I’ve been captivated by this view of the unseen marvel in a prickly pear bloom.
It’s a sign of thigmotaxis.
And that’s a sign that it’s time to get a move on and register for the Mother’s Winter Plunge in Scottsdale, Arizona on Sat. Jan. 16.
Nothing you’ve seen until now
November 22nd, 2009 - 4 Comments
Discuss amongst yourselves
November 20th, 2009 - 7 Comments
I have a little load of delicates in this just-published book. I haven’t seen the book yet, but I’m posting this promotional video to make it easier for me to view another 2,000 times:
Since the video is a little finicky, you can always click and see it here.
The book is one thing, but the really interesting thing (to me) is that the editor, Kirtsy co-founder and social media maven Laura Mayes, was once a co-worker of mine. Actually, I was her dictatorial but charmingly benevolent boss back when I was a woman of substance. That our lives have intersected again is something far more interesting than anything of mine you’ll see in the book, because it’s the way women’s lives really are: deeply and profoundly connected.
I can get as riled up as the next gal about the inequality in this world of ours, the his-versus-hers, the patriarchy, and the idiots in pants. But the more I see, the more I see that’s the way it has always been. There is no equal, and there is no quality. So I don’t want to spend any more time getting riled up. Not while there is so much to do. Like write, and read, and fold laundry; like start companies and spread peace; like soothe the suffering and calm the cries; and discuss, yes, discuss everything amongst ourselves.
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Letting the air out of fear
November 18th, 2009 - 16 Comments
Exhalation is the jump. Inhalation is the parachute.
Last week I spoke to a college class – an Asian philosophy class – about Zen. It is a gas to speak about something as simple and straightforward as waking up. The thing is, in this morning lecture to nearly 100 young people, a quarter of them were completely asleep and none of my antics could stir them. If it were an audience of middle-agers, the percentage in deep sleep would spike precipitously, so this was a chance to change the course of lives, to be sure.
Sometimes when I get rolling in a talk, the ocean swells, the surge accelerates and I finish up feeling as if I’d consumed all the oxygen in the room. Pens literally drop, and we hear them. Drop. Drop. There is a cushion of hush that follows, and hardly a murmur comes forth. I was not surprised that the horde rushed the exits, and only a smattering came to the front to see me.
A young woman waited her turn, eyes wide, and when the space between us cleared, I instinctively grasped her palm in one of mine and began tracing circles with my index finger on the top of her hand. She said she wanted to talk to me about something that had happened to her recently. She said, “You tell us to trust our lives . . . “
but I have a problem letting go. People tell me I am a control freak, and I wanted to do something to prove them wrong. Something to overcome my fear.
And so she dove out of an airplane.
She described the experience. The feeling of numb nonchalance, eerie disembodiment, followed about eight hours later by total shrieking hellish recall and paralyzing terror. She’d given herself post traumatic stress.
I said, “Don’t jump out of any more airplanes.”
I’m sure there are some for whom it qualifies as sport or playful pastime, but skydiving is one of those ridiculous things that fearful people do to prove they are fearless, humans do to prove they are superhuman, and mortals do to prove they are immortal.
“Don’t do that,” I soothed, still tracing circles on the back of her hand.
“Just exhale.”
This is what I tell everybody all the time these days, because I’ve finally realized that what all the ancients tell us really is true, and really is that simple, and really is that effortless, natural and ordinary. Just exhale.
Exhalation is the act of letting go, the release, the surrender, the trust, that otherwise seems like mumbo jumbo psychobabble coming from another New Age guru with a book and website. Just exhale, and you’ll realize that all this time you’ve forgotten to exhale. You’ve become tense and constricted in your fearful distractions and your anxious grasping. All this time you’ve been holding onto your breath, choking yourself, and now all you have to do is exhale.
Just exhale: there’s the jump. Just inhale: there’s the parachute. Land in one piece without ever leaving the ground.
You’re safe, you’re free, you’re fearless. You’re dismissed.
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A stickler for the holidays
November 17th, 2009 - 1 Comment
I was cruising through the living room with a basket of laundry the other day and caught sight of the television (hint: it’s not hard to catch sight of my husband’s new 47-inch Panasonic high-definition attention span) where I learned that we are already in the midst of a holiday shopping season described as frantic, manic, rough, tough and tricky.
This was completely news to me. Frankly, news like this is always news to me. After Jan. 1, everything that comes stampeding at me for the rest of the year – all the Hallmark occasions, the manufactured shopping seasons, the media histrionics and pandemics – is news to me. I’m living on the tail end: the perennial last to know. It’s quiet here, and we’re not in the midst of any mayhem.
The truth is, I kind of like it that way. I like not getting worked up ahead of time. I get plenty worked up right on time. And it occurred to me, being so concerned with the well-being of others, that I could share the bliss by offering a one-touch way to get someone else’s holiday shopping done before they even begin!
Just point them in the direction of this gift certificate to the Mother’s Winter Plunge on Jan. 16 in Scottsdale. This year, care enough to send the very best to that special someone who is frantically shopping for you. Tell them to save the hassle, the traffic, the wrapping paper, the hiding place and the surprise for someone else. Tell them to send you to Scottsdale.
And after the shopping is done, have some tea. I might have to ask for some myself.
How to make a baby
November 15th, 2009 - 13 Comments
Add baby.
Dispose of birth plan.
Put all cashmere out of reach.
Abandon eurostyle.
Abandon style.
Piss on style.
Shop Wal-Mart in haste and desperation.
Beg for hand-me-downs.
Wear husband’s sweatpants.
Every day.
Leave room for baby weight, flat feet, worry lines and permanent scars.
Resemble your grandmother.
Forget bathing.
Luxuriate in a hot shower for 7 seconds one day.
Forget that day.
Chop off your hair.
Lose your head.
Soak all stains overnight in salty tears.
(The stains remain and the tears return.)
Simmer in fatigue.
Whisk in exhaustion.
Churn the night into the day.
Let surface harden until brittle.
Scrape the bottom.
Let time evaporate.
Give up completely.
Make nothing.
Except mac and cheese microwaved for 3.5 minutes on High.
Love without doubt.
Forever.
If you have a minute, stop by here and give Theresa an attagirl.
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Madonna of the magnificat
November 12th, 2009 - 8 Comments
I cannot let this day pass without a hallelujah! Without a scream! Without a dance! Without wonder and awe! Without immensity of love and gratitude everlasting!
Sylvia Marie Olson
8 lbs, 8 oz
20 inches
Lots of red hair!
8 lbs, 8 oz
20 inches
Lots of red hair!
Born 5:56 a.m. on November 12, 2009
Perhaps you met this family in my backyard about eighteen months ago. Perhaps you met my friend Jen at the first Mother’s Plunge. Perhaps you know everything I’m about to show you. And if so, you know it bears repeating again and again. The glory of eternal life is fully shining here.
The complicity of blindness
November 9th, 2009 - No Comments
The day gives light to things.
In other words, wake up! I may be the only person on the planet who gets such a guffaw out of spam emails from the purveyors of terribly clever and inanely unnecessary things. Today, the $49.95 voice interactive alarm clock. Around here, we have a voice interactive alarm without spending $49.95.
Like looking for the eyeglasses on top of your head. A treatise on asking a teacher how to find a teacher, over at Shambhala SunSpace.
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Triple strength stainfighting color booster with fragrance crystals
November 8th, 2009 - 6 Comments
If you come to the end of another week feeling as though you’ve missed out on something, this will help.
If you have difficulty relaxing, this will help.
If you think you can’t live without your iPhone, your computer, your TV or your Baby Cry Translator App, this will help.
If you struggle to go to sleep most nights, this will help.
If you are afraid to turn on the news, answer your door, speak to a stranger or knock on your neighbor’s door, this will help.
If the thought of the holidays, and the end of the year, fills you with anxiety and guilt that you have not accomplished enough so far in your life, this will help.
If you are worried about your partner, your children, your parents, your job, your health, your finances, your HDTV signal or anything at all that might fall apart tomorrow, this will help.
If you think you’re not good enough, this will help.
If you think to yourself I’m not getting any younger, this will help
If you think to yourself I’m not getting any wiser either, this will help
If you are afraid, this will help.
If you are angry, this will help.
If you are sad, this will help.
If you are confused, this will help.
If there is no way you have the time to do this, this will help.
If your alternative is to stay at home and scream at the kids, this will help.
If you tried meditation once and didn’t like it, or if you don’t know how to do it, or think you’re doing it wrong, or think that you’ll never be able to do it, this will help.
If you want to know where the truth comes from, where the love comes from, where the words and music come from, this will help.
If you think this is something you’ll get around to doing someday, this will help.
Beginner’s Mind One-Day Meditation Retreat
Hazy Moon Zen Center
Los Angeles
Sunday, Nov. 15, 9-5
Register here
If you wonder how doing one thing can possibly help in all these ways, it’s because it won’t hurt.
Why will I be there? All of the above.
The keys to heaven
November 5th, 2009 - 7 Comments
Recently I ran across a new Buddhist blog that says it is for people who “are interested in meditation but don’t want to pretend they live in ancient Asia.” I try not to get too worked up about how people characterize Buddhism, but that line about pretense got my attention.
If I have your attention, please hop over to the web magazine Killing the Buddha, where my newest essay, “Grass Huts and Hermits” is up this morning. I’m looking into the future of American Buddhism, and it seems an appropriate way to sum up this week’s explorations of faith.
You have the keys. Get going!
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Michael with the gloves off
November 4th, 2009 - 14 Comments
I told the best of my friends I would write about this, as uncharacteristic as it seems. The impact was that stunning.
The other night I had an unforgettable dream. For one thing, it’s the full moon and all. It’s been some time since I’ve had a dream this vivid, and I knew that I would have to share it. For 24 hours after, I couldn’t find the words. My mouth would hang open, my eyes fill to the brim. Here goes.
I was standing in a room with a guide. Expectant, awaiting. I would be meeting someone soon. And then I realized I was standing backstage about to meet Michael Jackson as soon as his performance was over.
Whaaat? I’m no hysterical fan. I share only everyone’s appreciation for his musical genius and discomfort with everything that came after. Still, collective consciousness weaves its way into unwitting spaces.
He entered and stood before me. Instead of a shadow of black, a camouflage of dark costuming, he was enrobed in yellow light. I stared into his open and unlined face. It was pure, unblemished. There was no shield or barrier; no fabricated drape of hair, hat or sunshade. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine and I thought to myself, I could look at him forever.
Honestly, I could cry at the recollection.
Just at the moment I’ve realized what a contortion self-image is, how we cripple and mutilate ourselves with false identity, the confines of our shame and guilt, I have an audience to prove the point. This is Michael without that. Without the guise and defense; the self-hatred. This is pure love.
He said to me, I’ll be seeing a lot of you.
I said, I’ll be seeing a lot of you too.
And then I realized where I was, where we’ll all be, when we make that change.
It’s not you, it’s me
November 1st, 2009 - 19 Comments
My daughter has eight American Girl dolls and more than 200 outfits for them. They occupy a trunk, a dresser drawer, and a considerable amount of the floorspace in her room. I only wish they occupied an equivalent amount of her time, but I’ve learned not to expect that of childish things.
The sum of all this is so outrageous, so embarrassing, that I hesitate to do the math, but I will. Here is how we got in this mess: one doll was a hand-me-down, one came from her parents, one was awarded as a prize, one purchased with her own savings and the rest resulted from masterful pleas to aunts and grandparents.The newest one is always loved best of all, “best” and “all” being subject to the excruciatingly short lifespan of any fancy.
A year ago, I decided to put the kibosh on the whole thing, since to me at least, eight of anything has always been enough.
Yesterday I received something quite close to the following email.
Hi Karen: Well, our contingent feels pretty pleased with themselves regarding Chanukah. When Georgia was here in September she was very enthused about the new AG Doll, Rebecca. Of course we were all delighted. I just ordered Rebecca, plus accessories and the book, ______ got the pink “movie” dress, ______ got her two more books about Rebecca, and ______ got her Rebecca’s fur coat and muff set. It means a lot to us that she wanted it.
For those of you who don’t follow these developments with rabid self-interest, Rebecca is a soft-body plastic doll sold for $114, book and accessories included, embroidered with the storyline of a girl who celebrates the treasured traditions of her Jewish family.
From time to time I’m asked what it’s like to be married to someone who doesn’t share my practice, or more to the point, what it’s like to be in an interfaith marriage. This is what it is like.
***
The brilliant novelist and kindred spirit Elissa Elliott, herself a disaffected former fundamentalist Christian, has a fascinating post up today. I just read it, and it arrives like heavenly host into the dark storm of my wounded heart. She takes up the curious ramifications of the rising percentage of Americans who have no religious affiliation, a segment that will likely reach 25 percent of the population within two decades. She quotes one religion writer as saying “believers are perplexed and disappointed with God.” I rather think people are perplexed and disappointed with other people: their internecine fights and religious-political warfare.
At my weariest, I feel all alone, but more of us are beating a retreat every day.
***
I’ve written before about how my daughter views all this, or at least how she used to. It was inspiring and uplifting to me to see how purely she saw us all as one: the divisions meaningless, the sum greater than the parts.
If you click the link you might be wondering how the trip to Israel went. We didn’t go, because the brothers couldn’t work it out.
Yesterday I sent something quite close to the following email:
You can rest assured that Georgia sees herself as Jewish, and always has. No one here tries to take that away from her, or impose anything at all on her. What it means is entirely up to her. My only job is to leave all her options open, pick up the clutter, clean out the drawers, and love her no matter who or what she thinks she is. She doesn’t have to please me. No one in my family has ever insisted she be Christian, for goodness sake, or Buddhist, for that matter.
I am fully aware that this is the most trouble I have ever made about this, but then I’ve been uncharacteristically loud lately.
More and more it seems to me that there is one truth, and it cannot be named. Religious faith is one thing, but religious identity is another: like all identities, a complete human fabrication, and the source of perpetual conflict and suffering. Alas, we like to suffer, and spread it.
***
Elissa’s post closes with a sentence that pierces me through and through. It seems the name for people who claim no religious affiliation in our country has been shorthanded to “nones.” She writes, “I had no idea that there’s an actual term for all of us.”
There has always been a term for all of us. It’s called us.
But that’s what wishing is for.
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Magic spell from a pincurl wizard
October 30th, 2009 - 7 Comments
Auspicious Dharani for Averting Calamity
No Mo San Man Da Moto Nan Oha Ra Chi Koto Sha Sono Nan To Ji To En Gya Gya Gya Ki Gya Ki Un Nun Shia Ra Shiu Ra Hara Shiu Ra Hara Shiu Ra Chishu Sa Chishu Sa Chishu Ri Chishu Ri Sowa Ja Sowa Ja Sen Chi Gya Shiri E Somo Ko
Translation:
Veneration to all Buddhas!
The incomparable Buddha-power that banishes suffering.
Om! The Buddha of reality, wisdom, Nirvana!
Light! Light! Great light! Great light!
With no categories, this mysterious power
Saves all beings; suffering goes, happiness comes!
***
If I ever tell you that I’m saying a service for you, this is what I say. On another note, it warms a mother’s heart to see that there is some magic that only pincurls can accomplish.
Monkey love
October 27th, 2009 - 9 Comments
First, I want to thank all the commentators on my last post, even those who told me off. I will let you off the hook for not liking me. It’s easy enough to let us someone off the hook, since there is no hook except the one I invent with my judgment and expectations.
What I want to explore is where we get the sense that we are so inept at parenting. Where does that judgment come from? It’s a fascinating piece of self-inquiry.
Once I gave what I judged to be a good talk at my Zen Center about the extraordinary challenges of parenting. The parents in the room nodded in solidarity. Why, oh why, was it so hard to do it well, to do it right? Ours was the most difficult job in the world! The discussion wound on and on, going nowhere, until my teacher gave a harrumph.
“Even monkeys can raise their young!” he said.
“Raise them badly,” I thought at the time, taking his comment to be little more than the rude evidence of his unique insensitivity. “He might have been a father,” I reassured myself, “but he was never a mother!” Mothers, I knew firsthand, could be the unrivaled experts at doing difficult things. With an extra degree of difficulty, I might add.
Some of us take at face value the conventional wisdom that “parenting is not intuitive.” It sounds true, since we judge ourselves to be so bad at it. But that would mean that human beings are the only species on the planet without the intuitive capacity to raise their young. That sounds false.
There is something that inhibits us, but I don’t think it’s intuition. After all, we have a boundless store of intuitive wisdom that functions miraculously with no interference from us. That’s what I wrote about in a column that ran yesterday on Shambhala Sunspace. No, what sets us apart from monkeys and all other mothers in the animal kingdom is our intellect. Our higher-order thinking, wherein resides knowledge, comprehension, analysis and judgment. Intellect is useful, but it is limited. Intuition is mysterious, and it is boundless.
Knowledge is acquired, but wisdom is revealed. Each has its place, until we come to the matter of judgment, critical judgment of ourselves and others. This is where the hooks are – the shoulds, the bests, the rights and wrongs, the perfect and imperfect, the not good enoughs. We must be careful when we ensnare ourselves in judgment, because there is no love there, not even monkey love, and that’s the most irresistible kind.
***
Edited to add: This link to a redemptive story in today’s Times for all of us so preoccupied with “how things will turn out.”
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