One Last Look

As it turns out, this will be my last entry for my little seasonal project of one-picture-a-month of-the-same-spot... of this house. Yes, we are moving again folks, and for exactly the same reason as the last time: mold.

Luckily, and very happily, the problem is no where near the extreme we experienced in southern Maryland. So we will not lose 80% of our stuff, as was the case last time. And I'm
not spending hours bent over bleach-washes of the remaining 20% of our stuff, as was the case last time. No, no, very happily we caught the problem early, are breaking our lease and moving on.

But just like last time, the whole chaotic and disappointing affair has got me wondering a lot about my Zen vows of tokudo, of home-leaving. Surely, it was not meant to be quite this literal! is one thought that pops to mind. And, my family did not take the vow alongside me, did they? is another. But of them all, one thought is fairly constant:

Why do we keep losing our home?

And then I look more closely at my rumination over my vows, and what is revealed is this: guilt over lost chances and laziness; a sense of split-self between parenting and family life and the "priestly" life I once knew; and perhaps most potently, a full-on storyline ravaging my mind of not deserving the okesa, the Buddha's Robe.

On that final point I finally found my tears, for a deeper mystery had been solved at last. You haven't got to deserve, as the saying goes. "How can you 'become' what you already are?" as my old teacher once put it. Sewing the okesa was, for me, a practice of experiencing my life weaving into a much larger picture, a much older tradition than my little mind could conjure alone. Wearing the okesa was, for me, a practice of experiencing a putting-on of Buddha's own skin. (It is powerful and transformative to wear the clothes of those you admire, as any 6-year-old girl dressing up in mommy's finery will tell you.) And entering the Soto priesthood was, for me, the practice of allowing, at long last, a sweet exhalation into the larger being that I knew I already was.

And so I return: we are not losing our home because we have been bad (as my old Catholic-self would think). We are not losing our home because we have offended the mold gods (as my old pagan-self would suggest). We are not losing our home because of all our ancient, twisted karma (as my old inner-Buddhisht --yes I meant that spelling-- would reprimand). Losing our home is happening. And still the green leaves explode in the chilly spring rain; and still the drops will spill down the concrete, into the street, ever following that ancient trail to the ocean.

Towards a More Pagan Zen: Interconnection

A typical Northwest Coast Raven Rattle, Tlingit, 19th century. You can find this rattle here, and check this great site for more information and other fine examples.

The trouble with nature is, somebody always gets eaten.

That's what entered my head, anyway, as I enjoyed a fine walk down my sunny lane this Easter weekend. The weather was glorious, though admittedly it worried me some (...Global Warming, and all that.). Crocus and forsythia created a riot of Easter-egg color everywhere I looked. And directly above me, two yellow-tail hawks circled effortlessly, with wings outstretched.

We talk a lot about "Original Nature" in Zen, which in quick shorthand you might find defined as "oneness with all things", or our point of origination. One thing I've written about in the past is how there's a tendency to think that a mind's reunion with this Original Nature-- Enlightenment, if you like-- is a blissful one. As my teacher once put it, "you're not necessarily going to like it."

Original Nature. Buddha-Nature. Human nature. nature. I thought a bit about the choice of the English word "nature" as it relates to our sloppy correspondence of the (more elegant) Sanskrit Buddha-dhatu or tathagata-garbha. "Nature" in this respect is pointing to an inherent quality that lives within us; but what interests me is the assignment, in general, of the word nature to describe potentiality itself.

For nature is happening all the time, just as Zen teaches Enlightenment is happening all the time. One instant carries into the next, and as such, each instant lives within the current "instant", making past, present and future utterly inseparable. And so goes my own interpretation of the Zen teaching, we are already enlightened, there is nothing to strive for, or become. Potentiality realized. Just like those circling hawks carry the potentiality of a mouse-lunch in one fell swoop. Which brings me back to my original idea.

... somebody always gets eaten. This could be metaphorical as well as literal; at that moment, aside from the hawks, I was thinking about my last post, and more to the point the heartbreak that friendship can be, especially when we disagree with our friends.

The Eastertime story of the Crucifixion and Resurrection really provides a fine illustration of this point-- and probably it's the root reason for the way my thinking meandered along my walk that day. Just think of it: Judas' betrayal of Jesus, and out of that friendship's flaw? Look what happened next! The very miracle that sparked the hopeful redemption of the Christian religion.

Somebody always gets eaten. Fluffy bunnies and pastel flowers aside, nature is not so sugary as we hope; a fox is always around the corner, or a strong wind to knock off new blossoms. Buddhism has often been called the pessimist's religion because of our faith in the constancy of suffering... but here is where I call upon my Pagan elders for a little clarification.

The Raven rattle I've chosen offers a great visual aid to a concept that can feel a little out of reach. In it, you'll notice a man seems to be riding on the back of a raven, and his tongue is protruding to meet the tongue of a frog which happens to be, presumably, the intended lunch of the kingfisher riding the rear of the rattle.

This is how I have been taught that interconnection is not a weaving of unrelated separates. More than "the big fish eat the little one" Circle-of-Life generalized narrative we follow, this portrayal points to something a bit less linear and a lot more powerful: for the truth behind this ingestion is the huge energy of creation itself. Beyond judgment or explanation, nature is potentiality constantly delivering. The shaman who has shape-shifted to land himself in a situation that will lend him the "power" of the frog, he understands this; he will transfer this "creative spark" as lent by the frog into a means of healing a patient, or winning a war, or granting a wish.

There is suffering; some consider this hell. There is no self; some consider this hell. So what then is the bright aspect of this Original Nature?
The shaman consuming his power animal, he knows.

It is the spark before a single word is uttered.

Towards a More Pagan Zen: Friendship

Today was a big day for this Mama: today was my son's first day of prepreschool. And here is a photo to commemorate our first moments in this momentous day... For my boy jumped eagerly into the thick of this new experience, while mama's nervous hands snapped a picture with her phone.

It's a perfect capture of that First Moment, because it speaks less about composition and clarity, and more about the color, noise and emotional chaos in that exact moment, and how we each related to these things that were happening, and to each other.

I've been thinking a lot lately that I might do well to write a bit of a treatise on my orientation to things... it never hurts to jot such things down, does it? Good for clarity, and especially for stepping forward when one is in a threshold as powerful as this. So to begin I thought I'd use the energy of this day-- and of that moment, in particular-- to share a little more of the inner life that I call A Sacred Friendship.

In contemporary Zen circles there's that infamous joke about the monk who asks the New York vendor for a hot dog. "Make me one with everything," he quips. And yet it's true that while we're munching away on the onion-and-mustard-smothered mystery-meat of life, it's often hard to see the hot dog for the condiments. So for myself, I keep a keen check on my overconsumption of all things "Buddhist", and opt instead to find a means to embrace direct experience for what it is, in my own language.

Much of this is informed by my pagan practice. For if anything about Buddhism here in the West annoys me, it's how darn cerebral it gets. Nothing is more ironic to me than the amount of thought we tend to pour into our exercises, and it seems to me we have a tendency to embrace the exotic nature of this Eastern-originating religion to excess. I did not take my vows to become Japanese; rather, I accepted them so that I might know something more of the truth of myself. In the contemporary pagan worldview, this truth is underscored by our interconnection-- a teaching known to folks who adapt indigenous traditions of American Indians north and south, to those who seek the traditions of their own European pre-Christian ancestry. I've had the privilege of learning such things from many teachers, and what a glory it is to find that under all the ketchup-and-mayo of varying spiritualities, oneness is the gift we find again and again, nestled in the bun of practice.

We are in relationship, always; even if alone, our bodies are relating to the room we're in, the objects around us, the thoughts that tumble around and around within us, and the things that have already happened-- or have yet to happen. There is no separating us from our emotions, our hormones, our electromagnetic impulses. We are in constant, continuous relationship.

But I don't like the word "relationship". Although it's descriptive enough for a cold concept, it's not deep enough. There's too much wiggle room; too much room even still for "I" dominance. "I'm in a relationship" is a vague phrase you might see from time to time, and in my mind I tend to subconsciously add, "...but I'm not sharing details!"

Therefore I chose the word "Friendship" to reflect a particular spirit of balance, of co-creating and togetherness. It's a softer word, a wider word, a kinder word. And it reflects much more accurately my orientation to things-- for as thick as thieves some friends may be, friends still argue; friends disagree, disrespect, disavow. For all the love and honey-gushy closeness the term implies, we all know that real friendship is challenging work.

And at its best, friendship does not exclude. There is much we will accept about a beloved friend, even if it means stretching a bit ourselves; especially if they have a differing political view or spiritual ideal, we bend where we must, for rare indeed is the occasion that we meet someone who is in total agreement with all of our own quirky ways of seeing the world.

How is my friendship with the environment around me? How is my friendship with my enemy? How is my friendship with my inner critic? These are the kinds of questions I ask myself as a way of reminding myself that indeed I am not solid, nor permanent, but I exist only as the quality of relationships that pass through me, each and every single one, large and miniscule.

What was that quality today? -- a high, happy vibration, a quaking instant of nervous fumbling by an anxious mom in a bright classroom with a happy, curious boy. The very best of friends.