The Revolution

On the same day that tea-baggers across America offered their lilly white sacks to the national meat-grinder, a popular buddhist magazine, the Shambhala Sun, ran an online poll on their audience's dietary practices and preferences. This was announced on Twitter at 11:26 on April 15th in the following manner;

Meat or veg? Which is best for a spiritual practitioner? Vote here: http://tinyurl.com/cx7jlq

- where six options appeared.

1. Do you eat meat?
2. No. In fact, I'm vegan.
3. No. I'm not vegan but I am strictly vegetarian.
4. I try not to but I might have a little from time to time.
5. Yes. But I don't eat red meat.
6. Yes. Call me what you want, just don't call me late for the BBQ.

My impulse to respond was motivated in part by the importance of this issue but also by the ridiculous way the question was put. Which is best? As if there is an objectively superior way for all spiritual practitioners. So I went to the site, voted and left a comment.

"Buddhists and their rationalizations; I vow to ignore them all. When it came out that eating animals is a bigger contributor to global-warming than automobiles I thought, high time for the environmental movement to get on board, ain't it?"

I checked the box to let me know if anyone responds and then went back a few minutes later to see if it posted and noticed that someone had given my comment a 'thumbs-up'. Yay! Narcissist that I am, I immediately reloaded the page and noticed that my comment had been removed altogether. Anyone with any experience on the net knows that flakey moderators are as common as Nigerian heiresses. My first response was to tweet a query to @shambhalasun simultaneously sharing it with the 600+ who receive updates from the Sun via Twitter, as well as to my personal mandala of Tweeters (83 at the time) who are only on board for items of interest and this was definitely one.

11:43 @shamabhalasun: went to your meat or veg survey: my comments were censored. Why?

My second comment went out a few minutes later to the same audience.

11:46 I voted, commented & was censored: comments removed -WTF? RT@shamabhalasun: Meat or veg?

I waited a few minutes, got no reply and then decided to ask for some feedback from other tweeters about the nature of my post. I typed out my original comments and then asked -

11:55 How offensive was that?

Dirk Johnson (@dirkjohnson) in northern California replied: 'wildly offensive, man, wildly offensive. LMAO'

I tried to generate some compassion for the poor fellow who undoubtedly felt he was just doing his job. I could imagine the Sun's web-master reading the first sentence in my post and assuming I was a non-buddhist troll. Mr. Sperry who had posted the poll, also left comments to the effect that his own metabolism demanded a retreat from vegetarianism. I got a strong hint of the same defensiveness I expect to hear from most carnivores who could care less about this issue and have taught me to do the same in their company, but I had not initiated this diagloue which was presented in the context of the sangha. I thought I might get under the radar by indicating that their hyper-vigilant defensiveness suggested lack of good humor, so crucial to buddhist practice. They had simply mistaken my sense of humor, my lead sentence echoing the solemnity of buddhist vows in an attempt to cut through what is too often an endless defense of sensory attachments. Still no answer forthcoming; maybe they were having a late lunch.

12:20 @shambhalasun surely you ready these msgs. Why was my post deleted? No free speech on yr. site? No sense of humor? You asked for comments....

A few of my tweet buddies were miffed by all of this and passed the word to their own followers to see if they could elicit a response through some complex logarithm of degrees of separation. It probably drove some traffic to the poll as well as getting the attention of a Twitterer who tracks censorship issues of all kinds. Every time your name is typed anywhere on Twitter, when preceded by an '@' symbol (a well-established convention in the Twitterverse) you receive notification. So the web-master @shambhalasun was aware that this conversation was afoot over the next few hours.

Before the clock struck 4 (CT) my post magically reappeared in the queue on the Sun Space website. This got me high because I felt, if even in the most basic way, not only had I been able to ask for and promptly receive relatively informed opinions from my peers but I was encouraged by the even more amazing fact that those opinions had a certain weight and actually made a difference in changing the situation. Reflecting on our prowess after this triumph, fellow buddhist guerilla 'RyderJaphy' (@ryderjaphy) tweeting out of Chicago offered, "....just give the word and I'll hot wire the CAT P_M-565B parked down the block, I'm ready to roll."

You know; the revolution, solidarity and all that...

Footprints of the Ox

The sangha celebrated the Tibetan New Year last night in Dewachen. Enter the Ox. The official date for Losar happened mid-week but most of us work for a living, so Saturday was fine. After a long evening of conversation, burnt offerings, blueberry pie, and ritual rock and roll* on the very last day of February, we stepped out into the silence of midnight snow. Seeing as we got off pretty good and snow isn't very common in this part of the world, we took it as an auspicious sign. Shared hot chocolate soymilk around the woodstove before waking to Tenkar's footsteps and six inches blanketing the world. White radiance flooding in every window illuminates morning's living room. Tenkar took this shot on the road leading out of our dead-end hollow. Jack is checking out the chickens who live in the yard over his shoulder. The footprints of his best friend & bunkmate Nala lead off into the distance.

*A few of our songs can be heard here.

The Bottom

This year we are getting an early start on the garden. Ian mans the one row plow like those used by our Amish neighbors. In place of horses and absence of tractor Dave guns the Ranger and pulls the blade through some of the darkest soil in this part of Tennessee. View is to the south, 900+ ft. above sea level.

Happy Trails

Son Isa and I walked into the nursing home last week and were immediately hit with the acrid smell of piss. We said nothing, actually expected it and walked straight to the desk where a girl asked who we wanted to see. "William Dowling" She recognized my face from photos that Mr. Dowling had on his wall and gave us the room number before pointing us down a hallway. I made eye-contact with a few of the patients sitting in wheelchairs along the way. Most of them did not acknowledge any exchange. Bill was sitting up, watching television. He immediately shut it off and we all hugged.

Once upon a time, Bill was a hard-drinking truck driver in New England and had apparently pissed off his family so bad that none of them wanted anything to do with him anymore. He still felt strong and big around the shoulders, even after six operations for cancer. His eyes welled up as he spoke, "Man, it is good to see you guys again. It gets pretty lonely in here."

"Yeah, I'll bet it does."

His roommate entered in a wheelchair. He was one of those in the hallway who had not responded but now asked Isa to open the door to the bathroom for him. To show us that he was not totally defeated but was dealing with his situation like the man he is, Bill said, "They just made me a greeter, so I'll have something to do around here now." Even more significant, a woman on the other end of the building had recently gifted him with one of those battery powered chairs to get around in and he was happy about that. After about 15 minutes, we walked out of there vowing to visit again soon.

This morning we learned that Bill passed away last night.

Happy trails old friend.

Tax Season

When I lay me down to sleep at night, the bed pillows are stacked at the base of a window in the north wall. I don a nightcap rather than draw the curtains. On clear nights, the last light I see before closing my eyes has traveled oh so far (124 and 79 light-years respectively*) through near empty space. Dubhe and Merak are the two stars in the Big Dipper known as 'the pointers' because an imaginary line extended through them leads directly to Polaris, the only star in the sky that doesn't seem to move. 150 years ago, runaway slaves knew these asterisms by another name and would follow the Drinking Gourd north to freedom. In the same way that all 'appearances became text' for Rigdzin Jigme Lingpa, the pointers are an astrophysical sign speaking to me of the world's axis, the space beyond conception, the still point where awareness comes to rest each night, before birth and after death.

The winter morning routine begins before dawn at the kitchen table where I share coffee with the ladies before they drive north, not to freedom but to man the trenches on the frontlines of samsara. Here they work as tax preparers and secretaries, serving a public that is too often rude, impatient, uneducated and under the illusion that they are dealing with government employees. Growing evidence of our failing economy appears in the form of customers crowding the office seeking advances on their returns in spite of the 35% interest the banks are charging. Beyond the stress of dealing with the public, down servers and poorly designed software, misunderstandings and disagreements with friends and co-workers can make this time of year a real test of patience and joyful effort for all of us. More evidence of the big squeeze came a few days ago when a twelve mile section of divided highway which had been posted at 65 mph for years was suddenly changed to 55. Thousands of people, many with marginal factory and service industry incomes drive this stretch everyday and have become habituated to the speed as the road was originally constructed as a way to bypass the town. The cops are having a field day preying on the overworked and underpaid.

This situation finds me in the kitchen once again around sundown to jam with the kids at putting together something that will pass for dinner. Our culinary skills are humble but gradually evolving. My last stint as a cook took place over twenty years ago when we lived in Jamaica and Tenkar was pregnant with Isa, our fourth child. Truth be told, I haven't had much practice since then but so far, so good. Isa, Kyema and I have a great time putting our limited talents and knowledge together to prepare something we can all appreciate. Our 'beginner's mind' usually manages to provide a measure of creative variety in spite of the simplicity of the fare. Our specialties are rice and vegies with 'secret' miso sauce, tortillas with fixings, bean soups and pasta.

Long after dark headlights wind their way up the drive,and dakinis emerge out of the darkness greeted by the barking of dogs. Depending on scheduling, they might arrive home together or alone but in any case we immediately head for the comfort of the woodstove to share stories of the days trials and trivia before sitting down with plates of hot food, often followed by a cup of tea and only a few precious hours to share before retiring. This is not the time for anything very demanding. Herb, foot-rubs, some talk of current events; they often do not have the energy to stay awake through an entire movie. This is how it goes during the peak period of tax season.
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For whereas the mind works in possibilities, the intuitions work in actualities, and what you intuitively desire, that is possible to you. Whereas what you mentally or "consciously" desire is nine times out of ten impossible; hitch your wagon to a star, or you will just stay where you are.

D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

The years in which the light presently perceived was generated by these two distant suns happen to frame the birth [Dubhe] and death [Merak] years of Mr. Lawrence's brief time on earth.

Minor Hill

We spent a few hours visiting with Dechen's granny Betty Lou in a small white cottage on Minor Hill, a little community about 25 miles to the south and about as far from the Alabama border. On the way, I notice massive white pillars holding up new sections of widened roadways snaking from side to side through these green valleys. In the spirit of true pork-barrel spending, it seems every two-lane blacktop in the state is being expanded into quasi-interstate highways, regardless of local needs.

Dechen, Tenkar and I will be the only guests for dinner this afternoon. Betty Lou lives with her son Joe who was absent, house-sitting for a friend. Years ago, Granny lost her elder son to suicide and a daughter in a car accident. Dechen's mother is Betty Lou's child but refuses to visit or even return her calls on the basis of clinging to some old painful karmas that nobody understands very well. Betty Lou seems resigned to this sad state of affairs with a measure of understanding and surprisingly, no bitterness.

The kitchen is narrow and we immediately sit down to a spread of iced tea, pinto beans, green beans, corn bread, creamed corn, macaroni and mashed potatoes. She apologizes for the age and wear of the chairs, laughs about spilling the black pepper and having to rinse it out of the the macaroni and underscores how Joe loves potatoes; he virtually survives on them. We dine on fine English china produced by a certain Churchill which is usually kept in a glass cabinet made by Betty Lou's brother who has since sold all his tools. A fading color photo of Dechen as a child hangs on blond paneling bordered by two candles like a small shrine. Names of relatives dead and alive dominate the conversations. Granny compliments Tenkar on her necklace and after a closer inspection, Tenkar offers to make her one just like it. Dechen shares photos from the Grand Canyon and her sister's wedding. She mentions email and Granny says that they recently dropped their internet connection because of the monthly fee although Joe still uses the computer to store digital photos. In the background, the satellite radio station on the television plays easy-listening versions of old hits that my mother would like and chocolate pie is served.

After the meal, Granny begins going through boxes of things in the living room. She has decided to give away the Christmas dishes because 'us getting together on the holidays seems to be a thing of the past'. Chet Atkins picks out the melody line of a Carpenter's song against a background of strings. When Dechen asked about her taste in movies, Granny said she liked Gregory Peck but never cared for Cary Grant or Liz Taylor. I begin to doze on the couch, the ladies giggled and I decide to step outside to get some air and catch some of the year's last twilight. I sit on the backyard grass, recognizing our location on a ridge as tree tops stretch to the horizons under clear skies. I breathe easy and say dakini mantra while observing the display of forms and colors around me. Few cars pass. People out this way don't have any money to speak of but nobody goes hungry. Whatever there is of real poverty out here is in our heads and hearts.

Sun Temple

Happy Solstice

These last ten days of the year serve as a non-secular retreat for most of the western world. Not much of a contemplative retreat but for many, a certain anticipation of leisure and good food. Nuts will be cracked! Blogs and media retrospectives will summarize the year in politics and entertainment, obituaries, sports, the best and worst of '08' lists are hurriedly being composed. And that ain't all...

Amongst my friends, there are impoverished buddhists who invest way more time, money and energy in celebrating Christmas than they do in any Buddhist holiday. Ask and they will say they do it for their kids or grandkids, (who are neither Christian nor being raised Christian). When I consider this kind of situation, it seems redolent with suffering. Having failed to create/discover an alternative means of expression, people resignedly conform and initiate the young into the mindless rituals of consumerist culture, encouraging cycles of expectation and disapointment in relation to the year's 'take'.

From where i sit, the midday sun streams thru the highest branches of the tulip magnolia in the yard, throwing a broken shadow on some of the plants clustered at the base of the glass door. It will only be like this for a few more days as the arc begins ascending higher into the sky. If you think of it, pull back the curtains and note the westernmost place where the last direct rays of sun strike a wall in your home before sunset tonight. Mark it! If the sky is clear, you should be able to do this unless your apartment faces east or north. To complete the mission, do it again on an equinox and the summer solstice. Now you live in a sun temple.

Last night we were talking about how it is increasingly common for us to consider the nature of the food we eat, means of production, cost, how it is prepared and the quality of the environment wherein it is consumed. That's a big source of our energy but by no means the only one. So as we move into this period, remember the supreme gifts of appreciation, consecrated presence, simple mindfulness, conscious breathing, relaxed alertness, good humor, good company to y'all...

Trust

We rarely lock our doors. Years ago, when we first moved here, our only neighbors were two brothers, local boys and their wives, occupying separate trailers. One of their little girls would remove any prayer flags she came across in the woods or by our spring. We simply replaced them. The child's grandmother was equally curious and quietly climbed the hill behind us to see what the hippies do up there and discovered what she called 'kung-fu altars' which was apparently a relief as there were rumours about 'devil-altars'. Good woman that she is, Christine checked the hill out our for herself and assured her friends that whatever it was that we were doing, it was definitely not demonic. Eventually, their little clan moved away and sold the land to other members of our sangha.

An assortment of crystals and stones, some carved into the shape of turtles, dorjes, bells, sea shells and antlers, conchs, and buddha statues cover these little shrines and beyond changing a worn cloth or adding a new offering, they have sat undisturbed for decades.

My closest neighbors are friends who bought some of the land next door. They live another quarter mile into the woods where the road comes to a dead end. We often make use of this stretch for short afternoon walks. They had attended a Christmas recital at the local school where their kids performed Mozart's Night Music and came home to find their house had been robbed. We are pretty sure we know who did it. It is pretty quiet back here. Sometime in the afternoon, a car sped up the road so fast that the noise got my son's attention, allowing him to identify the vehicle through the now bare woods. The police were called. Everything is replaceable except the trust.