much use; you know… the other 97%.  It’s a powerful tool and I believe that the craziness in the world is due to the fact that most humans don’t cultivate this part of the brain in positive and compassionate ways but rather let it grow dark and mean and hostile.  But I digress.

So if someone somewhere in the world is thinking hostile thoughts about me, what can I do?  Simple.  I can say the 2500 year old prayer that Buddha taught called Loving Kindness.  Regardless of a face or a body or even a memory of hostility, I say 5 times over:

May you be filled with loving kindness;

May you be filled with peace;

May you be well;

May you be happy.

 I send this prayer, this mantra, into the universe and let it permeate all that is hostile and mean.  And then I say it again 5 times over to myself:

May I be filled with loving kindness;

May I be filled with peace;

May I be well;

May I be happy.

I am aware that the hostility in me is gone.  It is now time for me to reward myself with a bowl of vanilla ice cream.  Life is good.

A Moment

      I walked into my bedroom after taking a shower this morning. I was clean, in fresh clothes, ready for the day.  I walked pasted the front window and noticed a man standing at the side of my driveway, leaning on the trunk of the Sycamore tree.  He seemed distressed.  He was wearing jeans, a long sleeve shirt over a dark green tee shirt and a black bandana around his head.  He leaned his tall body forward and vomited.  I watched a little longer wondering if I should call an emergency vehicle for him.  He heaved a few more times and then took a tissue from his pocket and wiped his mouth, the inside of each nostril, wiped his eyes. 

As I watched him I wished I had some magical power to make him feel better.  I thought perhaps he was dealing with cancer and the effects of chemotherapy. 

I spoke to God, “Can you send him some relief?”

     The image of this man—this stranger, leaning against the tree, vomiting in the driveway, took away my feeling of comfort for just a moment.  My compassion for him pulled me from my place in the world into his place in the world.  This is what so many people I have known and will come to know have to struggle with.    

     He put the tissue back into his pocket, straightened up, and walked away leaving only the memory of his body against the tree and a stream of vomit trickling down the driveway into the street.  I want to see him healed, strong, living the life he thought he’d have when he was twenty. 

     All we have is this moment, and then the next moment and maybe the one after that moment.  We don’t know when the moments will run out.  I send peace and compassionate thoughts to this man who stepped into my moment.

June 9, 2016

Walking a Labyrinth

I can’t remember my very first experience walking a labyrinth.  I do know I have walked many in my life, and have always been drawn to this ancient spiritual mystery.  My favorite labyrinths have been outdoors:  ones in the forest, like the one I’ve walked the most in the Adirondacks at the Priory Retreat House (above), and (below) the labyrinth at the edge of Long Island Sound at a convent called Mercy by the Sea. 

I’ve walked indoor labyrinths:  one at the 213th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church USA in Louisville, Kentucky, and at least once a year during Advent or Lent, I’ve walked the labyrinth at Asbury United Methodist Church in Rochester, NY.  (below)

There are some who have journeyed to far-off places to walk ancient labyrinths, like the most familiar Chartres Cathedral Labyrinth in France.  I’m not sure I will ever get to walk a labyrinth quite elaborate and ancient as that, but the origin of even the simple ones we build in our personal sacred spaces date back 4000 years.  So whether we are in France or in Rochester, NY, walking the labyrinth will bring us to the center of a universal holy place that has been seeded in us all.

Why do people walk the labyrinth?  First, one must understand a labyrinth is not meant to confuse or trick the person who is walking it, (that’s a maze). But rather it is a way that leads to the center.   People will walk to meditate, to relax, to pray, to unburden oneself from worry, or to discern over making a decision on a personal issue.

labyrinth petraglyph - India

I frequently use the labyrinth as a metaphor to life.   It is like walking our life on a path that we know will soon lead to the center.  We will make turns that seem to be going back to where we started, but if we continue walking, we will see we are actually moving forward.  We will come across others walking the labyrinth.  Sometimes we will walk along side people and sometimes they will be either in front or behind us.  We may have to go around them or they may have to go around us.  Sometimes we will part ways and travel in different directions.  We will always come to the center.  There we can rest, think, pray, or be still.  If we want we can sing or dance in the center!  

And always, when we are ready, we can continue the journey until we complete the walk.

" ... you will find God where you are –
if you search with all your heart 
and soul.”
(Deuteronomy 4:29)

A Tribute to Architect, James Johnson

I read an article in the City Newspaper by editor, Mary Anna Towler, about architect James Johnson, who recently passed away.  I have a story about him that I’d like to share.

Sometime in the late 1970’s our family took a cross-country trip from New York to California.  We were driving down from the north rim of the Grand Canyon when we pulled over in a rest stop to take a look around at the amazing vista.  An Air Stream trailer pulled in besides our truck camper with a New York State license. We had not encountered any New Yorkers in several days of our journey and we’re happy to exchange greetings.  A young man, his wife, and children got out and in our conversation said they were from Pittsford. 

“Hey!  We’re from Rochester!”  I exclaimed. 

I asked, “So what do you do in Rochester?” 

He answered he was an architect, at which I asked, “Is there a building I would recognize?” 

He smirked, “You don’t want to know!”

I looked at him and smirked back, “Did you design the Liberty Pole?”

 

He grinned, “Yeah.”

I was elated to meet the guy who created the once infamous Liberty Pole. Like many creative artists, his work was ahead of the popular imagination at that time. He created beautiful sanctuaries and structures that still stand as creative and stunning buildings in Rochester.  

I would never have imagined in my lifetime bumping into James Johnson.  But there we were, on the edge of the Grand Canyon looking out at the vastness of the scene before us, and together fondly smirking about the Liberty Pole.

Photo:  The Big Picture - RIT

Advent Meditation

The online Advent practice for today asks that I “sit in my cell for a half hour and do nothing.”  I can do this. I start by sitting and looking at the tops of the bare trees out the balcony door window that is in my study.  I watch the tips of the branches sway in the wind at the backdrop of an all gray sky.  Misty rain speckles the glass on the door.  I listen to the tinnitus in my right ear.  It is on high pitch but it doesn’t seem to matter.  A few minutes pass. 

Then I hear a voice:  “Your cell phone is ringing.”  I attempt to ignore the proclamation, but the urge to know who was calling seems greater than my time of doing nothing.  I’ll go make a cup of tea.  This will help me do nothing.  I find my cell phone. The call was from an online guidance counselor about my degree program.  It was important and I note what she said on a sheet of paper then go back to my cell.  Maybe I should write a short email to the counselor to say I got her call.  This takes about 20 minutes because I have to search the internet for some information I want to share with her.

 Now my tea is cold, but it’s okay.  I look out at the tree tops again.  Everything is as I left it a half hour ago.  Too bad—I could be done by now, but I’m starting all over.  I observe darker lower clouds passing overhead that look like smoke from a fire.  There was a comment about “fire” in today’s Advent practice.  When on fire,  “stop, drop, and roll… cease the frantic motion that is fanning the flames.” Okay, I can do that. 

Suddenly my spouse, charges in the room and announces, “I’ve finally finished the eulogy!  Want to hear it?”  Why yes… of course I do!  She is a minister and is so good at writing these things.  Another 20 minutes have passed, but I can still do this meditation practice.  I close my door and lock myself in.  It’s 1 p.m.  I stop fanning the flames.  In the distance I hear a fire engine. 

I take two shell peanuts from my breast pocket that I was keeping for the back yard squirrel and eat them.  I put the shells back in my pocket.  I continue to look out the window and try to get the crushed peanuts out from between my teeth with my tongue.  I methodically chew the little bits that are left and swallow them.  There is cold air coming in from around the door sill.  The wind continues to shake the tops of the trees and pull the dark smoky clouds across the sky.  I close my eyes and try to shut it out.  At arm’s reach, I grab the blanket off the rocking chair and drape myself, head to foot. 

Thoughts begin to creep into my mind—Those few grumpy people who are disgruntled with me for one reason or another—Why do they bother me at this very moment?  Send them away. I feel the soreness in my muscles since I’ve been wearing a FitBit and walking and exercising more. Send it away!  I can almost feel the cortisone shot that entered the left knee this week.  Send it away! And that tinnitus is still blaring.  Send it all away.  I still chew on tiny pieces of peanut.  This is a mixed blessing and it keeps my mind from coming up with new thoughts that I will only have to send away. 

“Are you there God?  Don’t you want to say something?”

“No.”

Sometimes all God wants is our presence.  I stay with this thought for a long while.  Then a memory comes to mind of my first time in centering meditation that was also suppose to last a half hour.  It was during my spiritual direction training and one of the other students fell asleep and started snoring.  There were about six of us in the room and I remember opening one eye just a crack to see if there were any reactions.  The snorer was slumped on the couch and those around him were seated upright with tiny grins at their lips.  I remember how ironically the time seemed to pass.  Just like now.

I look at the clock on the computer and its 1:36 p.m.  I made it.  What I report back to the online practice group remains a mystery.  

What it Means to Retire

So you work all your life long doing something… anything… to earn a living because you want to have  shelter for yourself and your family and you want food, transportation, education, entertainment, clothes and underwear… whatever you can afford that brings joy and comfort.

And then one day, after you have devoted 30 years or so to what you called your career, you stop doing it.  You retire. You are older and getting tired.  Maybe your brain is not as quick, and your work is driving you a little crazy.  You decide it’s just time to stop and focus on what’s left for you in the limited time of life you have left.

So one morning you stay in bed and don’t go back to work.  You get up when you feel like it and hang around the kitchen in your pajamas.  You make coffee, read the newspaper, feed the birds and water the plants.  You hang out on Facebook for a while and read your email.  It’s January and it’s really cold outside so you stay inside, take the thermometer off shutdown, put it on 67 degrees and watch a movie on cable TV.

After a few days of this routine, (or maybe it’s not a routine yet), you begin to feel like you have lost something.  It’s not the keys to the car.  It’s the people you used to work with. It’s the chair you sat in for hours at a time, and the desk on which you used to manage your work.  It’s the window you looked out over someone’s garage, and that pesky little brown bat that used to fly around the library and scare the wits out of you.  It’s also a little part of who you used to be, your identity.  We all know we are “not what we do” but there is something missing because you don’t do it anymore.  So you begin to think… well who am I now?

This question may take another few months to answer because things just seem more clear as time goes by.  Or maybe it will take longer to figure out just who you are now, and what your new position in life will be. Maybe you won’t ever have an answer to that question you were asked back in 9^th grade English class…  Who am I?  But it’s okay not knowing because in the long (or short) run, it’s all about the journey… the journey that is your lifetime. 

And that’s what it means to retire.

Loving to the Point of Heartbreak

This time of year I find myself frantic even though I make a conscious effort to remain mindful of what the Christmas season is all about.  "And what is that?" you ask.

I'm inclined to say the season is about what is in our hearts.  Each one of us understands the meaning of Christmas, Hanukkah, Yule, in their own cultural way.  I am Christian, so I understand the season as remembering the birth of Jesus.  I also remember it is the season of solstice and the "coming of the Light."  So these two thoughts are with me, as well as the time of Hanukkah and the miracle of the eight nights of lamps burning.

It is during this season I am often subject to moments that stirs the heart.  Such is the one I had today.

I was returning from a trip to the grocery store to buy bread and butter for a Christmas lunch.  When I drove out of the parking lot on the corner was a small old man, scruffy beard, torn wool cap holding a piece of cardboard out at arm's length with the words, PLEASE I NEED SOME HELP.  

As I waited for the light to turn green, I felt him looking at me and I avoided his stare.  I didn't have change and I was in the far left lane.  So I drove around the corner and got a coffee and bagel because I didn't yet have breakfast.  When I came back out to the street he was still there, so I turned into the parking lot, rolled down the passenger window, and gave him one dollar.  He reached into the car to take it, and he said to me, "Thank you, dear.  Merry Christmas."  And in that moment, my heart began to break.  Here's why . . .

On the seat that he reached over was a bag with a toasted bagel and a cup of hot coffee.  In my pocket was the left over change and a $5 bill.  In my wallet was a $20 bill.  I gave him $1.  As I drove away I repeated to myself the words he spoke, and they caught hard in my chest. I could have easily given him so much more.  I didn't need the food.  I didn't need the $5 and probably would have not suffered much if I gave him the $20.

I have so much and he seemed to have so little and what I gave him was so little.  If my kinder self spoke to my stingy self, I might say, "Well… you took the time to give him something, even if it was just a little."  And I could think of many excuses as to why not to give money to those who might use it toward an addiction.  It's all about judgment.  Who has the right to have more than someone else on this planet?

The lessons we learn this time of year are not for those we give to, but for ourselves.  Perhaps it's not in the quantity of our gift but in the love that comes with the exchange.  And I found myself loving this man, even to the point of heartbreak.