Just have a wonderful time

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Got any vacation plans? Got a house on the beach for a week – or every weekend? Gonna splash in ocean or in a pool with a view of the ocean or in a pool on a boat on the ocean? Gonna fly over the ocean, go somewhere far and exotic or go home? Gonna drive, camp, eat road food, visit Graceland?

It sounds great. Just do me a favor – don’t bring me anything. Don’t send me postcards, don’t post photos on Facebook before you get back, don’t bring me souvenirs, not even salt water taffy.

Just go there. And be there.

And then come home.

Don’t take pictures of the sunset; you’ll miss seeing an amazing display of how the quality of light changes in a nanosecond with your own eyes. Don’t take videos of the kids frolicking in the waves – get in there and frolic yourself. Let your souvenirs be the memory of how your skin feels when it tightens as the salt water dries. The cold shock of the Atlantic. The seal that you were the first one to spot out beyond the waves – because you were just sitting, just looking, just seeing what there is to see.

As Buddhists we value direct experience, which is what happens when we’re able to relax enough and trust enough in our own buddha nature to be with what is happening RIGHT NOW without defining, categorizing, or narrating it.

In “One City: A Declaration of Interdependence” (now available in e-book format), IDP founder Ethan Nichtern writes: “For most of us, our connection with direct experience is tenuous at best.” When we have only “an off-and-on love affair with reality,” he says, we fill in the gaps with assumptions, untested theories applied with a broad brush. And we all know what happens when we assume …

“When we start to assure ourselves that our assumptions definitely depict the truth … all we end up experiencing is the indirect idea of things,” Nichtern writes.

Our culture, however, seems to prefer proof that we were in the vicinity of a great experience: the star’s autograph, the sunset photo, the souvenir T-shirt. When my kids were small, I was always confused by parents who would watch an entire performance through the lens of a video camera. Having taken videos of my kids, I know that what you see through the viewfinder is not the same as what you see when you put down the camera and lean forward, with complete presence, to watch them sing, “I’m a Little Teapot.” You can’t go back and watch a felt memory or share it with distant relatives, but you will always have that feeling of pride, amusement, and wonder – and it will come back at the oddest times. As you’re looking at their latest piercing or debating the construct of gender with them, say.

The last time I was in Paris – far too long ago – we went to the Musee D’Orsay, which had a number of Van Gogh paintings, including some of the most famous ones, the ones made into flat posters that had adorned innumerable dorm rooms. When experienced directly, they are stunning – mad swirls of layers of paint, vibrating colors, energy that leaps from the canvas.

As I looked awestruck at Van Gogh’s irises, dozens of tourists walked up, took a picture, and moved on, never seeing the paintings except through the camera lens. I was baffled (and angry). Why come here, I ranted to my family, who had not taken any photos. Why bother trekking up the stairs and seeking out the paintings? Why not just buy postcards in the gift shop and hop back on the Bateaubus?

You couldn’t even see the Mona Lisa in the Louvre because of the cameras people held high over their heads to get photos of the painting.

What’s wrong with this picture?

We’re so intent on holding on to our experiences that we don’t bother to experience them. We see the sights through a camera lens. We spend hours in the gift shop (because we must exit through it, as Disney and Banksy taught us) picking out items to remind us of where we’ve been. But it’s so much better to just let the unmediated experience bake into our bones so that the experience becomes a part of us rather than an album on Photobucket or Snapfish.

So don’t send me postcards or emails or post photos on Facebook. Experience your experience. When we meet again, you’ll show me the beautiful sunset in the quality of the light in your eyes. And the light in me will bow to that light in you and we’ll smile, connected in our knowledge of the wonders the world holds.

And we won’t lose any fillings to the salt water taffy.

Are you talking to ME??

The things you want to say speak volumes when you can’t say them.

I spent the first two weeks of June mainly in silence on a meditation retreat in the Shambhala tradition. Most the time we were restricted to functional talking, which means we could speak only to provide essential information or give directions. Some of the time was spent in noble silence, which means you can’t speak at all. If you need to communicate you have to write notes.

On the first day of silence, I ran hard into things I wanted to say to those around me but couldn’t. Mostly I wanted to apologize for my existence, which I assumed must be an irritating distraction to others. I’m sorry I’m fidgeting. I’m sorry I’m tall and it’s hard to see over me; I was assigned to this seat. I’m sorry if I’m walking too fast or too slow or if my ass looks fat in these pants or whatever.

Traditional Buddhism talks a lot about avoiding arrogance, but, as IDP founder Ethan Nichtern often notes, in our culture we’re more likely to feel unreasonably bad about ourselves than to have an inflated opinion of ourselves. The piece of shit at the center of the universe, to borrow a phrase from recovery groups.

The thing is, we still see ourselves at the center of the universe, however we see ourselves. And that’s a delusion.

My meditation instructor on retreat directed me to a phrase posted on our bulletin board: Letting go of attachment is the ultimate generosity because it connects us with our wisdom and compassion. Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche

Could I convert my self-consciousness about my perceived inadequacies into generosity? Sitting in meditation, I contemplated that. And I discovered that if I took my self out of the scenario, what I wanted was to support others in their meditation, to create as much ease as possible. Working with that, my heart began to open. Instead of judgment and criticism, I saw kindness.

I also saw that, just like me, some people were caught up in protecting/affirming their self image, no matter how much work that took. As a food server, I got a lot of instruction from staff – not all of it necessary in that moment, not all of it from people who should have been giving it, not all of it phrased kindly. (Those are the Buddha’s three criteria for deciding if speech is wise.) If I could have spoken I would have trained to explain, but it wasn't worth the time to write it all out while people were waiting for food.

Later another meditation instructor told me that when people are speaking, they’re really speaking to themselves. So the person who wrote "you may not know who I am" wasn't so much giving me instruction as confirmIng his own sense of importance. The person who wrote frenzied paragraphs about responsibility maybe fears what will happen if she doesn't meet her responsibilities. The person who pushes you to do something probably pushes herself too hard.

Ee cummings write: “all talking’s talking to oneself” **

Think about it. How much of what you say is meant to connect with someone and how much just reinforces your view of yourself?

It helps to have two weeks of silence to ponder it, but you can try this at home. Get centered in your body and do some breath awareness to clear your mind. Recall a conversation ... without the back story and the emotions, just the words. What are you saying to someone else that’s really there for yourself?

*all which isn't singing is mere *talking and all talking's talking to oneself (whether that oneself be sought or seeking master or disciple sheep or wolf) gush to it as deity or devil -toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles name it cruel fair or blessed evil- it is you (ne i)nobody else drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing -you are deafened every mother's son- all is merely talk which isn't singing and all talking's to oneself alone but the very song of(as mountains feel and lovers)singing is silence

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The computer ate my blog post

I had a great post all written -- smart, insightful, witty. Trouble is, I was writing it in my work email during my lunch hour and the server crashed and it is gone. I can rewrite it, but it's lost the ziji.

When I realized it was gone, my self (the collection of aggregates that believes I write witty, insightful etc blog posts worth saving) cried out (silently) argh! I may have put my head down on the desk. Then the work side of me, my vajra editor, realized that I would be unable to access my email, the workself -- a collection to similar aggregates that believes, along with my bosses, that I must get certain things done -- added its howl of pain.

And then I said, well, what CAN I do? And I did that.

Ah, impermanence.

I am perhaps more accustomed than most people to the idea that my work product is ephemeral and I am easily replaced. I work for a daily newspaper, an institution whose future is unclear. I know, every day, the doors may be locked when I show up. But even in good times, even when you wrote the biggest story of the day, week, or month, you knew that the next day it would be lining a cat box and you'd have to find some other words to fill space.

Colleagues, technology, stories, politicians all come and go. Sometimes we mourn, sometimes we (to be honest) celebrate.

Why I meditate anyway

As we prepared to leave a two-week-long silent retreat, the program director handed out his list of the top 10 things to do once you get home. High on the list was this: Don’t try to explain what happened here unless someone pulls it out of you. It can’t be explained in a casual conversation. If they ask how your vacation was, say, “Good. And now tell me what’s going on in your life.”

We didn’t do any secret , mystical practices – well, only a couple. But a person who doesn’t practice meditation – and even a lot who do – can’t understand what happens when you sit with yourself and your sangha for an extended period.

It was good advice. The day after I got home, my mother called, inquiring sharply about what was going on in my household.

“What did you DO?” she asked. “You couldn’t just sit there. What do you get out of meditation anyway?”

My smart-ass inner teenager wanted to respond, “The patience to deal with you.” But I was steeped in spaciousness and saw that answer would be reactive and unkind, if not untrue. So I talked about walking in the garden and looking at scenery and movement, things that made sense in her world.

If conditions had been different, I would have answered differently. But she was cranky, I was trying to eat, and an offspring’s band was moving equipment out of the house as we were talking. Some day we’ll sit down and drink coffee and I’ll talk about it. Because my meditation makes those conversations possible for us.

Sitting on the cushion, watching my mind lets me see that there is a gap – however infinitesimal – between the stimulus and the response. If I am aware enough to notice the gap, I can then choose how to react: to mouth off, to back off, to deflect rather than jump into a defensive posture ready to do battle.

Sitting on the cushion, training my mind to react with compassion rather than attitude, lets me see that my mother is just like me, concerned about her children and their lives and baffled when those lives take turns that don’t go down the path she envisioned. She speaks sharply. But she speaks out of concern. If I don’t respond sharply, if I hear the concern under the tone of voice, we can connect instead of fighting – or biting our tongues. We can have a real relationship.

I like being able to talk to my mom without rolling my eyes. I like my mom. And I like my inner teenager. Nobody taught her to expect that the world could be kind, that other people would be helpful, that gentleness was an option. That simply existing means you have value. We’re learning that now, and we try to speak from that knowledge rather than shouting from habit.

I fail, of course. And when I do, I try to be appropriately remorseful, admit I was wrong, make amends if needed, and aspire to do better. I try not to berate myself or get attached to thoughts that failing means I am inherently bad.

The tradition I study in talks about basic goodness. Other traditions call it Buddha-nature or inherent richness. We’ve all got it – cranky moms, mouthy teenagers, the generation caught between. Meditation let me see that.

That’s why I didn’t answer my phone or emails or post on Facebook for two weeks, mom. I was training my mind to talk to you in the present moment, not in the kitchen of the house where we lived in 1975.

Why do you meditate?

If you don't and you want to know more about why you should, IDP founding director and Senior Teacher in Residence Ethan Nichtern is giving a talk on "Why (Not) Meditate?" on July 20 at IDP. Maybe the talk will later be available as a podcast. If not, check out the IDP library on iTunes; Ethan's previous talks on the subject are among those available.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

The revolution will not be tweeted

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” – that was about the fact that the first change that takes place is in your mind. You have to change your mind before you change the way you’re living, the way you move. Gil Scott-Heron

Gil Scott-Heron, a poet, jazz musician, and spoken-word artist, died Friday. His piece “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” first recorded in 1970 and often revised, has been referenced extensively in pop culture. It begins:

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

In an interview with Skip Blumberg for “The 90’s,” Scott-Heron explained the thinking behind the catchphrase:

That was about the fact that the first change that takes place is in your mind. You have to change your mind before you change the way you’re living, the way you move. … The thing that’s going to change people is something that will never be captured on film. It’ll just be something you see and realize, ‘I’m on the wrong page,’ or ‘I’m on the right page but I’m on the wrong note and I’ve got to get in synch with everybody else to understand what’s happening in this country.

You do have to change your mind before you can change the way you’re living. And how do you do that? You meditate. You sit. You watch what arises in your mind. You look at it – how do you respond to the thoughts? What emotions arise? Where do they come from? Can you investigate them without acting them out? Are you your thoughts or something more?

Noah Levine, founder of Against the Stream Buddhist Meditation Society, often describes Buddhism as a path of personal (which leads to social) revolution. “The Buddha’s teachings are not a philosophy or a religion,” he writes in “The Heart of the Revolution: The Buddha’s radical teachings on forgiveness, compassion, and kindness. “They are a call to action, an invitation to revolution.”

When you change your thoughts, you change how you act – and react – in the world, which changes how you relate to people, which has ripples that go out beyond what you’ll ever know.

Actions have consequences. That’s the essence of karma – you reap what you sow. You cannot get the result for which you have not planted the seed.

If you sit on your couch and watch TV, surf the Internet, tweet your outermost thoughts, you will never find happiness that outlasts your deodorant. You have to put all that aside and go inside.

The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

Will you be there?

Happy birthday, Dad

Today would have been my dad’s birthday, but he died 20 years ago. Tomorrow is my birthday, and I always thought of myself as a serendipitous late birthday present. Just this year – 53 years after the fact – I found out that I was scheduled to be born that day. Still cool, I suppose.

My dear friend Mary Darby’s father died last year, and she spoke at his funeral about the lessons she learned from him that she will carry with her always. I was thinking today about what I learned from my dad. This is what I came up with.

It’s better to laugh at life than to get angry with it. My dad was a Boy Scout leader for many years. He used to come from summer camp with stories about behavior that would make a more-controlling person need a second week off just to let their blood pressure come back to normal. But my dad would laugh so hard when he told them to us that he’d have to stop and wipe the tears from his eyes. He found delight in a lot of places where it would have escaped others. On the other hand, he was an alcoholic so I got so see the suffering that results from getting angry at life and those in your life.

It’s never too late to change your ways. I had already moved out of the house before my dad connected with AA and stopped drinking. He never sat down and looked me in the eye and admitted all his wrongs and apologized, but he told me once that he had tried to make amends by changing his behavior. And he taught me that that’s the truly important thing – to walk the walk, to live by your values. I think this is my main standard for assessing people, and I can be a little harsh in applying it sometimes. Sorry, Dad. Working on that.

Dancing is a good thing. My dad liked Dixieland Jazz. I can’t say I came to share that, but I did get his total enjoyment of music. He was a large man by this point in his life, and the dining room, where our stereo was located, didn’t have much open space. He would put on the Dukes of Dixieland and jiggle so hard that the change came out of his pockets. In fact, he had encased the stereo speakers in cement to allow for such vibrations. Or maybe for some other reasons. Sometimes my daughter and I dance around the kitchen. It’s like that. I also remember dancing with him at a cousin’s wedding when I was in my early teens. It was formal thing, where he led and I stumbled. He was so strong and assured and good at the steps that it didn’t feel weird to be doing old people’s dancing with him.

Read a lot. Especially mysteries. We used to go to the library together every Tuesday. I went through every historical novel in the children’s section (“Little Maid of” enter the name of a Revolutionary or Civil War battle, and you can learn how a 10-year-old girl actually saved the day.) He read mysteries. When I was around 12, I was sick and couldn’t go. I’d just started moving over to the adult stacks. He brought me a mystery by George Simeon that involved a home for unwed mothers. I was somewhat baffled by the choice, but he wasn’t one for unspoken messages so I didn’t look too hard. I was hooked. I think he would have found the Scandinavians a bit dark, but he’d love some of the women PIs.

Don’t smoke. Smoking was the only thing he ever told me not to do. He said, in fact, “If I catch you smoking, I’ll smack you,” which is something he never did. Wish he’d taken that advice.