Patience, miso soup, bandits, and doubt

It’s midsummer. I’m nearly halfway between the last day of school in June and the first day coming in August.

I'm trying to rest and touch stillness in my shimmering, tender and quivering center.

I wish to let the well of patience recharge. To watch the inhale. To notice the exhale.

Whatever patience might seep in, I intend to share generously with next year's kids. Kindergartens are so full of suffering. Joy, too, but lots of suffering gets mixed in. Patience is needed.

For breakfast, aged Chinese Pu-erh tea and miso soup eaten slowly using chopsticks. I lift out—one by one—chopped pieces of boy choy, onion, carrots, and tofu. I chew each piece individually, and then slurp the broth, like I learned in Japan. Breakfast like this can last 45 minutes.




After breakfast—household chores in slow motion. Do my laundry and hang it out in the soft morning sun.

I wash last night’s dishes enjoying the gentle warmth of the water and the light grapefruit fragrance of the biodegradable dishwashing liquid.

As I washed the dishes, I tried to stay with the dishes in my hands. But my mind wandered. That's what minds do.

I thought about doubt and faith.

What is great doubt, if not great faith in skepticism?

What is great faith, if not great doubt in our ability to accept uncertainty?

Doubt and faith appear as two sides of the same coin. Great doubt is great faith. I'm not sure if that's so, but it seem so. Back to the sudsy bowl in my hands...

Wandering mind again. I also thought about my morning reading from the Dharma. The Buddha demanded that his students to let go of their cherished beliefs. Like Jesus, the Buddha told stories to teach.

The Buddha told a story to his monks:

A young widower was devoted to his little son. But while he was away on business, the whole village was burned to the ground by bandits, who took away the little boy.

When the father returned and found only charred ruins, he was brokenhearted. He mistook the charred remains of an infant as his own child, so he organized a cremation, collected the ashes, and carried them always in a special bag.

Years later, his real son managed to escape from the bandits and found his way back to his old home. His father had rebuilt the house. When the boy arrived late one night and knocked on the door, his father called, “Who is there?”

“It is I, your son. Please let me in.”

The father, still carrying the bag of ashes and hopelessly sad thought this must be some wretched boy making fun of him and he shouted, “Go away!”

The boy knocked and called again and again, but the father always made the same response. At last the boy left, never to come back again.

After the Buddha had told this story he added, “If you cling to an idea as unalterable truth, then when the truth does come in person and knock at your door, you will not be able to open the door and accept it.”

As I gently rubbed my sponge on the dishes to clean them, I took care to notice their fragility, their proneness to being chipped, nicked, cracked, and broken. A moment’s carelessness, and they could shatter.

My fragile dishes resemble my faith: not broken now, and serving me well this morning.

Clay Spirit

I count myself lucky to know so many poets as friends. Today I wish to feature a poem by my friend, Raphael Block called Clay Spirit:

Clay Spirit

Breakfasting

I feel the warm clay bowl

of my mother's making

cradling my fingers.

Solidly thrown

her name etched on the bottom

the beige glaze

reflects a range

of creamy whites to speckled browns

just like her eyes.

My hands rest

on its generous rim.

What feelings traveled through hers

to mine? She who transmitted so much

so much that I rejected

and now hold sacred.

—Raphael Block

Friends Meeting, Part 7 Wild Geese

When it was Sue's turn to share, she read a poem titled Wild Geese by Wendell Berry.



The Wild Geese
by Wendell Berry

Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.




I'd like to add another poem with the same title by Mary Oliver:

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.



Two of my favorite poets have written poems about wild geese. I notice that whenever I see wild geese flying overhead I stop what I am doing and find myself transfixed by their spirits, their energy, their voices. My mind seems to jump a thousand feet in the air and my imagination begins to migrate north or south, depending on the season. Geese have the power to pull me out of my small human mind.


And, finally, to this Tuesday's meeting, Sue brought some exquisite white currants and scrumptious plums. Thanks Sue!

Friends Meeting, Part 6 Green Sangha

Debra shared information about the Sonoma County Chapter of Green Sangha. We meet the 4th Sunday of the month in Debra's home in the SRJC neighborhood of Santa Rosa. For Mischa and Sue, and anyone else in our sangha who wants to learn more about Green Sangha, I have included the link to the website, below my signature. Our chapter now has a blog on the website, so you can read about our Garden Wheel project in Sonoma County.

Here is what I share with our group:

The Principles of Green Sangha

What distinguishes Green Sangha activism from other kinds of activism?

1. One Body
   A poet wrote, "Throughout the universe One Body revealed." We are the earth, sky, oceans and the entire planet. Of course we love the planet. It is us!
2. Clarifying Motivation
   Love (without boundaries) is our true nature. Motivation comes from the recognition that we are not separate from any aspect of life. We are love without boundaries serving itself.
3. Compassionate Action
   We see in our lives the same greed and confusion that we oppose. This helps us to have compassion for others. We fight the confusion that causes suffering, not the person who is confused. There is no "other" to fight against anyway; we simply meet ourselves.
4. Questioning Ourselves
   We constantly live with the questions of what is authentic, loving, and appropriate action. We're willing to not know and be open to other points of view. We know we could be wrong.
5. Being With What Is
   We meet injustice without becoming lost in it. An over-identification with injustice leads to despair or rage. Alternately, meeting life in an intimate yet spacious way allows for a more creative and potent response.
6. Holding Stories Lightly
   Who would we be and how would we act without the story that reality isn't supposed to appear the way it does? Without a story, the sense of a separate "I" dies, revealing our true nature as love without boundaries.
7. Integrity
   As spiritual activists, we stand together in our commitment to be that which we are trying to bring about in the world: peace and love.
8. Holding Roles Lightly
   We hold the role of activist lightly, while thoroughly engaging in the work of the activist. We are more effective when we act from our true identity as Life itself, instead of identifying with our roles which are a mere fraction of our true selves.

Debra Birkinshaw
Board Member, Peace and Justice Center of Sonoma County

Here is a link for more information:

Green Sangha

The Sun Kings

Marc, Richard, Brenda, and I went yesterday afternoon to see a Beatles cover band called The Sun Kings. There are 5 members in the band; together they sound just like the fab four, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

Marc is a fan. Earlier he had encouraged me to come to one of their performances. He told me that they get so close to the sound of the Beatles that if you close your eyes, you'll think you're listening to their recordings.

The Sun Kings set began with early material and progressed to Abbey Road. When they began playing, I thought that they must be lip syncing. The audio-illusion amazed me with its detailed accuracy. I kept my eyes open to see if they were actually making the music I was hearing. It was that close. As the concert went on, I began to be able to distinguish subtle differences between the original Beatles and The Sun Kings.

They made no effort to look like the Beatles. No need—they SOUND like them.



If you're a San Francisco Bay area resident and enjoy the music of the Beatles, check them out. I told Sarah about them, and she wants to come along to the next concert. They're playing up our way on August 4 in Rio Nido.

Friends Meeting, Part 5: Billy Collins

Roger shared two poems by Billy Collins. Roger has been bothered by a neighbor's barking dog in the past few days; Roger shared this first poem due to that. I like how this poem's title frames the poem.



Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House


The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

—Billy Collins



Roger shared another poem by Billy Collins, this one about the tendency to avoid the hard work of writing. I'm sure some bloggers are familiar with the cleaning syndrome.



Advice to Writers

Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate alter of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover page with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.

—Billy Collins


Both of these poems appear in the collection, Sailing Alone Around the Room

Friends Meeting, Part 4: Time Unwinds

Time Unwinds
by Dan Gurney

Note: Sonnets are poems composed of 14 lines. In creating these six connected sonnets, I’ve observed a self-imposed rule of keeping each line to 10 syllables. Getting the lines to rhyme would be nice, but such an accomplishment is beyond my current powers.

Some years ago, I shared with a teacher my skepticism about the existence of heaven. He pointed out that modern skepticism about heaven is, from an historical perspective, exceptional: throughout the ages, most humans have believed in some sort of heavenly realm.

My teacher got me to doubt my skepticism! Now I am agnostic in regard to whether heaven exists or not. How would I know one way or the other?

This set of poems arose out of two states of mind: (1) out of a willingness to play with the idea that a heaven might exist, and (2) out of my deepening sadness in response to the on-going and relentless extinctions resulting from human activity.



Sonnet 1: Prologue

In two thousand twelve, the Dalai Lama
Will journey to a Buddhist Heavenly realm
And save all life on this, our precious Earth.
His early interests in tinkering with
Motorcars and his later interests in
Astrophysics had a purpose no one
Had guessed at the time. He took it all in.

Deeply meditating, he will tinker
With the time/space continuum so time
Runs backwards—or seems to—and we humans
Can undo our ignorance-born karma.

And then the future will undo the past
And we shall move back towards our cherished past
Reclaiming what’s best and leaving the rest.




Sonnet 2: Back to 9/11

First, the Patriot Act will be declared
Unconstitutional. Corporations
Will be abolished and no one will want
To remember anyone going by
The name, W. Democracy will
Begin its return to the USA.

We will learn that the sky wants no scraping,
Beyond what the mountains have always done.
Unionized workers will respectfully
Dismantle every large downtown building
And return iron, copper, marble, tin
Back in the earth where they’ve always belonged.

Members of the Bush White House will enjoy
Retirement years in Guantanamo.



Sonnet 3: Back to 1963

Jetliners no longer trace linear
Contrails across the upper stratosphere.
John F. Kennedy will fulfill his plan
To pull all American troops out of
Vietnam. Two million Southeast Asian
Mothers and children live in ancient peace.

China returns Tibet to the Buddhists
Who pray for atomic disarmament.
FAT MAN and LITTLE BOY’s misbegotten
Progeny are pulled apart piece by piece.

Man splitting atoms? Inconceivable!
We bury deep underground depleted
Uranium and other eternal
Radioactive wastes. No more poisons.




Sonnet 4: Back to 1930s

Japanese Americans don’t hear the
Orwellian phrase, “Relocation camp.”
In each early Decembers, Pearl Harbor
Enjoys only peaceful Buddha birthdays.
Germans give luxury first-class tickets
To Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals
On trains running from concentration camps
Back to cities, towns, and the fertile lands.
Ex-soldiers in Europe will shovel trenches for gardens.
Guns and swords will be beaten into plowshares.

Ford’s ancestors will mass-dismantle his
Model A’s and noisy black Model T’s.
Bicycles and electric streetcars will
Glide slow and smooth down narrow, winding lanes.




Sonnet 5:
Back to a Sustainable Future

Across the New World boundless forests will
Reappear—Redwoods in California,
Hardwoods in the east, rain forests in the
Amazon. Salmon and shad will run thick
In every stream. It seems we could tiptoe
Gingerly on fish backs to the far shore.
Vast herds of buffalo roam the wide plains.
Twice a year clouds of passenger pigeons
Migrate across the skies, darkening them.

Plants long thought extinct will grow everywhere
To absorb green house gasses, clean the air.
Climate changes back; ice caps refreeze, and
Glaciers grow as thick and long as ever.




Sonnet 6:
Bless Us All

Everyone wakes well rested, and a day
Younger each morning. Old injuries heal,
Chronic diseases fade from memory—
Until we feel strong enough to start work.

Our careers end with four years of college,
So we can prepare for high school, middle
School, and grade school, so we can forget
What we didn’t need to know anyway.

And when we finally get to that first day
Of kindergarten, we will be ready
To be loved far beyond imagining
As we prepare to float more spaciously

Nine months in quiet, warm, and liquid bliss
Awaiting to sparkle our children’s eyes.

Friends Meeting, Part 3 & Happy Interdependence Day

(This image is clipped from Google Images,
but I got the idea from Steven, author of The Golden Fish blog.)

At Friends Meeting last Tuesday, Steve shared the first stanza of this poem. I first read this poem in 1967 when I was a sophomore in high school. I struggled to understand most of the poetry my teacher asked me to read. I was just a kid, raised on TV, and not too interested in reading.

This sonnet by e.e. cummings stuck out because it was among the few that were within my ability to appreciate. Well, at least the first stanza of it. This was among the last poems e.e. cummings wrote. It was part of his final book of poetry, XAIPE, published in 1950, the year before I arrived, crying, in this world.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

—e.e. cummings

Tomorrow we'll come around to the contribution I offered to the evening's meeting, a collection of sonnets that I wrote the morning of the meeting.


Finally, I want to wish my fellow Americans a Happy INTERdependence day. We're all in this world together, folks.

Friends Meeting, Part 2

At our recent Friends Meeting, Richard shared a poem he wrote about Tiger Woods.

Richard started practicing meditation about a year ago. He was a little surprised to find that poetry began to flow out of him. There's probably a connection.

He wrote this poem about the ability to concentrate (an ability meditation can improve) in the game of golf. Richard loves walking—that's how we met—but he also likes to golf.






what was tiger thinking

what was tiger thinking
on the 18th green?
make it and I win
make it and fame is mine
make it and riches are mine
make it and they will cheer

no

tiger saw the ball
on the green smooth expanse
saw the cup
and saw an imaginary line
he felt the breeze on his neck
felt his feet planted firmly
felt breath flowing softly
the soft feel of the putter
pressing gently in his palms

nothing but the ball
the cup
and the line
and the soft sound of the ball
rattling in the bottom

—Richard Nichols

Richard has his own blog, too. You can see more of his art and poetry here:

http://richardnicholsartandpoetry.blogspot.com/


Tomorrow I'll share another contribution from the group.

Friends Meeting, Part 1

On the fifth Tuesday of June, the Society of Friends met to share poems, stories, and prayers.

I said I'd share some of them on the blog, so here goes.

Louise told us about her father whom she loved and who clearly loved her. She shared the Prayer of St. Francis which was printed on a card and distributed at her father's memorial service. Louise carries the Prayer of St. Francis with her wherever she goes. It comforts her.

It goes like this:

The Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury,pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.


O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen


(This prayer comforts me, too. I memorized it 26 years ago when I went to weekly classes offered by Eknath Easwaran who recommended this prayer for meditation. Reciting the Prayer of St. Francis is a part of my daily meditation practice. Sometimes, at night, if I wake up with a worried mind, I repeat this prayer silently and slowly to myself. It often returns me to blissful sleep.)

The Laundry as the Ecstacy

Lunch is done.

Time to hang the laundry.

It's deeply pleasing
To pin wet clothes on a line—
Sun, wind, dance, and song.

Honest Scrap Award

Delwyn awarded me the “Honest Scrap” award with a request to write 10 honest things about myself.

OK. Let’s start with this. I have learned that what I say or write can have impacts larger than I imagine.

Because of this awareness, I practice “wise speech” to the best of my limited ability. It’s hard.

1. In all honesty, I have to restrain the impulse at times to shade the truth. Whenever I catch myself in the act of speaking falsely, I correct myself.
2. I fight the impulse to omit important facts with intent to deceive. When I catch myself intending to deceive someone this way, I either tell it like it is or I simply restrain myself from talking.
3. I think carefully now when deciding what to say and—just as important—what NOT to say.
4. The impulse to engage in gossip persists. When it’s really hard to keep my mouth closed, I push up my tongue—HARD—up against the roof of my mouth. I keep pushing until the urge to say something harmful fades away sufficiently that I can relax my tongue.
5. I sometimes engage in idle chatter. A great deal of what I say is just that old wind bag, Mr. Ego, talking.
6. I swear at home, sometimes, especially if there’s no one to hear my oaths but my cat.
7. I communicate better when I concentrate on listening. If I can manage to keep what I have to say to a minimum, my words have more effect.
8. I have a hard time keeping dark theories (conspiracy and doomsday) to myself. I annoy people when I get going on these topics, so I try to keep my mouth closed. Whatever "preaching" I've done on these topics has, as far as I know, converted no one. This sort of speech is worse than halitosis.
   

And, that’s 8, not 10, honest things about me. To continue would be idle chatter.

Compassion bigger than all the anger and fear

It's helpful to remember how much we share with every form of life here on earth: we all come into being, we all want to be happy; we all must die. We depend on other life for our very breath, for our food, for our happiness. Each of us is just one strand in the web of life, connected to every other. This is a truth that, sadly, we tend to forget.

So here I have one more selection from Jack's book to share. This selection appears in Chapter 15 titled "Many Brothers and Sisters." It starts with a story about how sometimes we can feel really alienated from our brothers and sisters and how just one person can help us remember we're all members of life's family, even bugs.



Several years after the Los Angeles riots/insurrection of 1993, I [Jack Kornfield] joined together with Malidoma Somé, Luis Rodriguez, and Michael Meade to begin a series of multicultural retreats to address the difficult dialogue on race. In one retreat a hundred men from the black and Latino communities of Watts and East Los Angeles joined with white participants for teachings, story-telling, truth speaking, and healing rituals. The retreats drew on communal practices from the ancient traditions of West Africa, Native America, and the Buddhist elders to attempt to create a common ground for understanding. It was a fiery and passionate week.

One of the most heated moments came when a white man told how frightened he had become for his family when the Los Angeles riots/insurrection came within two miles of his home. He was so frightened that he had gone out and bought a gun for protection, he said. Several African-American men instantly bolted from their seats to confront him. “Who are you going to kill with that gun?” one man said. Another shouted, “You talk about fear. If you want to be afraid, brother, you better look in the mirror. Look who invented the machine gun, the land mine. Look at the owners of gun factories. Look at who built nuclear weapons and then used them. Look at who shipped twenty million people to this country as slaves, who fought the biggest wars in the last thousand years, who colonized the world. You want to be afraid, look at white people. You better sell that gun, man.”

Several white men rose to support the man with the gun and began shouting back about defense for individuals. Other black men argued louder. The tension was building. We wondered if we could keep the room from exploding.

Finally Ralph Steele, a six-foot-two African American Buddhist teacher stood up. In his voice we could hear the soft echoes of the South Carolina Gullah language of his childhood.

“I live in rural New Mexico where everyone has guns for hunting and protection, but I don’t have one. When I was in Vietnam I saw enough shooting to last a lifetime. We would go out on patrol or into the villages and every day somebody would get shot, sometimes your best friend. We would get to a new area and people there would move and some of the guys would get spooked and start shooting. Later we found we shot women and children. There were some human beings in our company who liked shooting other human beings, even women and children. We didn’t know what to do with them. It was my life for two years.

You don’t want a gun. It doesn’t matter who you are, you don’t want a gun. You don’t want the dreams, the nightmares that come from using a gun. You don’t even want the memory of a gun in your hand. You’ve got to live a lifetime with that.”

Ralph finished speaking and stood quietly, looking around. All the other men sat down. He had spoken without anger or defensiveness, with a compassion bigger than all the anger and fear in the room. We were silent for a while.

By listening with the heart, by giving voice to the truth of compassion, one person an turn the energy of conflict back toward peace.

After the Ecstasy, the Laundry Part 2

Cultivating patience can really transform our world. Patience is a gift we can give to ourselves and to everyone we meet.

This story, from Chapter 15 of Jack's book, comes to mind when I stand in line at the grocery store. It helps me enjoy those moments of waiting.

...A military officer ... studying meditation in a class for stress reduction ... [was] in a supermarket. It was a crowded evening, the lines were long, and the woman carrying a child in front of him had just one item but would not get into the express line. The officer, whose habit was impatience, began to get annoyed with her. It got worse when she got to the checkout stand and she and the clerk started cooing over the baby. The woman even handed the child to the clerk.

He began to tense up, his anger building at the thought of how selfish she was. But because he had just come from his class, he noticed what he was doing to himself and began to breathe more softly and relax. He even noticed that it was a cute baby. By the time he got to the clerk he had let go enough to say, “That was a cute boy.” “Oh thank you. That was my baby,” she replied. “You see. my husband was in the air force but he died last year in a plane crash. Now my mother takes care of my boy and brings him in once a day so I can see him.”

After the Ecstasy, the Laundry Part 1

Summer brings time for reading. I've already read three books this summer that I want to share with you. Today is the first of a short series of posts about this book by Jack Kornfield.

I picked up this book at the Spirit Rock bookstore when I took part in Jack's recent daylong retreat. I picked it up and almost couldn't put it down. Jack's books—like his talks—share stories told among the top teachers in that realm. I'll share a few in Mindful Heart over the next few posts.

To begin, here is a story culled from Chapter 14, "Honoring Family Karma" which concerns how family life offers lay practitioners countless opportunities for spiritual realization.

This story comes from a spiritual teacher in the Catholic tradition:

As a young Catholic I was inspired by the saints. I had always wanted to do things like work with Mother Teresa in India, but most of my life has not been so glamorous. After college I became a teacher in an elementary school And then my mother had a stroke and I had to drop out of teaching and help her for two years: bathe her, care for her bedsores, cook, pay the bills, run the house. At times I wanted to complete these responsibilities and get back to my spiritual life. Then one morning it dawned on me—I was doing the work of Mother Teresa, and I was doing it in my own home.

With mindful awareness ordinary tasks done in the service of others can become holy.

The Violinist

A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up, to meet his schedule.

A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.

A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.

The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year-old boy. His mother tugged him along—hurried, but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.

In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

Who is he?

The violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with his 1713 Stradivarius violin worth 3.5 million dollars. Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100 each.

Support Group

Jack Kornfield led a daylong Insight Meditation retreat at Spirit Rock yesterday. In addition to the meditation instructions he offered, Jack shared several heartwarming stories.



This one was written by Fran Peavey. I hope you'll enjoy her story as much as I did:

"One day I was walking through the Stanford University campus with a friend when I saw a crowd of people with cameras and video equipment on a little hillside. They were clustered around a pair of chimpanzees–a male running loose and a female on a chain about twenty-five feet long. It turned out the male was from Marine World and the female was being studied for something or other at Stanford. The spectators were scientists and publicity people trying to get them to mate.

"The male was eager. He grunted and grabbed the female’s chain and tugged. She whimpered and backed away. He pulled again. She pulled back. Watching the chimps’ faces, I began to feel sympathy for the female.

"Suddenly the female chimp yanked her chain out of the male’s grasp. To my amazement, she walked through the crowd, straight over to me, and took my hand. Then she led me across the circle to the only other two women in the crowd, and she joined hands with one of them. The three of us stood together in a circle. I remember the feeling of that rough palm against mine. The little chimp had recognized us and reached out across all the years of evolution to form her own support group."


—Fran Peavey

Walls As Membranes

I finished my last post, “Giving Up an Addiction,” and shut down my computer. I was late and had to hurry to get ready for a gathering of friends. We were meeting see photographs of a trip to India and Bali that one of us took last winter.

I got my projector out of storage so my friend could display her pictures on a wall. I went to our local grocery store, Fircrest Market, to buy some 3-bean salad, my contribution to the potluck dinner that we would share before the show. As I drove up the hill to where she lives, I confess that I felt smug self-satisfaction that I would invest the next few hours in actual face-to-face friendships.

I said hello to our host and went to work connecting the wires from her computer to my projector. All went well. (With technology, how often does that happen?) On time now, I breathed a sigh of relief and settled into a comfortable chair and waited for the rest of our group to arrive.

First to arrive was Christian. A mischievous glint in his eye hinted he had something provocative to say. “So, how are you doing on overcoming your addiction?”

The post had been up less than two hours! Already I was face-to-face with a blog reader eager to put the lie to my musings about the gulf between virtual and actual reality.

And I know that some members of my family (not my wife, though!), my spiritual community, my neighborhood community, my friends, and school community—all of whom I meet in actual life—read my blog from time to time. The wall between virtual reality and actual reality is actually a membrane. Like most walls.

Touché.

So, as this post evidences, I will continue to write.

Thank you, all my “virtual” friends for your thoughtful comments on yesterday’s post. I thought I would respond to them here:

B&B,
If I were in your neighborhood, I would be honored to come to your barbecue. I am glad to know my blogs have helped you have a better real day. The practice of gratitude—a practice I continue to do, though not online, for it seems smug—does offer real benefits. I find comfort when I re-frame my mind to hold what’s good in our wonderful world.

Delwyn,
I thank you for your comment. I am sure that we would enjoy a walk together and that I would learn a lot about the plants and animals that we passed along the way.

It’s all about balance. You alluded to a quality of blogging that I am uncomfortable with: the competitiveness (is that what it is?) of having lots of people follow your blog and leave very brief comments. It sometimes feels like a popularity contest mixed in with “if I leave a comment on your blog, I expect you leave a comment on mine.” Mixed in with that is an unspoken feeling of, “I’ve got more followers-visits-comments than you.” Is it just me?

If you ever come to California, I hope we can find a way for the four of us to share a walk. Your blog is a gem.

Sarah Lulu,
Your blog, too, is one I’ve come to treasure for its openness, honesty, vulnerability, and faith. I remembered your post about meeting an online friend in the 3-D world, and I think that’s great. I know it happens, as my vignette today tells. As with others, if you ever do make it to San Francisco, let me know. We’d enjoy some tears and laughter, I’m sure.

Alden,
Thank you for your thoughtful remarks. You make good points about how when the focus of blogging is on sharing ideas as opposed to collecting online friends blogging can have real value. Your blog serves as a good model for idea-driven content. And, as you say, if the by-product of the intellectual discourse is friendship, well, that’s wonderful.

I very much enjoy your blog, and continue to be astounded by the many overlaps in our lives: like you I enjoy going sailing, kayaking, cycling, reading, playing music and having regular contact with family and friends in a variety of social contexts. Not to mention having been born in 1951 and enjoying a career invested in the education of young children.

As with all the above, Alden, if you ever get to California, look me up. I’ll see to it that you get an actual sailboat ride on the San Francisco Bay!

Giving Up an Addiction

The California Buckeyes are blooming! I love them!

Mark over at Butler and Bagman wrote yesterday about how blogging can feel addictive. His sentiments resonated with me.

I'd like to add this observation:

I’ve observed that blogging creates a sense of connection and community with people we've never met, and, let's admit it, folks, probably never will meet. I've met some wonderful, wonderful, people online, and I will continue to look in on their blogs and feel warm and fuzzy about them. However....

Not one of your blogging friends is likely to visit you in the hospital, come to your birthday party, go hiking with you, or have you over for dinner Saturday night.

Because blogging does not satisfy our actual need for social contact, it gets addictive. Much as M&Ms get addictive because they seem to provide nourishment without actually providing much beyond but empty calories. Much as alcohol gets addictive by seeming to provide relief from our troubles while actually increasing them.

I heard a supposedly true story of a blogger in NYC. He had more than 800 followers in New York and was a blogger of note online.

He spent so much time with his computer that his real friends gave up on him. Who can blame them? How much fun is a guy who’s so glued to his screen that he doesn’t have time for dinner with friends, to take a walk, etc.?

Our blogging hero got lonely and decided to invite all 800+ of his online friends to a real party. He sent out an online e-vite, rented a hall, got a caterer, whole thing.

On the night of the party, only one person showed up.

Blogging gave him a whole bunch of virtual friends, but only one actual friend.

**********************

As for this blogger, I'm not going to give up blogging entirely. From time to time, when I have something worth sharing, I may find my way to the keyboard.

I will, however, discontinue my efforts to post regularly.

I intend to live my life in actual, not virtual, reality.

Society of Friends

Starting in July, the Society of Friends of the Buddha will discuss selections from Jack Kornfield's Teachings of the Buddha, (Revised and Expanded edition) pictured above. It's published by Shambhala.

You can purchase this book from Many Rivers Books and Tea and also from the Spirit Rock Bookstore.

(Please note: There's another version of this book—same author and title—that is smaller and has a red cover, the Pocket edition. This red non-revised and unexpanded version is NOT the version we will use.)

Open to Disappointment

"When there's a big disappointment, we don't know if that's the end of the story. It may be just the beginning of a great adventure."

—Pema Chödrön

Healdsburg Jazz Festival

Sarah and I went with friends Richard and Brenda to the Healdsburg Jazz Festival to take in an afternoon of Brazilian Samba music. It was a very pleasant afternoon—warm and lazy. We packed a sharable picnic lunch.

The emcee was KCSM's Latin Jazz host, Jesse Chuy Varela. It turns out our seats were right behind his, so I got to meet him. It was a thrill for me because I've been listening to—and enjoying—his Latin Jazz program for a long time. I'm particularly fond of Latin Jazz, ever since I first developed a taste for music on my own. The first album I ever bought was titled "Getz/Gilberto" a black album with an abstract modern orange painting on it. It featured the bossa nova sounds of Antonio Carlos Jobim and Joao Gilberto. Great music that is still played today.

Jesse Chuy Varela introducing the first act of the afternoon.


Me, Jesse, and Sarah.

Garden Walk

A group of Sebastopol citizens (OK, I confess, it's us and friends of ours) sponsors free monthly walks about town to promote walking and community. Saturday's 4 mile walk about town attracted 93 walkers.

This large group of walkers toured 7 backyard gardens in town. Three of the yards were owned by professional landscapers and three yards were owned by committed amateur gardens, and one, ours, was a more ordinary garden.

Walkers gather at the Town Square to begin the Garden Tour.



93 people walking down the street tend to stretch out a bit.




The pond at Eric Olsen's house. His yard was like the Garden of Eden: edibles everywhere.





Kathy Oetinger, a skillful amateur gardener, talks about her garden.




In Arlene Kallen's back yard.
Arlene's been a friend since forever.
She recently retired from her career as Sebastopol's librarian.




In Nick Kishmirian's yard. He's a neighbor, friend, fellow hiker, and professional landscaper.

Gratitude: Next Year's Class

I've had the chance to meet the children who will be in my kindergarten class next year.

It looks like it will be a particularly enjoyable group of students next fall. There will be 6 grand-students in the mix.

A Walk Across the Laguna

Just before sunset I set out for a walk across the Laguna de Santa Rosa.


I hoped that the seasonal bridge would be in, and it was.




The Laguna's waters are quiet all summer long.

100 years ago, the waters much more extensive and included lakes.

The earliest settlers went on boating excursions. Much of the wetlands were "reclaimed" for agricultural uses. Today, the remnants of the Laguna afford habitat for the wildlife that survived human interference.

My friend Richard Nichols was a leader in preserving and restoring what was left when he began taking an interest in the Laguna 20 years or so ago.

This bench has a plaque that features
an appreciation of our earth by Alice Walker.


We have a beautiful mother.
Her green lap immense,
Her brown embrace eternal,
Her blue body everything we know.



The mile-long loop trail
Through a peaceful savanna
Good day, dear, sweet Earth.

Bike Ride with Davy

David, Ian, and me after pizza. The oven is behind us.

I first met David in 1963. We were both in seventh grade and had the exact same schedule. My name being Gurney and his being Heintz, contiguous alphabetically, he sat behind me each day all day in seventh grade. Eighth grade was the same. Fate? Karma? I don't know.

The idea that students may sit where they please hadn't been thought of yet, I guess. Friendship arose out of our administratively-imposed togetherness. We have since shared a lifetime of friendship.

Yesterday we rode our bicycles in Point Reyes National Seashore on the unpaved Stewart's Trail to Wildcat Beach along with David's nephew, Ian. Afterwords we shard a meal featuring brick-oven cooked pizzas in Point Reyes Station.

I love my conversations with David because he knows me like a brother and isn't impressed by anything I might say. He'll ask any question and challenge my points as few people do. Keeps me on my toes.

His nephew, Ian, edits college philosophy textbooks for a living. So our conversations yesterday tended towards the philosophical. It was, for me, satisfying and meaningful. We're planning more meetings this summer.

San Francisco At My Feet

I carpooled to San Francisco with my friends and neighbors Richard, Brenda, and Nick to join the Northbay hike along the California Coastal Trail there. Richard led the hike. Nineteen hikers traveled the 10.5 mile loop beginning at the Golden Gate Bridge and meandered west along the California Coastal Trail out to the Great Beach before looping back through Golden Gate Park and the Presidio.

Here are a few pictures I took along the way.

The Golden Gate Bridge. It was quite overcast and chilly.



The mansions in Pacific Heights are among the most beautful residences I know.



The ruins of the Sutro baths.




A rose in the Rose Gardens of Golden Gate Park.



A protea growing along the sidewalk along Park Presidio Drive.



Our group listens as Richard tells us how Mountain Lake is the
only spring-fed natural Lake in San Francisco.



Nearing the finish of the day. Richard received a "standing ovation" at the end of the hike.

Arthur Rubenstein

I like all kinds of music, but I suppose my favorite genres are jazz and classical. One instrument I always enjoy listening to (and wish I had learned to play when I was a kid) is the piano.

One master of the piano was Arthur Rubenstein, pictured above, who not only played well, but also said a thing or two worth remembering:

I have found that if you love life, life will love you back.

and

To be alive, to be able to see, to walk, to have houses, music, paintings—it's all a miracle. I have adopted the technique of living life from miracle to miracle.

Cherry Blossoms

We accept the graceful falling
Of mountain cherry blossoms,
But it is much harder for us
To fall away from our own
Attachment to the world.

—Rengetsu

Gratitude: Society of Friends

The gift of the Dharma exceeds all gifts.



This evening I feel deeply grateful to my friends who came this evening to share tea and wisdom: going round the room, where your presence is felt, still: Christain, Louise, Roger, Walter, Sue, Eve, and Richard.

May you be happy, may you be safe, may you be healthy, may you be at ease.

Kindness: A Poem

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes

Here is a lovely poem that expresses so beautifully the connection between sorrow and genuine kindness. The kindest, deepest people I know have experienced their fair (or more) share of sorrows.


Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye


Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.


Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.


Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.


Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

—Naomi Shihab Nye from Words Under Words: Selected Poems

Sailing on the Bay

A good way to go sailing is with friends on their boat. The "pride of ownership" isn't worth the costs and headaches from where I sit.

Perhaps an even better way is to go with a friend who has a membership in a Sailing Club that owns a bunch of boats and lets its members take them out.

Last month a group from my sailing club including my sailing and teaching pal, Mike Witkowski, went down to Sausalito to sail a 38 foot catamaran (an Australian-built Seawind 1160) as the guest of our Commodore, Steve Sarsfield. Steve's a member of the Modern Sailing Club. Steve is certified to take out any boat in their fleet.

Steve planned the whole event, including lunch and dinner on the boat.

Did I mention that he prepared a plate of snacks to tempt us as we got ready to cast off?



We sailed outside the Golden Gate where we saw dolphins, seals, and quite a few pleasure boats. It's often quite wild outside the Gate, but on this cruise we enjoyed light winds and warm temperatures.




Steve encouraged everyone to take a turn at the wheel. I skippered the boat from Alcatraz Island to Angel Island. I enjoyed taking the helm in the best winds all day, which seldom reached 10 knots.



Had a turn on the winches, too.

We got back to the dock as darkness fell after a full day of sailing on the San Francisco Bay.

iWalk Sebastopol

Today we spent most of the day walking, talking, and singing our way around town. It's all part of a new program called iWalk Sebastopol, a project of the County Health Department to get people in touch with the noblest form of transportation for humans ever: walking. It was great fun to walk and talk and sing!



The walk started—and finished—at the Sebastopol Town Plaza. About 30 people began the loop around town here at the Plaza as the Mayor gave us a little pep talk to begin. Our friends and walking superheroes Richard and Brenda led the first leg of the walk to the high school.


By the time we got to the Peace Park, we had picked up the leader of the third leg of the walk, Jim Corbett, aka Mr. Music, Sebastopol's 2009 Citizen of the Year, here posing with my wife the Mayor. I cannot tell you how much fun I had singing and walking around town. It was like Christmas Carolling, but in a much more pleasant season of the year.

Open House

This was Open House night at Dunham. Lots of conversations with students from this year, from the past, and some from the future, too.

I'm feeling very fortunate to have such a nice place to work.

Teacher Appreciation Day

Today, I am grateful for the expressions of appreciation that I received at work today.

• Dashiel gave me a balloon bouquet.
• The Student Council put on a breakfast buffet which you can read about over on Mr. Kindergarten.
• And the PTO brought in a masseuse who gave me a wonderful massage this afternoon.

It's psychic income.