Writing Practice « i like zen

Writing Practice

National day on writing

Wow. There’s a national holiday to celebrate writing practice.

Earlier this month, Congress agreed to designate today, October 20th, as the National Day on Writing to officially recognize the following:

“… the social nature of writing invites people of every age, profession, and walk of life to create meaning through composing… writers continue to learn how to write for different purposes, audiences, and occasions throughout their lifetimes… the National Day on Writing encourages all Americans to write, as well as to enjoy and learn from the writing of others…”

I’m not particularly patriotic but I do feel an odd sense of pride today. What other government encourages their people to write and to enjoy and learn from the writing of others?

It’s as if Natalie Goldberg just became President of the United States! I think about who might be on her Cabinet… Katigiri Roshi, Bob Dylan, Ernest Hemingway, Allen Ginsberg, Jamaica Kincaid, Patricia Hampl, Rob Wilder, Thich Nhat Hahn… and other truth seekers of their time. I can see them now… slow walking across the front lawn of the White House. I see congressional members sitting in silence and doing timed writing practice on debate topics. They take turn reading their writings… no commenting… practicing non-judgement… no good, no bad.

The House of Senators and Representatives become a sangha… practicing the universal responsibility of compassion. When there’s misunderstanding, they look to Natalie’s rules on writing and reflecting: “Continue under all circumstances. Don’t be tossed away. Make positive effort for the good.”

OK, maybe a “Zen party” in our political system is too good to be true. But it is amazing that writing practice is a national agenda item for America.

I remember the feeling of “putting myself out there” when I extended my writing practice to blogging. I paced from the living room to dining room thinking, “this is just garbage. Who exactly is going to read this stuff?” And then another writer and friend sent me a message, “Just read the blog…found it quite full of space and inspiring. Keep going!”

Receiving these simple words of encouragement led me from pacing to posting my next entry. Sometimes, more than the burning desire to write, we need encouragement. In my own practice, I have realized that writing is not enough. Just like suffering is not enough. You must transform emptiness into empathy and enthusiasm. With each practice, I face the fear and find the joy in sharing my writing. In this way, I both live and die with each practice. Natalie Goldberg encourages us to see writing practice as a way of “living twice.”

The practice of writing, reading and listening to one another is a tremendous offering of compassion and kindess. It enables us each to slow down… putting pen to paper… mindfully inking our crooked paths to truth… writing what’s in front of our faces… becoming fearless and free. We begin to attain the knowledge that when we practice, we practice not just for ourselves but for others. Alone and in the aggregate, we practice believing in ourselves. Facing the fear of writing and having friends who nicely tell you to “shut up and write” is all part of the practice. Today, we are lucky to have the backing of the entire country… America, let’s pledge allegiance to the pen… pick a topic… ten minutes… go!

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16
Oct 09

Planes, trains and automobiles

A plane hovers and fades away as I sit crossed legged on the woven cushion of a wooden chair. Closing my eyes, I try to be mindful and to breathe. I sit surrounded by five other wooden chairs … all empty.

Now a train whistles and rattles traveling toward the distance. I’m not being successful. Monkey mind is still strong. I’m still thinking about all the useless meetings I attended today at work. I’m still frustrated from agonizing over spreadsheets. Something isn’t right when you try to start every morning off by prioritizing your “to do” list to only have it become “f-you” lists.

I give up and open my eyes. Pissed. Nothing seems to be working. I’m frustrated and furious. At who or with what? I can’t answer that. It’s all fuzzy at this point. Why aren’t there people sitting in these chairs? People who really care? People who don’t need anything from me. Are there such people?

Monkey mind stayed even after my walk today. Still going when I reached the cul de sac where a house is getting rebuilt from catching fire. Still there when I watched four women practice doubles tennis with a coach. Raging still when I passed a woman walking a weimaraner.

Carl walked with me. I hung my head, while my footsteps dragged forward.

Things didn’t let up when we got home and each had a cup of earl grey tea. Forehead on forearms, I cried on the dining room table. I just folded into the fuzziness … the cloud of frustration, entrapment, burden and fury hung over my head and formed a thunder storm in my heart. I so desperately wanted the feelings to fade into the distance… like the plane and the train.

It was at this point that Carl took me on a drive. I grudgingly agreed to get in the car and curled up in the passenger seat. Arms crossed, I sat staring at the passing landmarks … The Melting Pot, Colonial Bank, Jeremiah’s Ice Cream … we stopped at the 7-11 to get gas. Carl motioned for me to look at a promo using the Japanese character, “Domo” to sell a cup of coffee.

I managed to feign a smile and went back to being grumpy and miserable.

“I feel like I’m shouldering all of the burden,” I spitted when we were driving down Howell Branch road.

“You are,” he acknowledged.

“Well, I’m tired of being somebody for everybody and feeling like it’s never enough. Even with you. Like when you told me that my response to your artwork wasn’t strong enough or that you feel like I’ve been distant lately.”

I sat with regret and relief after saying this. Carl managed to say, “hmmm” and drove us home.

I lie on the floor. Body pressed to carpet. Back to breathing. This time the fuzziness fades. I hear another plane hum in the sky… another train whistling by. I replay what I said in the car. Monkey mind had taken me for quite a ride… planes, trains and automobiles.

And then I remember that Carl had kissed the top of my head after we returned from our walk. I remember what he said about a cloud … “You’re like a lonely white cloud right now. But you’ll drift back… like you always do.”

Anger subsiding, I revisit the image of myself sitting at the dining room table… with the empty chairs. I realize the kindness that just occurred. Carl had given me space… just as the empty chairs surrounded me with space. Sometimes, it takes enough sitting with yourself to realize that all you need is space.

Natalie Goldberg often teaches to give monkey mind a voice… to let it rip. This is so that you can leverage writing practice as a way to separate the “Self” from the emotions and feelings that run through you. When this occurs, you can look squarely at it – monkey mind. There it is… the fuzziness… reflected back to you in writing… in black and white. And in the space of observation and reflection, you realize that the anger, frustration and anguish is no longer within you. Then you move on… like dark clouds separating for the sun. The next moment is a new day.

Paul Ferrini wrote in Illuminations on the Road to Nowhere, “one who gives himself away will have to take himself back sooner or later.” I lived this statement tonight and am humbled by the compassion that Carl showed to me. I realize now that even your beloved husband and best friend cannot calm you. You must calm yourself. He can also not complete you. You must complete yourself. But he can be incredibly kind and give you the space you need to do this… being the sky to your lonely cloud… waiting for you to drift back… together you move through change and shapeshift… giving each other both space and sunshine to grow.

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14
Oct 09

Well, I’m a punk rocker yes I am…

7:55 am. I was “summoned” and find myself sitting in a room with two hundred plus people at the Ninth Judicial Circuit Court for Orange County. Upon entering jury assembly room 180, the same set of instructions broadcasted from all corners: complete your jury questionnaire, tear off your jury badge and present your parking ticket for validation.

You heard this from the guy in a tie governing the two lines that had formed to the clerks at the counter; from a video of a judge playing on two flat panel TVs to the lead administrator standing at the podium and pecking into the microphone. The repetitious badgering took effect, as I completed my business with the front counter and scanned the room for an open seat in the fifth aisle. I grudgingly clipped the plastic badge flashing juror #116 to my sweater.

Jagged mauve and jade patterned cushions formed a horizon line. Two flags flanked the wooden podium. The American flag stood to the left, topped with a brass eagle while the flag of the state of Florida draped on the right. Further to the side of each flag were beige metal lockers. The numbers 16, 25, 31 and 37 formed the top row of the set to the right.

Back to the center of the room, I wonder what lies beyond the sheer burgundy curtains behind the podium and woman still barking out the same orders…complete your jury questionnaire, tear off your jury badge and present your parking ticket for validation.

8:28 am. I had planned preoccupation for a long day but began doubting my abilities to overcome the bored entrapment of jury duty. Impatience, annoyance and anxiety stirred, making my right foot bounce incessantly at thirty minutes in… was time even ticking?

Searching my belongings, I pull out my iPhone. Seeking the only form of rebellion available, I quickly pushed in earphones and played the song, “Punkrocker” by the Teddybears. My ears perked to the anti-establishment sound while my eyes observed the drones that we had all become… forgoing all forms of individualism to literally become a number for a day. I look at the person to my left: a bald black man with a goatee sporting a diamond earring on his right lobe. Then to my right: a faceless woman whose head was in a book wearing a messy blond pony tail. Were they losing their minds too?

Iggy Pop sings into my ears…

See me drivin down the street, I’m bored with looking good.

I got both hands off the wheel, The cops are coming.

I’m listening to the music with no fear, You can hear it too if your sincere…

Coz I’m a punk rocker yes I am. Well I’m a punk rocker yes I am.

I smile at the irony of listening to punk rock while performing jury service.

9:05 am. I had to hit pause to say the pledge of allegiance and realize that I kind of don’t know the words…”I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God… with liberty and justice for all?” I came close, so I guess it counts. When was the last time I had to officially pledge the flag anyway? It must have been my high school graduation… fourteen years ago.

We also had to take oath as it was part of the “voir dire” process, explains Sonya, the woman at the podium. “Voir” is french with an older translation of “truth” and a modern definition of “to see.”

So, I sit thinking about the term…”voir”… “truth”…”to see.” The truth is that I feel confined. My mind completely tied to the fact that two family members died two weeks a part from one another. The scene of me standing at a podium delivering each of their eulogies play on permanent loop. My heart beats to the daily ebb and flow of being strong and then sad.

The truth is I need a break from all of the roles that I play… wife, daughter, sister, aunt, friend, colleague… juror #116. The cast of characters for one petite person seems endless. In the relentless effort to play each part, I get lost… where is my sense of Self? In a way, I’m dying day to day and don’t know what to make of it.

10:47 am. I change sitting locations on a trip back from the vending machines, a bottle of water and a Nutrigrain bar in hand. I sit at the back of the room near a wall of windows facing a Lynx station on Orange Avenue. A chess set waits for two players at a table near by. I stare at the abandoned pieces … sensing in myself the strategic movement of a pawn being promoted to a queen. With aimed restlessness, I know deeply that change is coming… one step forward opens pathways in many directions.

2:35 pm. Finally! I make it through the day without being selected. The announcement of dismissal trigger the undying adolescent rush to leave the room as if the bell had just rang. Except we were all adults now … closer to death.

I walk to the parking garage and notice the world from the 7th floor. At first a chain-link fence. And then abundant clouds. It was an interesting composition: a caged sky. Turning to my left, the view broadened immensely. I found an endless horizon of tree tops and slow moving cumulus clouds shapeshifting.

I sigh as I turn to get into my car. The upward ramp jutted into thick clouds. I hear “Punkrocker” replay in my head, especially the lines, “I got both hands off the wheel…I’m driving to my star…I’m listening to the music with no fear… You can hear it too if you’re sincere…”

I wonder if we can really leave the karmic wheel unmanned… doesn’t fate take place regardless of your grip? Will all of us reach our stars?

Funny how certain songs become your soundtrack for certain days. In the end, jury duty became a day where I dropped many obligations to sit, listen, write and reflect. My day in court turned out to be a summon for further self-study…what a gift.

My 7th floor view from the top of the parking garage at Orange County Courthouse.

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11
Oct 09

Rule of Three

I sit. My back to thick windows framing the fumes of cars coming and going on highway 1792. Across the street is a brick building with royal blue shutters bearing the Suntrust bank sign. It’s Saturday and I’m sitting alone as I often do on weekend mornings. An hour has passed since I arrived. I’ve sipped my venti vanilla latte dry. A pen lies parallel to my iPhone. I sit…wanting to write but instead listen.

Two men sit a table and two empty wooden chairs away. They speak candidly in a tucked corner where the walls meet. One man serves as the sage while the other plays the seeker. The wise one wears penny loafers and a wrinkled smile. The talkative one wears many emotions and searches for reassurance, counsel and comfort.

I listen to their conversation.

“Allen, I have to thank you for being here for me through all of this. It’s been the smallest things that you’ve said that have helped so much. Sometimes, I’m just burning with things to say and frankly have found that I don’t have many friends to say things to…”

The man continues on and on about paying child support, the pain of divorce, the sinking reality that when you need one most, a friend is often hard to find.

My ears open to other things. The corner speaker sends electronic beats across the cafe. An androgynous voice croons over some acoustics singing, “Where do I stand?”

Where Do I Stand

The artist is Vijay Kishore and his voice carries notes of suffering and softening.

“Tear my heart apart… I’m not made of stone… You hurt my feelings… Now you’re pulling my bones apart… My head is spinning and my throat is dry… There’s no more water left in my eyes… Where do I stand?”

Simple lyrics sing ballads of a broken heart… I sense completely the desolate and deep source of this song. It ends with the chorus line of “where do I stand?” ringing in my ears. I tune back to the two men sitting parallel to me. The older gentleman finally speaks.

“I rely on a rule of three,” he slowly says, stretching out pale freckled legs covered with fuzzy yellow hair.

“1. Does it need to be said? … 2. Are you the right person? … 3. Is it the right time? It comes in handy. Use it. It will serve you well.”

I silently repeated the “Rule of Three.” Staring at my pen, still prone by the phone, I think about all that is said in my writing practice along with all that is unsaid. I think about “the rules” as it applies to me. How can these three simple questions foster self-inquiry and self-study?

You can study actions taken and words spoken. But where do all of the things left unsaid go? What if the world lived with less words? What would the intentional silence create? Softer smiles? Heavier sitting bones? Perhaps there would be less to forgive and forget.

I just read that in Tibetan buddhism one practices seeing strangers as their mother incarnated from a past life. In this way, no person is a stranger but a family member who nurtures our sense of universal belonging and trust.

If we take the time to stop speaking and start listening, lessons unfold. The conversation between two men became an exchange of compassion. In Tibetan terms, instead of being strangers, they became my mothers… imparting upon me the “Rule of Three,” which is the gift of asking oneself when it makes sense to speak and when it makes sense to listen.

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8
Oct 09

Taking flight

Mourning dove nesting,
“He has flown away,” it coos
I echo its cries

A mourning dove coos from the magnolia tree outside my kitchen window. John is gone. I listen closely to the sweet echoes of his peaceful passing. The dove knows so much.

I first came across sandhill cranes on the long quiet highway between Maitland and Lakeland in the early hours of morning. On Polk Parkway sits an abandoned white semi-truck with bold and faded sans serif text reading, “Find Happiness in Polk County … We Make it Easy.” Right past this point, smooth pastures stage the sunrise. This is where I spotted them. Slowing my volvo to a crawl, I watched them walk with one exaggerated step in front of another. They marched in groups and in rhythm. Grace wobbly flowed from red mohawks to lanky necks and down stick legs. I was mesmerized by their movements.

I later read that millions of sandhill cranes gather in Nebreska along the Platte River every year, a point along their path of migration. Jane Goodall observed these cranes and was profoundly moved. She believed them to be symbols of hope and wrote, “We can view them on their great migratory journeys as peace messengers, their display along the river as a Dance of Peace. They tell us that there is hope even in darkness. They tell us there will be peace at the end. ”

Cranes are considered spiritual creatures in eastern philosophy. It is believed that souls are carried by them to higher levels of spiritual enlightenment.

On my birthday this year, three sandhill cranes casually strolled the parking lot outside my company’s building. I watched from the fourth floor boardroom, squinting to see the red dashes atop their heads. It was a week and half before John would ride upwards on their wingspan to realms unknown to me, sitting in the physical world of illusion.

I took many walks during the time of John’s sickness. I take many walks now, ten weeks after his passing.

It was on the walking path at Minnehaha Park, that Carl and I encountered Bright Eyes. Yellow orbs observed us from a low branch of a live oak, stopping us in our tracks. Dazed and amazed, we stood only a few feet away from a burrowing owl. Rotating its head in a full circle, it scanned for prey. We eventually locked eyes with the unblinking bird. I held my breath, not wanting to disrupt the feathery sage.

Somehow, the owl’s presence provided powerful perception. I remember meditating on the experience and sensing that it was perhaps a guardian of the night, of darkness, of death. Its traditional symbolism of wisdom, intellect and protection resonated brilliantly in my breathing.

I have re-walked that same path many evenings since John’s death, hoping for another meeting with Bright Eyes.

Molly often fretted over the crows that gathered on the patio during the time of John’s illness. Omens for death and darkness, their oily black bodies bothered her as she hand washed dishes; scrubbing desperately for another outcome. I remember the kitchen blinds being closed during that time.

Swans gathered on a lake the evening we moved John into room 103 at Palm Terrace Hospice House. I relayed his last sunset to him when feeding him a slice of canned mandarin oranges. The swan’s white bodies glided and glowed on watery streaks of lavender, gold, sherbert and strawberry. The lucid sunset marked the final preparation for my brother’s peaceful passing.

John took his time chewing on the fleshy, orange crescent… savoring our last conversation. His last words to me were, “I never knew how much sweetness could be in one bite.”

The next morning, I sat on a plane ready for the take off. It was going to be a connecting flight from Orlando to Charlotte; landing in Lexington, Kentucky. I had just put my carry-on luggage in the overhead bin when my PDA vibrated. It was a voicemail from Melissa. John was no longer responding.

“Come home if you can,” she said in a hoarse voice.

Popping out of my seat, I quickly spoke to the flight attendant and found myself breathing deeply, driving to the hospice house. I arrived a few hours before John took his last breath. He moaned loudly when I first entered the room. I latched onto the right side of his hospital bed and whispered all the loving words that I could utter.

As fate would have it, my brother took off the runway that day. I remained seated, as he flew into eternal skies. The doves knew this. The cranes too. The swans gathered. The owl confirmed. I accepted.

Natalie Goldberg / Writing Practice / Zen — No Comments
5
Oct 09

Contact

I sat cross-legged on a leather ottoman in the front lawn counting my breaths when two friends made contact with me through text messages.

“Wow. You have to see the moon. It’s beautiful.”

“A beacon of light to guide us through the night.”

It was low hanging, full and fuzzy with a tangerine glow. The end of the street became the edge of the galaxy where the moon looked more like Mars. My mind quieted as my eyes became transfixed on the moon’s slow rise. From the horizon, it moved behind the branches of a live oak. I sat admiring the illuminated mosaic. The cicadas ended choir practice when I noticed how high the moon hung into the night’s sky. By then, it had lost its orange hue. Bats fluttered and swooped over my head.

Remnants of the morning’s garage sale surrounded me. Two tall birch bookcases, a size seven pair of Solomon rollerblades, a computer monitor, a 14″ TV, two queen sized mattresses encased in card board boxes, a grey felt hat and other random objects that the two car garage had manage to collect.

There was also a matching leftover piece to the ottoman; a scalloped armchair tanned and stained with memories. The pair used to sit in front of a stone wall and fireplace in a house in Stone Mountain, Georgia. The same house that hosted my wedding and the divorce of Carl’s parents. Memories flashed and faded as I sat, sunken in the leather square.

I missed my dead brother. I worried about my fragile father. I listened to the non-singing cicadas. I texted back my friends. Retreating into the night, I sat with many thoughts that mirrored slow moving clouds covering and uncovering a soothing source of light. Sometimes I felt blanketed by a broad, tender connectivity of many things and people. The bright dot in the sky reflected our collective experiences: death and divorce… love and loss… pain and progress. Somehow, life’s polarities coexist within us and are in harmony like sun and moon. People are as complex as the cosmos. Our lives and bodies contain multitudes of emotions and experiences. Each one of us serves as a microcosm that could take many lifetimes to explore.

So, what keeps us moving when we feel pinned to the pains of life? What makes us hopeful in moonlight when we sit in the depths of our own darkness?

This weekend, I read a few pages of Linda Goodman’s “Love Signs,” a book that a friend loaned to me. The first few pages contained insights and perhaps answers to such questions.

“Love is man’s and woman’s deepest need. It’s not the threat of illness or poverty that crushes the human spirit, but the fear that there is no one who truly cares – no one who really understands. We all reach desperately for love, no matter how healthy, wealthy or wise we may be, because the alternative is loneliness.”

Another book that I am currently reading, “The Power of Kindness” by Piero Ferrucci, talks about the need for us to touch and be touched … to make contact with one another. The author advises that “in the contact with another, we feel naked. We are exposed, defenseless. All we have is our being.”

I think about my most recent conversations and contact with family and friends. Strong connections are felt only in real moments of honesty and vulnerability, I realize. Truth is the only way souls communicate and connect. Our relationships and friendships are the only instruments and paths for growth… for love. The alternative is distance and introversion from human kind and “human kindness” which will imprison us to our own solitude.

I remember Natalie Goldberg quoting Jack Kerouac: accept loss forever.

I think about my recent contacts with death. I sit with the emptiness it leaves. Deep emptiness and empathy form craters on my heart’s surface. I sit accepting their loss forever: my grandmother, my dogs, my brother and my nephew. I know that others simultaneously sit with me. Under the same night sky, we silently witness the transformation of our own souls. We feel deeply the poetic teachings of Ryokan, “when I think about all the sadness of others, their sadness becomes mine.”

Piero Ferrucci writes, “When nothing interferes with death, a contact full of pathos is possible, a freeing of feelings and intuition. Pain opens us. However isolated we may feel, we are still in relation to millions of others. Contact is a door through which kindness can flow.”

Meditation / Writing Practice / Zen — 1 Comment
1
Oct 09

Lavender sunset

Diced tofu lined the cutting board beside a colander of broccoli florets. Jasmine rice steamed on the counter. I drizzled olive oil in a wok when my iPhone buzzed and a text message appeared.

“Go out to see the sunset.”

I stepped out of my front door and walked down the line of square slates that connected the curb of the road to my doorstep. My eyes traced the roots of a live oak upwards until its branches touched the sky. There it was – the last sunset in September. I stood quietly and listened to the crescendo of cicadas. The world has a way of providing us great warmth in moments of solitude.

I re-entered my house and responded to my dear friend’s message.

“Oh, how Zen! I needed that today. Nothing is lovelier than lavender skies!”

Her reply: “Yes, lovely as u r”

I melted when I received this kind recognition. To not only be seen as lovely but to be considered as lovely as a sunset is so kind. Two simple text messages ended my day in such warmth. I am grateful for good friends who take pause to look upwards when the day ends.

In remembrance of the moment, I wrote a haiku:

Lavender sunset
Last September evening
Cicadas sing on

What gifts…a moment of peace…a poem…a painted sky of lavender, sherbert and gold. God had taken a rainbow, dripped in honey and stirred…creating the most moving sunset I have witnessed in a while.

I re-entered my house to finish my stir fry for dinner. I sit now with a milky cup of earl grey tea sweetened with orange blossom honey. I notice the wet ring it makes on the dining room table.

In this watery enso, I sense the fullness of a friend’s love and the emptiness of solitude all at once. Emotions from the day surface, making some sips of tea sweet and other sips sour. Somehow my feelings had colored the sky: tense red, calm blue and cheerful yellow.

I had just left a stressful meeting when a co-worker called to invite me for a quick cup of coffee. We both needed a break. We picked up a grande vanilla latte and tall hot chocolate through a Starbucks drive-thru. Instead of rushing back in the building we both sat in silence, sipping our drinks. Clouds shapeshifted and pine trees cheered with needly pom-poms. The windshield framed for us a reflection of our own minds — thoughts constantly adrift. After simmering down, we both re-entered our busy work day.

I am fortunate to have received such kindness and warmth today. How lucky I am to have good friends who sit with clouds and sunsets. I find relief and comfort to know that there are people with whom I can connect with in this manner. Sharing a sunset or a sip of tea can bring fullness to any moment. It is said that a Zen artist can only paint an enso when they are spiritually complete and mind free. The watery circle is now dotted and drying. I see myself clearly: a point traveling along a large universal circumference.

In “Illuminations on the Path to Nowhere,” Paul Ferrini writes, “all of us will awaken when we are ready…while this moment may be only one point on the circle, any point will do.”

Cheers to sunsets, friends and tea.

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28
Sep 09

I’m looking at…

I’m looking at a dozen Peruvian lilies leaning out of a tall rectangular glass vase that tapers into a square bottom. Dashed and undashed plum petals come together to quietly listen to rain. French doors cut the patio into forty fragments of the same scene. Concentric circles form on the pool’s surface as cloud droplets dive into a rectangle chlorinated pond. Trapped water on the lanai screen serve as a blurry backdrop. Bougainvillea poke through the corner edges.

I sit at the dining room table surrounded by five empty chairs. There is a lot to reconcile. An assortment of fruit nap in a fruit bowl nearby: hass avacadoes, barlett pears, a mango and a granny apple. I realize that there are no bananas. Then I remember banana trees – the ones from my grandmother’s dream. I begin to see her again… in the rain.

She loved bathing in the rain. I remember how her hair resembled an abstract painting of india ink. Thick and thin wet strokes of black and silver streaked down the smooth pearl canvas of her back. She sat on an old wooden picnic bench and faced acres of farmland in a sarong knotted tightly to her chest. I wonder if she longed for her youth in Laos. Her beauty was often spoken of in the family as my parents, aunts and uncles tried to recount her suitors and her marriage to a French man. Sitting, wet with memory, maybe brought back for her bathing in the Mekong river and a time when she was a woman wild with romance.

I sat in her hospital room during Thanksgiving break studying for the final exam of an organic chemistry class in my freshman year of college. The LCD screen of my laptop glowed and served as the only source of light in the room. Lips slightly ajar, my grandmother slept breathing softly through her mouth. Her dentures smiled through a cylinder glass of water sitting on a nightstand nearby.

My fingers stopped tap dancing on the keyboard when she moaned.

“Birdie, can you turn off the lights?”

“Thoo, the lights are off. Go back to sleep.”

“No, they’re too bright!” she insisted and then gasped in surprise, eyes still closed.

“Oh! It’s a party. They threw me a party. Oh, look at the banana trees. Oh, all of my friends are dancing and drinking. I’m in the middle of the circle.”

I quickly got up and groped for the beige switches on the wall. The lights blinked on as her eyelids opened.

“Grandma, were you dreaming?” I asked, concerned.

She smiled and nodded, “I want to go back to sleep.”

A week later, she died in the same hospital room. I wasn’t beside her but I knew that night that she was ready for the transition. She entered a dimension free of disease in order to dance again. Her diabetes infested body would be the only thing to die. A free spirit, she would be twirling and spinning… back to being the life of the party… back to being beautiful again.

I was in my dorm room when my father called to tell me that Grandma had died. I tried to swallow the news but her death got stuck in my throat. I don’t remember responding to him but I heard him repeatedly ask, “Birdie, are you there?”

I was the only one that cried at her funeral. The tears didn’t fall softly like gentle afternoon rain. Thunderstorms ripped through my eyelids. I was angry for not being by her side the moment she died. I was angry that no one else cried.

The morning before I returned to school, I sat at my parent’s dining room table staring at dried tulips. Yellow stems scratched at the sides of a glass vase. A stained line indicated where water used to be. I was empty and couldn’t cry anymore.

Now, I sit face-to-face with another vase full of crimson lilies. I realize that my grandmother never died. She is now the rain.

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26
Sep 09

See good in one another

It’s September 25th, our five year wedding anniversary.

Carl and I married at sunset under an arbor of daisies. It felt like the last day of summer and the first day of fall. Our family and friends formed a semi-circle around us as we exchanged vows against a candlelit horizon. Pine trees bowed with reverence. The lake reflected the whole moment as a smile.

Each family member and friend stepped forward to offer blessings by tying prayer threads to our wrists and adorning our heads with rose petals that fluttered down to form puddles of love by our feet.

When it was my father’s turn, he whispered the words, “see good in one another.”

Five years later, under the encouraging wink of a half moon, I am filled with understanding from these five words of wisdom.

Inspired by the milestone in our marriage, I woke up today and penned a poem for Carl. I returned home to find an orchid gracefully pointing to a poem Carl had written for me.

For Carl

Bright eyed with the moon
Comical and creative
Soft, sweet night owl smile

For Chintana

Eyes deep like amber
Radiant, mind sharp, heart soft
Beautiful genius

Thirteen years of dating and five years of marriage celebrated by two haikus. Each person a poem. Each poem a practice to “see good in one another.”

As husband and wife, we are the two sides of the same half moon. One of us brightens when the other one dims. Yet the grace of our mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters serve as a constant backdrop. I still think of John in the half moon. I think about his life in the luminous half and his death in the dark side.

The entire cosmos cups our existence. Everything relies upon everything else to be … such is the connectivity and collectiveness of our consciousness.

It is very fulfilling to understand one another in the way of poetry. To love is to live a poetic existence. Having a haiku mind and heart helps a marriage.

Writing Practice / Zen — No Comments
25
Sep 09

Becoming a larger person

The thief left it behind -
the moon
At the window.
-Ryokan

I am large. I contain multitudes.
-Walt Whitman

A half moon hangs tonight. I’ve come full circle.

It’s been ten weeks since my brother died. The scale has tipped. He has been dead longer than he suffered. A sense of wonderment lingers in his absence.

The world slowed and clouds paused the afternoon that John was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. Somehow, night managed to appear that day. We walked the sixth floor of Lakeland Regional Hospital in silence and stopped to gaze out the window. A half moon hung against a sky void of stars. I’m certain he focused on its fullness while I struggled for perspective.

The days blurred into one indescribable passage of time. When he could no longer walk, we practiced sitting meditation. One afternoon, we practiced Japanese brush painting. Melissa stroked a sun burst. John diligently detailed the petals of a rose. I inked a winter bird alone on a branch. We formed a painting sangha and filled the dining room with peace from our creative focus.

When he couldn’t sit, we practiced deep breathing in shivasana or the yoga posture known as corpse pose. Tracing our breaths from the toes to the tips of our heads. Body flat. Belly up. Belly down. Somehow, by breathing and interbeing, our collective suffering softened.

I remember driving to the grocery store to purchase canned mandarin oranges the day John moved into room 103 at Palm Terrace Hospice House. Somewhere between the hospice house and the Publix on Bartow Highway, I found myself sitting at a lake and witnessing an enormous gathering of swans celebrating the sunset.

One slice of orange and the swans at sunset became the last meal and mental image I shared with John. He died into a thunderstorm the next day. Pastor Huggins prayed beside him. My mother chanted mantras into his right ear. I whispered encouragement in his left ear. My father was at his feet. Carl linked the arms of my parents. Molly, Melissa and I formed a row of wife, daughter and sister. It was a beautiful death.

Now, I sit, reflecting under yet another half moon. His absence merged with my presence. I mourn peacefully.

In Thich Nhat Hanh’s book, “Being Peace,” he teaches that before the Buddha passed away, he said, “Dear Friends, my physical body will not be here tomorrow but my teaching body will always be here to help. You can consider it as your own teacher, a teacher who never leaves you.”

I take great refuge in this teaching as I sense that my brother has become part of the Buddha’s Dharmakaya… an eternal path to love and understanding. I am grateful for his kind existence. He led a peaceful life and earned a peaceful death.

In the same book, Thich Nhat Hanh encourages us to understand that to suffer is not enough. We must also be in touch with the wonders of life. That life is both dreadful and wonderful. To practice meditation is to be in touch with both aspects. And to meditate well, we have to smile a lot.

I sit tonight coexisting with the sadness of loss and smile at the sweet memories of my brother. Helping him transition from the physical to metaphysical state asked of me to practice deep acceptance. Death is certain. But we all make it out alive because the dead end is really a doorway.

I’m still practicing to become a larger person. One who can be kind and smile at her own contradictions. One who can fall a part in her own suffering yet can be pulled forward by her belief in the larger picture of life…that all changes occur with our deepest blessings because the soul needs growth.

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